Picture This (27 page)

N
iall hated to admit it, but he was starting to think Ray was rubbing off on him. According to his neighbors, the man was normally a jovial sort, but Niall wasn't seeing it. Ray struck him as decidedly moody, and lately, as the date of the competition got closer, he'd gradually become more and more of an outright terror. Now Niall felt just as on edge, just as irritable, as Ray had been behaving. He tried to shake it, but he just couldn't. It was like he was miserable down to the marrow of his bones and couldn't get to the source to uproot it.

He knew what was down there at the roots, of course. He desperately missed Celia. Not for the first time, he regretted deciding to keep her out of the public eye, away from the competition . . . and at a distance from himself . . . because it was pretty much decimating him. But the alternative was worse, he knew.

Trying to get the photographers off her tail hadn't worked. He'd reasoned if they never spotted the two of them together, they'd give up and go home, and maybe, once things settled down, he and Celia could salvage the situation, but they hadn't left. They remained camped out in front of her grandmother's house, and they followed Alan's car when he escorted Celia to the arts center, even though they were locked out of the actual rehearsals. A few of them tried to hang out at Bowen Farms, hoping to catch him, but Casey and Elliot, Casey's second-in-command, each toting an unloaded but intimidating shotgun, put paid to that soon enough. Niall felt a little guilty that the men had to take time out of their workday to stand guard on the front porch and back stoop, but they had joked they were actually enjoying pretending to be badasses. At other times, the paparazzi continued to wander the streets of Marsden, sniffing around for gossip, trying to schmooze townspeople who looked likely to talk. From what Niall had heard, however, every individual in town had shut them down. If Niall had liked the place before, he absolutely loved it now, for that gesture alone.

He also was grateful that Ray had created a safe space for Celia at rehearsals. Although she'd been forced to skip the last two because of her father's schedule, she was going to attend the final rehearsal tonight, and Niall's nerve endings were on fire as he waited for her to arrive. He just wanted to see her. Nothing else. He wouldn't allow anything else. Right?

When he spotted Celia in the auditorium, Niall's heart leapt in his chest. She was simply going about her business, unpacking her camera, but that familiar ache started up. He should stay away. Keep her at arm's length. Maintain a professional distance . . . ah, fuck it.

“You're here.”

Celia glanced up at him, and her eyes were cold. She looked back down at her camera. “You're talking to me.”

“Celia—”

“For how long, though? That's the question. I mean, is this temporary, or a permanent shutout? Maybe you could e-mail me a schedule.”

Okay, he deserved that. Elbows locked, he shoved his hands in his pockets, clenched them into fists. “I want to explain.”

“It had better be one hell of an explanation.”

Niall didn't answer for a moment, just watched her rustle around in her bag. It occurred to him that she wasn't actually looking for anything—she was just keeping herself busy so she wouldn't have to look at him. The realization was a kick in the gut.

“I have my reasons,” he said, then immediately regretted it.

A snort. A delicate one, but a snort all the same. Trust Celia not to be cowed by his posturing.

He blurted out, “Look . . . I don't think you can handle it. The . . . sudden notoriety.”

“You have no idea what I can and can't handle. Besides, what sudden notoriety? A bunch of photographers wanting to take my picture? Big deal.”

She sounded cavalier about it, but her voice trembled. Just a bit.

“Things happen.”

Celia's head shot up. “What have you heard?”

Alarm flared inside him. “What happened?” he demanded.

“Nothing! Nothing happened. Everything's fine.” She buried her head in her bag again. “You're not doing so great at the moment, though.”

Frustrated, he clenched his jaw and dragged his fingers through his hair. She was right. He wasn't explaining himself well at all. He tried again. “I want . . . I need to keep you out of it. This whole . . . lifestyle.”

“Well, congratulations—you've succeeded. This resolution of yours—made all by yourself, I noticed—was a little late, considering. But hey, better late than never, right? Thanks for ‘saving me,' or whatever you think you're doing.”

Crouching beside her, he said softly, “This whole thing . . . you, me . . . us . . . it was totally impulsive on my part. A bad call. I'm sorry. I should have thought it through.”

“So . . . what . . .” She turned her head to study him and, agitated as he was, he still found himself captivated by the liquid motion of her smooth, dark hair sliding forward over her shoulder. “You're . . . backing off from ... us? Just like that?”

“I just want you to be safe—”

“Niall, nothing's going to happen—”

“You don't know that.”

“You're not making any sense.”

He sighed, frustrated. No, he wasn't, and he wasn't going to, as long as he held back. But he couldn't manage to tell her everything. He wanted to. Couldn't. It was a box he'd sealed up years ago and now was afraid to open. “You can go ahead and hate me. I'd understand.” He half wanted her to; it would be easier for him to keep his distance that way.

Celia's lips parted, another retort clearly ready to fly, but instead pain clouded her gaze, and her spirit flagged. “I don't hate you,” she murmured, “but you're making it pretty hard to like you right about now.”

Niall wasn't sure he could take much more of this. He was so certain that shutting Celia out was the right thing to do. And it worked . . . in theory. Until she was right in front of him. So he was almost grateful when Missy Preston sauntered over, preceded by a cloud of perfume and the sound of clanking bracelets.

“Niall, darling,” she said in a warm voice, “would you help me, please?”

With one more furtive glance at Celia, who was back to fiddling with her camera, he rose from his crouch and turned to the older woman, only to find her violating his personal space something fierce. He stumbled backward a couple of steps. “What can I do for you, Mrs. P?”

“Oh, Missy, please,” she crooned with a smile. “I was wondering if you could advise me and Nestor about our stage presence. I think he's just disappearing, he's so shy. Can you—?”

“Sure.”

It was the last thing he wanted to do—walk away from Celia when she was still angry and hurt, and all because of him. But when he spotted Mrs. P studying the two of them suspiciously—and, he had to admit, the tension was so thick between them it was hard to miss—he decided it was best to distract the older woman before she started asking questions or, worse, started making assumptions and spreading stories all over town. He owed Celia that much.

“Okay,” he said to Mrs. P, leading her back up the steps to the stage with a light touch on her shoulder, which she seemed to love. “Show me what you've got.”

He winced at his poor choice of words, but any flirty response Mrs. P would have tossed him was interrupted by Ray coming out from backstage at that moment. “Well, Crenshaw? Are you ready for tomorrow night?” he asked cheerfully.

“You bet.”

Ray, acting like his old congenial self? Niall thought he'd be on the verge of spontaneously combusting, this close to the actual competition, but instead he was almost tap-dancing.

“I wanted to remind you to pay real close attention to the transitions between acts, all right? If we put Brianna on after Lorenzo, you've gotta help the audience make the shift from old farts to young blood. Stuff like that.”

He knew all that quite well, but he humored the man. “No problem.”

Ray clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by. “Good man.”

“What the . . .” Niall muttered, watching him walk away downright jauntily.

Mrs. P's lips pursed with disapproval. “He just came from his tuxedo fitting. With Audra.”

“Wait. He's not . . . they're not . . . ?”

“No, no. Of course not. But let's just say with Ray, a little bit of flirting goes a long way. He's easily entertained.”

“Ew. The old horndog.”

“It's just a mercy he's not yelling at us for a few minutes. Even if we do have that hussy to thank for his good mood.”

And it was quite a good mood. Ray called for Rachel Dwyer and Lorenzo D'Annunzio to try out their song next, then he came up behind Niall and whacked him on the shoulder again. “This is going great,” he exulted. “Have you heard Rachel and Lorenzo lately? They're going to blow you away.”

 

It was highly unlikely Lorenzo D'Annunzio and Rachel Dwyer's duet from
La Bohème
had truly fried the speakers, and it was merely a coincidence that when Rachel hit her high note—or at least got as close to it as possible—there had been a crackling noise, then no sound at all (for all the world, Niall thought, as though the speakers had given up the ghost right then and there). Whatever the reason, the rehearsal had come to a screeching halt (so to speak) while Alan Marshall, their impromptu sound tech, repaired whatever it was that had gone on the fritz.

“Hey, Ray? When you said the singers were going to blow you away . . .”

“All right, all right. I didn't mean quite like this,” Ray grumbled.

Everyone in the area drifted off, grateful for the unexpected break. Once again, Niall's attention was drawn to Celia, who was now talking with Audra at the side of the stage. He sat down in the front row of the house and pretended to study his list of jokes for the evening, but really he was trying to catch even a snippet of their conversation. Not like Celia would confide in Audra—he was pretty sure she wouldn't, anyway—but he couldn't help wondering. Luckily he didn't have to work too hard, because Audra's voice was nothing if not as loud and piercing as the firehouse alarm; within seconds, Niall picked up that she was badgering Celia about what she was going to wear the night of the competition.

“Um, a black tracksuit?” Celia said, in a tone that implied there was no other option.

“Aw, no, honey! You've gotta wear something hot!”

“I'm going to be crawling all over the place taking photos, Audra. Hot is not on the agenda.”

“Hot is
always
on the agenda. I am gonna get you into the most amazing dress. Oh! I know which one already! You're gonna love it—all sparkly and stretchy. It'll show off those gorgeous curves—”

“Psst! Young man!”

Dammit.
There he was, distracted—however unwillingly—by thoughts of Celia's gorgeous curves, when Lorenzo D'Annunzio leaned forward from the row behind him. Niall put on a polite smile.

“Mr. D. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I just thought I'd see how you're doing.”

“Doing great, thanks.”

“Good, good. And the whole . . . hosting thing? Going well?”

Niall waved his notes. “Working on it.”

“Good. Excellent. And the, uh, judging portion of your job?”

“Hasn't come into play yet, but I'm feeling confident.”

“Very nice.” He paused and mopped a few beads of sweat off his forehead. Niall went back to his notes. “You like subs?”

Shrugging, Niall answered, “Who doesn't?”

“What's your favorite? Turkey? Chicken salad? I've got you pegged as a tuna guy. Am I right?”

“Mr. D, where are we going with this?”

“You like . . .
free
subs? For life?”

“Mr. D'Annunzio,” Niall said slowly, twisting in his seat to face him, “you're not trying to bribe a judge, are you?”

“What? No!” The large man put a beefy hand to his heart as though offended at the very notion. “I just like to share my food with people I like, you understand. Best capocollo in the Northeast, you know.”

“I'll take your word for it, Mr. D. And we're going to pretend this conversation never happened, all right?”

Mr. D slunk away, and Niall immediately returned his attention to Celia and Audra.

Celia was saying, “Do
not
mention that sequined corset thing you push on everybody who comes into your shop.”

“Oh, you can't have that. I sold it.”

“Thank God—finally.”

“Yeah, Mrs. D'Annunzio's wearing it tomorrow night.”

Celia hesitated. “Is a strapless sequined thing really the best look for a seventy-year-old with . . . uh . . .”

“Wrinkly batwing arms and a hundred extra pounds? Honey, it's all in the attitude. Plus a bolero jacket to hide most of the sins. Now come
on,
live a little. Look good for your date with the movie star.”

“Audra, he's not my date.”

An irrationally massive lump of dismay settled in Niall's gut. Of course he wasn't her date. Not when he was callously severing the ties that had bound them together, however briefly, every time he opened his mouth. He'd made his decision—to keep her safe, he had to cut her out of his life. Too bad he hadn't been able to get his own heart to agree to it. Even now, all he could think about was having Celia on his arm the following night. But even she had already accepted that it wasn't going to happen. Celia Marshall was nothing if not as smart as she was beautiful . . . and resilient. She was already laughing with Audra about dates.

“What, Lester beat him to it?”

“No! I had planned on being my gran's spinster companion.”

“Oh yeah, because when you talk about old women who need spinster companions, the first person anyone thinks of is Holly Leigh. Come on. I'm putting something together for you right now.”