by Jayne Denker
“Look, Mr. Crenshaw—”
“Oh, call me Niall. Please. If we’re going to be intimate—”
“We’re not being intimate. We’re doing a photo shoot.”
“Okay.”
This time his touch was firm; he caressed her ankle, then his hand traveled up her calf.
“Mr.—Niall—”
“Just getting into character.”
“Vic isn’t even shooting right now.”
“Prep time. Very important.”
“Look, I—I don’t even know you!”
His expressive features took on a puzzled look, exaggerated for effect—arched eyebrows, and a twist of his lips that took his grin from cheerful to are-you-kidding-me bewilderment. “Of course you know me.”
“Well, s-sure, I know your name,” Celia stammered, unsure how to explain herself. “And . . . the usual information. Stuff in the press. But that doesn’t count. I don’t know who you are.”
Niall studied her for a moment, his expression clearing to neutral. “Really,” he murmured softly.
Alarm flared through Celia at the sudden change in him, and she worried that she’d angered him in some way. “What?”
“Nothing. Just . . . most people assume they know me really well. Especially the ones who’ve never met me.”
“Marshall!” Victor bellowed. “Posture!”
She was a little relieved at the interruption. For a moment, Niall had looked like a completely different person, all affectation gone and entirely vulnerable. She wasn’t sure she liked what that did to her insides.
“I need a strong line, and what I’m getting from you right now is more like a cooked noodle!”
“I only looked down for a second.”
“Well, don’t. Niall is indeed there, no need to check.”
Oh, she was well aware of that.
“Now, head high, shoulders back, arms rigid, elbows out. Give me attitude, Marshall. Have you got that in you?”
“For a shot of the back of my leg?”
“Do as I tell you,” he drawled. “It’ll translate. Niall, if I could have you a little closer to the bottle . . . little more . . . little more . . .”
Celia could feel the heat radiating off Niall’s shoulder, which was now rubbing up against her. Click, click, click—Victor’s camera was going at top speed. Then a pause, and Celia knew her boss was scrolling back through the shots he’d just taken.
“No,” Vic said curtly. “We need something else. And Marshall, you are still too tense!”
Couldn’t imagine why.
“Hey,” Niall whispered to her again, “let’s fool around.”
“Excuse me?” she squeaked.
“With the shoot, you pervert!” Obviously the regularly scheduled Niall was back. “To loosen up.”
“Oh God . . .”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Might get him off your back too. Hey, Vic?” he called. “Mind if we try some things?”
“Go ahead,” the photographer answered wearily. “Couldn’t do any harm at this stage.”
To Celia, Niall said, “Okay. Just . . . trust me, all right?”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“Get closer to you—with your permission, of course. Okay?”
“ I . . . guess.”
He smiled up at her, and it occurred to Celia that even if this guy was an altar boy at heart (she doubted it, considering what she’d heard about him, but hypothetically speaking), that up-to-no-good expression made him look like he was thinking all sorts of inappropriate things. Maybe it was the way his wide lips went up and then down a little at the corner. Or maybe it was that rogue smile coupled with his expressive eyebrows. Or the wicked glint in his eye. Or everything combined. Wherever it came from, it was making Celia confused and light-headed. And more intrigued than she’d care to admit.
Niall slid closer. “I’m going to touch you now. No wild swings at my head, all right?”
She hesitated. Was he being inappropriate, or was she overreacting ? Didn’t matter. This had to happen or Vic would never let her hear the end of it. She nodded down at him.
“Okay. Don’t mind me. You just do your thing. That pose Vic told you to hold.”
Nodding again, she tried to stand tall and straight, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. This way, she had to stare at the backdrop and just go by feel. It was going to drive her crazy. She’d really rather be able to see him, to get a little advance warning about what he was up to.
She propped her hands on her hips again and jutted her elbows out, the way Vic had instructed her. Tall, straight, stiff, confident. Strong line. Attitude. Everything she’d never had. She could dredge that up from somewhere deep inside her, couldn’t she? Well, no. But maybe she could fake it.
Hands again. Celia stiffened as Niall touched her leg. Higher this time. Inching up her thigh.
“Niall—”
“Shh. Just go with it. I think Vic likes it.”
She looked down at him. “Yeah, well, he would.”
“Marshall! Line!”
Right. Strong line. She whipped her head back up. Niall’s warm body was against her leg, his soft hair feathering her thigh just below the edge of his boxers. She started to giggle.
“Oh, you like that, do you?”
Celia could hear the grin in his voice. “Stop,” she said, laughing. “That tickles.”
“Suck it up, Marshall,” he murmured. “We’re not done yet.”
His fingers traced the back of her knee, in tiny circles; now the tickling was deliberate. And insistent. She gave in and laughed out loud. Niall responded by tickling her more. She bent at the waist, twisting sideways to see him, her knees buckling. “Oh my God, stop,” she gasped.
“Are you relaxed now?”
“Stop! Stop!”
He stopped. “As my lady wishes.” As she quickly swiped at her eyes, he said, “Let’s try something else, since you’re up there and I’m down here.”
“Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to sound suggestive?”
“It’s a goal I set for myself.”
“So what now?”
“Let’s pose like those cheesy movie posters—you know, strong guy, woman clinging to his leg—”
“Vallejo?”
Niall stopped short. “Uh . . . right. That guy.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing. It’s just . . . you knew the reference.”
“I’m not just a pretty calf, you know.”
“I’m figuring that out.”
Now he was looking at her with something more than wickedness in his hazel eyes. It might have been interest. Keen interest.
Feeling her palms start to sweat, Celia decided it was time to tease him a little, get that serious look off his face. “You think you’re muscular enough to be a Vallejo character?”
Niall recovered in an instant. “Hey, you’re the strong one in this scenario. Now flex those glutes!” Celia laughed again. “That’s more like it.”
“All of this, just to get me to relax?”
“Whatever it takes.”
Celia shook her head, incredulous, and struck her pose. Niall sat up straighter, wrapped his arm around her thigh, and ran his other hand up and down her calf where the tightness of the fake tattoo tugged at her skin. As if from very far away, she could hear Vic’s camera working. Click, click, click. Her stomach was still in knots, but she found herself smiling. Her smile broadened when she heard everyone in the room laughing. She wondered what faces Niall was pulling. She wished she could see. What she didn’t wish for, she was surprised to realize, was to be in the shadows with everyone else. At the moment, Celia liked where she was—in the spotlight. As long as she was in Niall’s confident hands.
“So, what’s your story? Where are you from?”
“Hm. More original than ‘Do you come here often?’ but not by much.”
The formal photo shoot was over, but apparently the comedian was
still in a photo-taking mood. He mashed his temple against Celia’s and held his phone up to take a self ie of the two of them. At least a dozen people—sales reps from the ad agency, McManus bigwigs—hovered on the periphery, clearly dying to approach Niall. He kept them at bay simply by refusing to acknowledge they were there. It was like he’d erected a force field—and Niall and Celia were the only ones on the inside. It was an impressive feat.
After the cell phone camera clicked, Celia, emboldened by how well the shoot had gone, grabbed the phone from him. “Let me see. What the . . . Hey! This is just you!”
He took the phone back. “Is it?” He gasped. “How did that happen?”
Celia laughed. “Shut up. Take another one.”
“All right,” he grumbled, acting put out. As he put his arm around her shoulders and pressed his head against hers again, he repeated his question. “Where are you from, then? Answer me, woman.”
“Why do you care?” She paused to smile, and he pushed the button. “What, I don’t look like a New York City native?”
Niall took a step back and looked her up and down. When he studied her so intently like that, it was all Celia could do to remain casual. “Hell no. You’re not ballsy enough.”
“That’s a detriment?”
Niall just smirked and handed her his phone. “Give me your contact info and I’ll send you these.”
Celia hesitated, openmouthed. Then she clamped her lips shut and began typing quickly, not allowing herself to wonder if he wanted her contact information for more than just sending her the photo. Don’t’t think that way, she ordered herself. It’s just a photo.
As she finished entering her name and phone number, the phone chirped with an incoming text. She handed it back.
“ ’Scuse me,” he said, read the text, and typed a reply. When he was done, he looked up and tried a third time. “So? Where?”
“Aren’t you persistent. Okay, I’m from a little town called Marsden. Upstate. Bet you’ve never heard of it.”
He held up a finger and his mouth fell open. “Hey, you know—!” Then, “No, you’re right. Never heard of it.”
Celia smiled. “Not surprising.”
“It’s a dump?”
“No! It’s very . . . quaint.”
Niall shuddered. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, I like it there.”
“So much that you left?”
She started to answer, but he was distracted by another text. When he was finished responding to that one, she said, “My turn for a question now. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but . . . why did you do this endorsement? I mean”—she rushed on as he frowned a little—“it doesn’t really seem like . . . your sort of thing.”
He shrugged and pocketed his phone. “Let’s just say I needed the money.”
“You?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just . . . we little people have a hard time imagining people like you being hard up for money.”
He reached around her to snag a brownie off the catering table. Handing her half, he said, “Well, private islands don’t come cheap, you know.”
“Very funny. But seriously—that’s really the reason?”
“Sure. At least, it’s what my accountant tells me. I just obey her, and my agent—the glowery one over there—when they say to do a really bad movie or a product endorsement to bring in some cash.”
“Sounds like it takes all the fun out of being an actor.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a loaded wink. “Sometimes my money-making jobs end up being surprisingly enjoyable.”
She ignored his insinuation. “Still, there must be some other way to save some cash. Have you tried clipping coupons?”
Niall roared with laughter. “I’ll make a note of that.” He studied her again. “You can be funny when you want to be, you know?”
“And you can be very . . . kind.”
“You sound surprised. Did you think I wasn’t?”
Celia ducked her head to hide her blush and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the gossip rags, Miss Celia.”
“So . . . none of that stuff is true? You don’t welcome a new director to a set by dumping a box full of water balloons on him? You don’t insist on having one hundred strawberry Pop-Tarts, with sprinkles, but with the sprinkles brushed off, in your dressing room at all times? You don’t rewrite half your dialogue in every script? You don’t seduce all your leading ladies?”
“None of it. Well, wait—I like that last one. Let’s say that one’s true.”
As if to provide proof, suddenly a tiny blonde in a clingy white minidress appeared out of nowhere and affixed herself to Niall’s side. Celia stifled a gasp at this second celebrity-sighting of the day: Niall’s costar from his last comedy, Party Clown.
Dropping an arm over her shoulders just like he’d done to Celia only moments before, Niall said, “Celia, this is Tiff—”
“T-Tiffany Sola. I know,” she stammered. “Wow.”
“Hey,” the blonde said, languidly tipping her head sideways as if it was too heavy and she needed to rest it on her shoulder for a few minutes. Then she looked up at Niall and said, “Ready?”
“Yup.” He let Tiffany tug him toward the door but hung back a moment to say, “Miss Celia, it was fun.” That familiar devilish grin spread across his face again. “You’re all right.”
“Thanks.” It came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat and said, stronger, “So are you.”
Celia couldn’t quite identify what she was feeling at the moment. Or maybe she didn’t want to. Because if she took the time to examine it, she just might find it was a huge, irrational lump of disappointment. Which was stupid. What was she, a starstruck teenager? What had she expected? That he’d invite her out after the shoot for a drink? This was Niall Crenshaw, after all.
“I guess what they say is true,” a voice murmured in her ear. Danny rested his chin on her shoulder as he also watched the two stars walk away. “He really does charm women’s pants off. Worked for you.”
Celia felt her cheeks flush. “What are you talking about? I’m completely unaffected,” she lied. “I mean, sure, he’s nice and funny and everything, but it’s not like I have a crush—” She realized she was babbling . . . and protesting too much. She stopped just as Danny started laughing.
“I meant literally,” he said.
“Oh crap. His boxers.”
“Sell ’em on eBay. Or, you know”—he grinned—“sleep with them under your pillow.”
She growled at him and walked away to change.
“Well, if you don’t want them, the spot under my pillow has a vacancy !” he shouted after her.
Chapter 3
“Okay. This is what we’re faced with tourniquet rhapsody moray eel . . .”
Niall was pretty sure that’s what Trent, his assistant, was saying, anyway. He wasn’t positive—nor did he really care—because his attention was on the series of photo proofs he was flipping through on his tablet. Sometimes it was fantastic to be a celebrity, like when he could use his star status to call up a photographer and request every single photo from a shoot, and someone would e-mail him the entire file without even batting an eyelash.
He leaned back farther in his desk chair as he scanned the photos, bypassing the official shots, not caring which one—out of hundreds of nearly identical photos—was going to be used for the McManus print and billboard ads, because those were only of him, the bottle of scotch, and Celia’s leg. Not that there was anything wrong with Celia’s leg—quite the opposite, in fact. He distinctly recalled how smooth it had felt under his hands. Very, very nice.
His favorites were the unofficial shots, the ones Vic had taken when he was checking the lighting or his cameras’ settings or was just bored, waiting for Celia to calm the hell down and pose. And then there were the ones taken while they had been goofing around . . . He hurriedly flicked thr
ough the photos until he got to those, then scrolled through them very slowly, examining each one.
“There we go,” Niall murmured with satisfaction.
“What?” Trent asked absently, eyes still on his agenda.
Crap. Had he said that out loud? “Nothing. Go on.”
Trent resumed droning about Niall’s upcoming schedule, and Niall immediately tuned out again. He was loving the candids. He had put in a strong suggestion that McManus use one of those instead, have a little fun with the ad campaign, but he doubted they’d listen to him. He was just the talent, after all. Just the famous person on display to influence scotch drinkers: “Oh hey, if McManus is good enough for Niall Crenshaw, it’s good enough for me. A few drinks and I’ll be as funny as he is.”
He scrolled through more photos. There was Celia leaning over and laughing while he tickled her behind her knee—God, she had a great smile. There he was, pretending to gnaw on her leg, tying his bow tie around her thigh like a garter . . . gazing up at her adoringly when she wasn’t looking.
A strange, squirmy feeling hit him in the gut all of a sudden, and he was pretty sure it was stemming from the overwhelming urge to touch that leg again. At the very least.
“Niall? Niall!”
He shook himself, focused on his assistant. “Yeah.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah . . . actually, no.” He said nothing about being distracted by Celia’s brilliant smile, her deep brown eyes, the memory of how her body felt in his hands. Even if he’d been completely focused, he only would have caught every other word Trent said, because of the escalating din penetrating the closed door of Niall’s office. “What the hell . . . ?”
A few shrieks, a whinnying laugh, and a cry of “Omigod!” explained things. Niall groaned and rubbed his eyes. Peering between his fingers, he asked, “How many of them are out there?”
“Several.”
It sounded like a bunch of tweens having a slumber party: chaotic chatter, thumping music and, in the midst of the cacophony, Tiffany’s distinctive, piercing tone.
“I thought New York women were sophisticated,” Niall muttered.
“Tiffany imported these from LA.”