by Jayne Denker
Celia hesitated, then burst out in a rush, “I say that I think you’re an interesting person. I would like to get to know you too. And I wish we could be friends.”
“Well, good. That’s a start—”
“But I also think this sounds way too messy. And your life . . .” She blew out a breath, fluttering a wisp of hair that crossed her forehead. “I don’t think I could handle it.”
“So don’t. I won’t ask you to. What if we just . . . talked, hung out, whatever . . . separate from that?”
“Is that even possible?”
“Sure it is—”
“Heyyy, holy shit, Niall Crenshaw!” A stranger’s bellow shattered their illusion of privacy the night afforded. Celia jumped; Niall was more insouciant about it.
“How ya doing, pal? Have a balloon animal.” He fired one off in the fan’s direction.
The guy grabbed it out of the air and squeezed it. “I saw that Party Clown movie.” Bobbing on the balls of his feet, he seemed to delight in adding, “Yeah, it sucked.” He squeezed the balloon in his large hands until it popped, eyeing Niall as if to communicate he’d like to do the same thing to him for taking his hard-earned money, then walked away laughing.
“Thanks for your support!” Niall called after him. When the man was gone, he murmured to Celia with a rueful grin, “It’s so fun to be famous.”
“I rest my case. You’re never separate from your life.”
“Let me prove it to you. No, really, I can,” he persisted as she frowned. “Starting tomorrow. We hang out, just you and me, no Tiffany, no fans, no . . .”
“Posse?”
“I don’t have a posse.”
She was startled at the force behind his words. “Who were all those people at your party, then?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.”
Celia laughed. “You didn’t know who those people were. In your own apartment.”
“Behold my life.”
“That’s . . .”
“Insane? Stupid?”
“I was going to say sad.”
Niall rubbed his eyes and didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Well, let’s not forget we have business to discuss, too.”
“Go on.”
“Mm, not tonight. My friends here are tired; I should get them to bed before they deflate. How about tomorrow? Coffee? I know a place we can go where we won’t be bothered. Nothing unethical. I just want to talk. Say yes.”
Celia’s phone rang, a distinctive, twangy country-music ringtone piercing the night, even from the depths of her purse. “Oh. That’s my parents. I should—”
Niall grabbed her wrist, stopped her from reaching for her phone. His hand was warm on her skin, his fingers strong. “Say yes first.”
His eyes held hers, so fiercely, and with a touch of desperation deep in their gaze, that she found herself whispering “Yes” before she even admitted to herself what she wanted.
He smiled, and he was all confidence once more. Slowly he circled his thumb on her pulse point as he murmured, “Good, then. Tomorrow. You’d better get that.”
Oh God, her parents. At Niall’s touch, a humming had started up in her brain, drowning out her phone—and everything else, really. Tearing her eyes away from Niall’s, she said, “Right! Right,” and pulled her phone out. “Hi, Mom? Dad? Oh, Dad.” She stood up and started pacing on the sidewalk, partly from nerves but mostly to clear her head. If she stayed that close to Niall on the steps, she wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. “Is something wrong?” Celia listened to her father for a moment, then glanced at Niall.
“Everything okay?” he whispered.
She pulled the phone away from her mouth. “I’m not sure,” she whispered back. “I think I need to—”
“Of course. Go on inside. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
She nodded and, everything forgotten except her family, she walked up the steps and unlocked the door of her apartment building. At the last minute, she turned and saw Niall standing among the remaining balloon animals, watching her with a thoughtful look on his face.
Chapter 6
It took Niall far less time to get to Celia’s than the previous evening; he silently blessed the Saturday morning traffic—or lack thereof. He was so excited to spend some time with Celia, he was practically vibrating right off her front steps. He felt like a fourteen-year-old who’d finally gotten up the nerve to ask a girl to a dance, and she’d said yes. Hurdle cleared; now the possibilities were endless.
Well, no, they weren’t. “Friends,” she’d said. Just friends. All because of his “situation” that she thought was true love . . . or at least a prior commitment. And he couldn’t even tell her the truth. Not yet, anyway.
Eh, he could work with “just friends” for now. It was going to be a fine line to walk, but he’d pull it off. He had to. The way he felt, there was no other option.
He rang her doorbell rather jauntily, if he did say so himself, and checked his hair in the reflection of the glass door while he waited for Celia’s voice to come over the intercom. He jumped back when the door opened, then reached to hold it for whoever was coming out.
“Niall!” Suddenly Celia was in front of him, dragging a small suitcase over the threshold.
This was unexpected. And a little alarming. But he made a joke of it, as usual. “I’d understand if you changed your mind, but leaving town to get away from me is a bit much.”
“Oh God . . . I’m so sorry. I was going to call you,” she said. “I—I got that call from my parents, and . . . and . . .”
Alarmed at how upset she was, Niall placed his hands on Celia’s shoulders, bending his knees and ducking his head to meet her gaze. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Um . . .” She took a steadying breath. “I’m not sure yet. I have to go home. To Marsden. I think I mentioned Marsden, right?”
“Quaint, not a dump?”
“That’s the place.”
“Is something wrong with your parents?”
Celia shook her head, her deep brown hair glinting in a shaft of weak morning sunlight that had broken through the cloud cover. “My grandmother.”
Niall’s stomach twisted. “Oh God, is she . . . ?”
“No, no. She’s alive. Very much so. It’s just . . .”
“Look, if this is private—”
“No, it’s okay. My parents just want me to talk to her about going into a senior home, like an independent living facility. They said she’s been acting strange lately. I don’t know what’s going on, but they said she’ll listen to me. I’ve always been her favorite grandchild.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I’m really worried about her, Niall.”
His stomach twisted again. “Of course you are. It’s your grandma.”
“I’m so, so sorry I didn’t call you sooner. This morning has been crazy—I had to pack, and I had to call Vic and ask him for time off . . . I don’t even know how long I’m going to be gone . . .”
“You mean it’s going to take longer than just this weekend?” Niall couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.
Celia actually smiled, though her eyes were watery. “Gran’s pretty darn stubborn.”
“Imagine that.”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing! Nothing. I am saying absolutely nothing about certain traits running in the family. So . . . Vic’s okay with it, right?”
She shrugged. “He told me not to expect him to hold my job for me if I’m gone for more than a week.”
“Dick.”
“He’s got a business to run.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That if there wasn’t a job for me at his place when I got back, I’d get a better job as a leg model.”
Niall laughed heartily. “Atta girl.” After a moment’s silence, during which Niall realized he still had his hands on her shoulders, felt awkward,
removed them, and realized he felt more awkward as he wondered what to do with his hands, he offered, “Want me to call Vic, have him hold your job?”
“I don’t want you pulling strings for me. What happens, happens, you know?”
“I know. So what happens now?”
“I have a bus to catch, I guess. I’m really sorry, Niall. I was looking forward to our . . . to us . . . you know. Coffee,” she finished awkwardly.
“It’s a shame, I’m not gonna lie,” he said. “I even got the silver chariot out of storage for you.”
He gestured toward the curb, and she looked around him. “Oh my God. What is that?”
“Hey now, don’t insult my Stinger.”
“Your what?”
“That, woman, is a vintage, highly desirable 1974 Corvette Stingray 427.”
He loved this car. It was long, it was low, it had bizarre, swoopy lines like a kiddie roller coaster. It was everything ridiculous about the seventies packaged into fifteen tacky feet of vehicle. It was the most impractical thing he could possibly drive.
It was one of the first indulgence items he’d bought when he had his first hit film and realized he didn’t have to worry about his bank account balance any longer.
Celia’s lips clamped together and all she let through them was a skeptical, “Okay. And what were you intending to do with that . . . thing?”
“I thought we could go for a drive, but now . . . Hey,” he exclaimed, “let me take you to Port Authority.”
“It’s easier to take the subway.”
“Yeah, but when was the last time you rode in such a classic machine, huh? I swear, five minutes in the passenger seat, and you’ll fall in love with it.”
“I’m not sure I want to be seen in that, er, classic.”
“Well, maybe it doesn’t want you to ride in it. You’d better get in, see if Sting likes you. He might not, you know.” Niall picked up her suitcase and carried it down the steps for her.
“I thought all cars were girls.”
He smiled to himself when he realized she was following without any further argument. “This car’s all male. Wait’ll you hear the muscle under the hood.”
Niall stuffed her bag in the space behind the two seats then stood back, holding open the passenger door.
Celia raised one prettily shaped eyebrow as she gingerly climbed in and sat down—way down. “Um . . . this is interesting.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘spiritually transcendent.’ ”
“That’s two words.”
“Don’t quibble, woman.”
“I don’t know. It looks like, you know, something a guy would drive to compensate for something else.”
“Is that all women think when they see a hot sports car? Because I’ll have you know it’s not true in the least. Not in the least,” he repeated for emphasis, giving her a significant look.
“You sure? That’s a mighty long front end.”
He smirked as he shut her door and jogged around to the driver’s side. God, he felt so good all of a sudden. Yes, he was worried about her grandmother, and he was disappointed she was going to be out of town for a while, but right now, with Celia beside him in his funkmobile on a peaceful Saturday morning . . . well, he couldn’t think of anything better.
When they were buckled in, he smiled over at her and turned the key in the ignition. Click. Nothing. He smiled again as though that hadn’t just happened. Back to one, as they said on set, and . . . take two. Click. Nothing. “Er . . . hang on a minute.”
“Does the Stinger often, um, fail to perform?”
“I don’t like what you’re implying, missy. I’ll have you know this finely tuned instrument runs great. Every time. And can run for hours at a time.”
“So what’s the problem today?”
“It’s been in storage a while.”
“A likely story.”
Niall just growled and tried to start the car again. Nothing.
“Maybe I should just take the subway.”
No! Niall wanted to shout. If she rode the subway, he couldn’t travel with her. Well, he could, but his presence in public places had been known to cause serious disruptions as dozens, sometimes hundreds, of people clamored for his autograph and photos. Even thinking it sounded massively egotistical, so he said nothing, except, “Just give the Stinger one more chance.”
In the end, it took several more chances—and eventually a jump from a pleasant neighborhood resident with a car parked nearby—before the Stinger went anywhere. Niall had wanted to make the trip to Port Authority a leisurely drive—one where they could chat. Now he had to go as fast as possible.
He risked a glance at his passenger as he pulled away from the curb. She looked skittish. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“That I missed my bus?”
Dammit.
“I’ll get the next one,” she added quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Or . . .”
“What?”
“I could drive you to Marsden.”
Celia stiffened in the low-slung bucket seat. It was meant for lounging, for leisurely drives looking smug in such a kick-ass vehicle, but she managed to sit bolt upright all the same.
“You can’t be serious. This is not a casual drive, Niall. It’s not fake ‘upstate’—not Poughkeepsie or any other place that’s spitting distance from the boroughs. This is all the way into the mountains. Hours away.”
He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do today. Plus we still have business to discuss. If you don’t have free time to hang around in the city, this is the next best thing.”
“I can’t ask you to drive three hours—”
“You didn’t ask me. I offered.”
“No, you just decided.”
“I’m not kidnapping you. I’m going to deliver you to your family at the end of the trip.”
“But I don’t have a choice. I mean, unless I jump out of a moving car, I’m pretty much stuck.”
Niall smoothly skimmed over to an empty space on the side of the road. “You’re not a prisoner.”
She stared at him, assessing. It killed him that there was so much caution in her suddenly veiled gaze.
“Okay. Okay, fine.” He picked up his phone and did a little googling, then turned it toward her. “There’s another bus to points north, including Marsden, at four forty-five. Should take about six and a half hours. It’ll be a nice night for you. Hope you brought some reading material.” Celia didn’t reply, but he got the sense she was wavering. “Look, just let me . . . I don’t know. Give me another chance, okay? I’ll even . . .” He paused, dug around in his pocket, and came up with a couple of uninflated balloons. He pulled one out of the tangle, blew it up, manipulated it into some shape he didn’t even try to identify, and plonked it between the two seats. “There. Consider that a barrier. I won’t cross it. Okay?”
Her mouth quirked.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He flashed a quick, grim smile at her and carefully pulled back into traffic.
Chapter 7
Entering hour three of the drive to Marsden, Celia tried to stretch her legs and wake up her rather numb butt cheeks. Niall had said he wanted to talk, and there had been plenty of that. Trouble was, it wasn’t with her. He’d been on the phone nonstop since they’d hit the road in earnest, first with someone she assumed was his agent, then with someone named Trent, whom she deduced was some sort of assistant, then with his agent again. And then Trent again after that.
Celia tried not to eavesdrop, but she was curious about his current crises—proving the lie about his being able to relegate his celebrity to a box that he could seal up at will. She hadn’t believed him when he’d said it, and a good thing too. From what she could discern, he was rescheduling meetings for his next film, emphasizing that he still wanted to be an integral part of the planning process because his last few movies had been more out of his control than he wished. She admired his conviction
to get a tighter grip on his career.
Then there was some talk about trying to get Naomi some help, which was also admirable. She’d been paying way too much attention to Niall recently, including texting him repeatedly in the middle of the night (though not with any incriminating photos, thank goodness). It seemed the girl didn’t have much support from her family, so Niall asked his agent to have her managers talk some sense into her. If, Niall complained, her parents had behaved like grownups, starting when Naomi was a little kid doing cereal commercials, instead of just spending the money she earned, she wouldn’t have been so desperate for attention. And she wouldn’t have misinterpreted his big brotherly intentions as something more.
Once that round of conversations was over with and Niall seemed satisfied with the results, he immediately called Trent again, to remind him he needed to have certain e-mails forwarded to him ASAP.
Honestly, she didn’t know what to make of him. Here he was, driving for hours to deliver her to her hometown, conducting his business on the way. All on his own, no bodyguard, no PR flack, no agent. What kind of celebrity did that? This kind, apparently. She remembered how vehemently he denied having a posse, how negative he was about his own raucous party. His behavior certainly was . . . unusual. Not what she was expecting. Still, she didn’t know much about him yet; she’d have to wait for him to reveal his true colors, whatever they were. Probably lots of blinding red and outrageously rich purple. Mixed.
Celia tipped her head back and closed her eyes. She was so tired; concern for her grandmother had robbed her of a decent night’s sleep. Celia wondered just how bad Gran was—whether her dad was exaggerating the problem and just wanted her there for moral support. Or so he and her mother could chuck it all at Celia and not have to deal with it, which was more their speed. All she could do was get back to Marsden as quickly as possible and assess the situation for herself. And hope she still had a life to get back to in New York once everything was settled at home.
They’d driven out of the cloud cover, and sun was streaming into the passenger’s side window. She turned her face to it, a sunbeam hot on her eyelids, and drifted off a little . . .