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Celia beamed. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed her Marsden friends till just now.

George leaned back, peeking out the doorway. Confident that Niall was far enough away, she widened her eyes at her friend and exclaimed, “So! A movie star, huh? You certainly run with a different crowd now. I knew New York would do you good.” She elbowed Celia in the ribs. “Tell me everything.”

“It's not like that,” she said, cursing to herself as she felt her face grow warm for the umpteenth time. Was she going to have to keep denying a relationship with Niall to everyone, one person at a time? She knew the answer was yes—otherwise, the town gossip machine would take over. It just might anyway; she knew her old neighbors would prefer to believe a juicier story, never mind if it was true or not. She decided to change the subject. “How are the wedding plans going?”

“Slowly.” George laughed. “We're in no rush. Opening the inn is more important right now. We'll get around to it next year, probably.”

Another squeal rent the air, and Casey marched past, holding Amelia high and at arm's length to put some distance between her and the offending trike, despite the fact that she was kicking mightily and shouting, “Down, dammi'!” Celia watched George's face glow with adoration—as she gazed at Casey, not her niece—and once again she was thrilled that her two friends had finally gotten together after so many years denying their feelings for one another.

“Better get cracking,” Celia said. “I hear Grammy and Gramps Down want more grandchildren.”

“You heard wrong,” George muttered, walking out of the room and jerking her head for Celia to follow. “They came back from their extended tour of America—and Canada, it turned out—and it only took a few weeks of living with the Down-Montgomery circus before they started making plans for a nice long vacation in Australia. Or New Zealand. I forget.”

“So they're gone again?”

“I think they're touring the entire Pacific Rim, come to think of it. Can't say I blame them, really. Our family is better experienced in small doses.” When they reached the foot of the grand staircase, George said, “I'm going to make up Niall's bed. We gave Mr. Celebrity the bridal suite.”

“You have a bridal suite?”

“Well, it's the biggest bedroom, with the nicest view, so now it's the bridal suite. And, for now, the celebrity suite. It's got a really nice king-size bed. Plenty of room,” she added with a wink.

“Stop.”

“I won't say anything if we end up with an extra guest some night.”

“He's staying here, I'm staying at Gran's. End of story.”

“Okay,” George said, but her smirk made it clear she wasn't buying it.

“Which is where I'm going right now. So take good care of Mr. Celebrity, keep him out of trouble—”

“Not my job.”

“—and point him in the direction of Ray when he asks.”

“Why Ray?”

“I'll let him tell you.” Celia turned in a circle. “Where'd he go, anyway?” Then she heard his distinctive, rich laughter coming from the back hallway. “Never mind. I'll see you later, George. Thanks again.”

As George made her way upstairs, Celia headed for the back door. She passed Niall lounging in the doorway of Casey's office, chatting animatedly with the person seated at the desk—George's sister-in-law, Jazmine. Celia poked him in his side as she passed.

“See you around. Hi, Jaz!”

“Hi, honey! Welcome home.”

“Hey!” He spun around and followed her down the hall. “You leaving already?”

She nodded. “Going to Gran's. Are you all set here?”

“Sure am. I like it here.”

“I'll bet you do.”

“What's not to like? Seems to have all the amenities . . . plus the future Mrs. Crenshaw,” he said, with a significant nod toward the office.

Celia stifled a laugh. “You don't say.”

“Yeah, really. Wow, that lady's something. Jazmine. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I'm in love already.”

“I'm thrilled for you. I hope you have a long and happy life together.”

“Wait—”

She turned back to him. “What can I do for you?”

“Do? Nothing. I mean . . . I'm just trying to get all your friends straight. Help me out for a second. Ashley—I mean Casey—was your high school boyfriend.”

“Right.”

“And now he's marrying George.”

“Right.”

“But that spawn of Satan isn't theirs.”

“Nope. Amelia is George's niece. She's the daughter of George's sister Sera and—”

“I can't keep up.”

“—and her wife.”

“Okay, I think I've got everything straight so far. Who's Sera's wife?”

“Jazmine. Your one true love back there.”

“. . . Crap.”

She wanted to laugh at his exaggerated dismayed expression, but instead she just said evenly, “You have a good night, okay?”

“Wait!” Niall said again, grasping her arm, and Celia tried in vain to ignore the tingles his touch generated. “Where can I find you? If I need to. And let's face it,” he muttered, moving in conspiratorially, “I think I'm going to need to, you know what I'm saying?”

“Um,” she stammered, feeling that now familiar pulse beating at the base of her throat—the one that only started up every time he touched her, “Casey and George can give you my grandmother's address. Or you can call my cell. Most of the area is wired just fine, my parents' side of the mountain notwithstanding.”

“I will, then.” Niall's hand traveled up her arm, lightly, and she tried not to shiver. “Okay, I guess I'll see you around.”

“Kind of hard not to in this town.”

N
iall's limbs felt leaden as he dragged himself down the grand staircase of Casey and George's place. Squinting in the bright sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows on either side of the front door, he crossed the foyer and poked his nose into several rooms until he found George lounging at the large dining room table. She had one leg hooked over the corner, the lace tablecloth twisted under her calf, and was staring at her laptop.

Well, one thing was certain, he thought, working hard not to stare at that slender bare leg on display: Marsden was a hidden treasure trove of gorgeous women. Celia, Jaz, George. Of course, the other two women paled in comparison with Celia. Nonstop thoughts of her had kept him up half the night. It sure had been lonely in that huge bed. Not that he'd have dreamt of asking her to stay . . . but he hadn't been able to stop thinking about what it would have been like if she had.

George glanced up from her computer. “Mr. Crenshaw—hi there. How'd you sleep?”

“Crappy,” he answered, sliding into a chair at the table and rubbing his eyes.

“Uh-oh. What's wrong? Bed too hard? Too soft?”

Too empty.
“Too quiet.”

Her concerned look switched to one of bemusement. “You prefer creaky beds?”

“All this peace and quiet is just . . . disturbing. I kept wondering if the world had come to an end and nobody told me.”

“Well, city boy, I could get you a recording of some sirens, car alarms, music, and shouting people, if you like. Gunshots would cost extra, of course.”

“You'd do that?”

“No. I recommend you learn to relax and embrace country life instead.”

He stretched. “So much for a full-service inn.”

“Everybody has their limits.”

“I hope you don't mind my saying, but you don't seem the hospitality-industry type.”

“I'm not,” she answered, closing her laptop and standing up. “This is Casey's baby. But it was a package deal—if I wanted to be with him, I got the inn, the conference center, the agritainment pumpkin and Christmas tree farm, and the art gallery as well.” George smiled. “It was a small price to pay.”

“There's an art gallery?”

“It was a barn. Now it's gallery space.”

“So you became an innkeeper after the fact.”

“I help out as much as I can, but I do Web stuff, mostly—build sites for people, maintain the farm's site. My real money maker is my blog.”

Niall's stomach lurched a little bit. He was in the lair of a
blogger
? “Er—”

George immediately held up a placating hand. “Don't worry. I don't have a gossip blog. Your complete privacy is our top priority. The inn's reputation is on the line too, you know.”

After a moment's hesitation, he said, “I'll still have to have you and your fiancé sign a confidentiality agreement. I can have my agent e-mail it to you. Nothing personal,” he rushed to add. “Just standard procedure.”

George leaned toward him, knuckles on the table, her long curls sweeping over her shoulders. He resisted the urge to shrink from her. She may have been tiny, but she had more power and menace per pound than the average woman. “Then you'd better print a couple thousand copies. Because everything you do, everything you say, is going to be noted, recorded, chronicled, probably videoed, and dissected at length out there.” She jerked a thumb toward the valley, where the town lay. “I can only control what goes on within these four walls. Otherwise . . . your business officially became everyone's business the minute you crossed the Marsden town line. I think it's in the town charter. Anyway, keep that in mind, and you'll be just fine.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

She smirked. “Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. Right now, though, how about I get you something to eat?”

“What do you get if you order a hearty country breakfast around here?”

“Nothing. Not at this time of day. You're in the lunch zone, buddy. Sandwich?”

“I suppose a venti Starbucks is out of the question too, then?”

“What? Nobody's told you about the ban the town has on fast food franchises?”

“Suddenly I'm liking this place a little less.”

 

An hour or so later, Niall had to admit to himself it was nearly impossible to dislike Marsden, despite the lack of a Starbucks on every corner. Celia wasn't kidding when she described the place as quaint. It was so quaint it verged on twee. He'd never experienced twee before, but now he felt like he was up to his neck in it. He wandered down the old-fashioned Main Street expecting the cast of
The Music Man
to come high-stepping down the sidewalks singing “Wells Fargo Wagon.” Plenty of trees, with wood-and-iron benches nearby, offered shade from the summer sun. Simply adorable storefronts, including an old-fashioned hardware store, antiques stores, gift shops, and restaurants, alongside art galleries and high-end boutiques, completed the look.

Once Niall had gotten his belated caffeine fix at a gourmet coffee shop—and suddenly he didn't miss Starbucks at all—Marsden began to look even nicer. He smiled at the yarn-bombed town hall cannon and admired the other random artwork on nearly every block. George had told him Marsden was a busy artists' enclave especially in summer—visual arts on top of the theater and music programs at the arts center just outside of town—and it showed.

He was so fascinated by the displays in the galleries' windows that he wasn't even skittish about standing around in one place for long periods of time. It was something he usually avoided, out of fear of being recognized.

There was a time, after the success of his first movie, that he'd enjoyed walking around out in the open, loved it when people approached him to ask for photos and autographs. It was like he had a sign hanging over his head: Famous Person Over Here—Come Say Hi. Being recognized was new and exciting, and he made a name for himself as one of the most approachable young stars—someone who would never turn away an autograph hound, who would spend several minutes making small talk with any fan who got up the nerve to strike up a conversation.

But eventually that got old. The crowds got too big, the people who wanted a piece of his time—or an actual piece of him—got too pushy. Then he'd learned to close down, turn off his Famous Person beacon, put on his invisibility sunglasses (you can't see my eyes; therefore, I'm not here), and—most important—spend most of his time in New York, where people were less likely to be impressed by a celebrity walking among them, instead of Los Angeles.

Here in Marsden, he was happy to note, some people gave him sidelong glances, probably thinking he looked familiar but unsure how they knew him, and as long as he didn't make eye contact, he was mercifully left alone. It gave him a really good feeling, just like when Celia's parents didn't recognize him, and for once he didn't have to smile politely while total strangers shared their frank opinions about his films . . . and his personal life.

When his cell phone rang and he saw it was Tiffany calling, he didn't answer. He'd already texted Trent the address of Casey's place so he could send him enough clothes and necessities for several weeks. There was nobody else he wanted to talk to right now.

Except Celia. The only thing that would have made his stroll down Main Street on a warm Sunday afternoon better would have been to have her by his side, pointing out the sights and filling him in on the trivia and backstory of the town and its residents. He'd promised to leave her alone while she dealt with her grandmother, and he was going to honor that. Then again, she'd said he could contact her if he needed to. Did he
need
to? His immediate answer was yes. Yes, he most certainly did. For what reason . . . he could figure that out later.

Maybe
he
could help
her,
or at least just be there. For support. He ignored the niggling feeling that he was just using his concern as an excuse to be around her again. No, he really did want to help. His own grandma had carved out that space in his heart, and even though she was gone—or maybe because she was gone—that space was still there, but empty, perhaps reserved for another sweet little old lady.

Of course he'd pegged it that Celia had made cookies with her grandmother. Probably spent lots of rainy days with her, and overnights when Celia's parents went out of town. Looking at old pictures, maybe playing the piano together. He just couldn't resist seeing their relationship firsthand.

He pulled out his phone again, pulled up his map app, and plugged in the address he'd gotten from George—ignoring her raised eyebrow and knowing smirk—before he'd left the farm. Celia's grandmother didn't live all that far from here—several blocks away, on a street up the hillside, running parallel to Main. It shouldn't take him too long to get there. On the way, he'd come up with a good excuse for showing up on Celia's grandmother's doorstep.

Because Niall was checking the map as he crossed Main Street and stepped up onto the sidewalk, he had no idea whether he'd just walked into a lamp post, a mailbox, or a potted shrub. It was only when the potted shrub squeaked “Hey!” that he realized the obstacle was a person. An irate person.

“Oh God, I'm so sorr—”

“What the hell, dude? Watch where you're—holy
shit
!”

Aw, crap.
Looked like his lucky streak for remaining anonymous just ran out. He plastered on his polite-but-distant, greet-a-fan expression as the woman started flailing about, flustered. In her flurry of motion, Niall noticed bleached blond hair, sparkly nails, wide-set eyes. And
Omigod, you're Niall Crenshaw!
should fly from those glossy lips in three . . . two . . .

“Holy shit, holy shit. You're that guy!”

That was always a close second. Niall reinforced the props of his polite smile as she wagged a finger in his face.

“On the computer commercials, right?”

“No. Not me—sorry.”

“Oh, wait. That guy on that TV show—”

“Sorry again. I've never done scripted TV.”

Her companion, a shorter woman with short dark hair and a much calmer demeanor, muttered, “Niall Crenshaw, nimrod.”

The first woman whirled around. “I knew that!” Before Niall could escape, she spun back, nearly clocking him with her large lime-green purse. “Niall Crenshaw! Right!”

“Nice to see you. If you'll just excuse me . . .”

The blonde struck a pose, hands on her hips, as though she were confronting him. “So! Here with Celia, are you?”

Wow, George hadn't been kidding about his business becoming everyone's business as soon as he crossed the town line. “You know Celia?”

The woman snorted. “Oh, sure. We've been best buds since high school.” She stuck out a tanned, manicured hand. “Audra McNally. See, me and Celia were always alphabetical in the seating chart, all through school—Marshall, McNally. You know how it is.”

“Sure.” His smile stretched a little tighter.

“And this is my cousin Robin.”

“Nice to meet you both. If you'll excuse—”

“I've gotta say, I'm really surprised she's with you.”

The wiser portion of Niall's brain shouted,
Do not engage. Do not engage!
But it was overridden by a sudden overwhelming desire to defend himself. Or Celia. Whatever this woman was getting at. He wasn't sure yet.

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, you know . . .” Audra waved her hand lazily, echoing her thought process, such that it was. “I mean, don't get me wrong—I love Celia. I really do! She's my homegirl.”

Homegirl?

“But come
on
! Little Miss Angel Puss?”

Over her braying laughter, he insisted, “I'm not sure what you mean. Celia is a fantastic woman.” Dimly, he realized he wasn't denying he and Celia were an item. And people evidently hadn't gotten the memo about him and Tiffany. What the hell, was he doing all that fake relationship shit for nothing? That would really piss him off.

“Oh yeah! No! Yeah! Celia's great! I love her!” Audra repeated, sweeping her hair back from her face, first one side, then the other. “She's just . . .” She nudged him, her elbow nearly puncturing his kidney. “You know. Not your
type.
I've heard about you!”

Niall dodged a second jab and fought out a hoarse, humorless laugh. “Oh, don't believe everything you hear . . .”

“Are you kidding? It had better all be true, or I'm gonna be really upset!”

Niall knew what was coming next, so he braced himself to enact evasive maneuvers immediately.

Sure enough, Audra sidled closer and attempted a purr which came out more like a subdued honk. “You could, you know, show me a thing or two. I'd be willing to play.”

Niall withdrew, his torso collapsing inward to avoid any more physical contact, although he tried not to look like he was recoiling. Before he could speak, Robin did.

“Shit, Audra. Stop!”

“What? We're just talking.”

“Toby should hear you ‘just talking.' He'd friggin' kill you.”

“I can do what I want. He doesn't own me,” Audra snapped, but when she turned back to Niall, she was a little more subdued. She took half a step back, and he relaxed a bit. “So. Tell me about you and Celia.”

“Actually, I have to go—”

“Oh, come on. You can tell me. Real quick. You've gotta give me the goods before anyone else in town. Celia and I are best buds!” she repeated.

Niall thought a moment, then said smoothly, “How about
you
tell
me
about Celia? I'd love to hear what she was like as a kid.”

Audra studied him with a gaze hooded by thick fake eyelashes. “You want to know about Celia, huh? Yeah, I can give you the goods. But it's gonna cost you.” She hooked her talons into his arm. “Come with us, movie star. We're going to Beers. And you're buying.”