Picture This (3 page)

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.

“O
kay. 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 through 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 “Omi
god
!” 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.”

“Figures.” He cleared his throat. “Go on.”

“Okay, where were we . . . let's see . . . You probably heard all that stuff about how I signed you up for three back-to-back cruises—as kitchen help—and then penciled you in for a foreign film, six-month shoot—a buddy flick with Russell Crowe and Christian Bale. Should be a barrel of laughs. It's in Portuguese, by the way, so I'll order you some Rosetta Stone software and—”

“Very funny.”

Trent picked up the tablet. “Well, it's hard to compete with your eye candy. Are these from the McManus shoot?”

“Yeah.”

The other man flicked through a couple of photos. “My, my. Quite the hottie. Get her number?”

Why, yes, I did, in fact.
“It wasn't like that, Trent.” A weak protest, but he used it all the same.

“Hm. These photos say otherwise.”

“She's not my type.”
Lie.

“Jesus, adjust. Change types.”

“Don't lecture me. Just because you found everlasting love with a burly blue-collar cop doesn't mean we all should go for someone we normally wouldn't date in a million years.”

Trent huffed as he handed the tablet back to his boss. “I will get scoldy with you if you're telling me you wouldn't date
her
in a million years. That's just crazy talk.”

Niall wasn't about to tell Trent he'd already texted Celia, not long after he received the proofs. He'd attached one of his favorite photos: the two of them standing close together, cheek to cheek, arms hanging straight down, fingers entwined, looking as though they were in the middle of a dance. Celia was tall to begin with, and in those mammoth heels, she nearly matched his height. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling, blissful. He looked about the same. His text had said simply, I believe you have absconded with my property. Fork 'em over. Don't make me call the cops. And his address. Nothing untoward. He didn't really want the pair of boxers back; he just wanted to see her again, even if he couldn't date her.

Now the question was, would she show up on his doorstep someday? He had half a mind to pull a Howard Hughes and never budge from his loft until she did. Leaving it entirely up to her made him fidgety ; he was desperate to take matters into his own hands and hunt her down, but he couldn't do that. Not just yet, anyway.

“Not your type,” Trent muttered, tapping his pen on the stack of papers in his lap. “Absolute crazy talk.” Someone turned up the music, and the volume of the conversation outside the door increased as well. “And you're saying Ms. Sola
is
your type?”

“Ms. Sola is whatever the studio says she is. We are. Whatever.”

Trent massaged his temples tiredly. “For how much longer?”

“Three. Freakin'. Months.”

“Can you last that long?”

As if on cue, Tiffany and her friends let loose another burst of piercing laughter. It went to Niall's brain with the force of an ice pick. “In all honesty, I don't know, man. I just don't know.”

Restless, Niall pushed to his feet, yanked open the door, and headed out into the main part of his loft. Which, he was surprised to see, was populated by not only Tiffany and her friends but also about a dozen other people, none of whom he recognized. And more were coming through the door.

“Crap,” he muttered. “Not again.”

He passed a guy wearing a baseball cap backward. As the guy took a swig of beer, he eyed Niall and held up his free hand for Niall to high five. “Dude!” he bellowed.

At a loss for what to say to that, Niall replied sedately, “Dude.”

“Duuude!” the guy said again, hand still raised. “Bananaaaaaas!”

Ah. That stupid catchphrase would never, ever die out, would it? Four—no, five—movies ago, and it still followed him around like a hungry stray. He tried to dodge the dude, but Dude was having none of it. Niall sidestepped; Dude edged in front of him again, hand still held high. Dude raised his eyebrows encouragingly and twitched his palm, waiting. Niall sighed, halfheartedly smacked it, and muttered dully, “Bananas.” Dude hooted triumphantly, and Niall was finally allowed to pass.

“Friends of yours?” Trent asked, hot on his heels.

“You're hilarious.” Niall yanked open the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water, handed one to Trent. “I can't take another one of Tiff 's parties tonight. Want to catch a movie or something?”

“Can't. I've—”

“—got a date,” Niall finished for him. “Should've known. Well, good for you.” He held up his hand for a high five. “Duuude.” Trent grinned and obliged. “Look, I'm sorry I'm keeping you here this late. Let's skip the rest of the stuff, leave it till tomorrow—”

Trent sighed. “Tomorrow there will be a whole slew of new business. Now would be better.”

“Right . . .”

As they turned to go, Tiffany wedged herself between them. “Niall,” she said with a cheerfully fake smile. “Where've you been?”

“Working, my love. Hope you don't mind.”

“We need more ice. Send Trent.”

“Trent's busy.” Niall sighed. “Did we really need to have
another
party?”

“What's wrong with having a party?”

“I have no idea who these people are.”

“They're our
friends
.”

“They are?” Niall glanced over at the flock of spray-tanned, high-heeled chicks hovering nearby.

“Omigod, you're Niall Crenshaw!” one of them fluttered.

“That's what the tag on my underwear says.”

“Wow, you've got your own underwear line?” the girl breathed.

“No, it was a joke . . . You know what? Never mind.”

“What are you
doing
here?”

He blinked a couple of times before replying evenly, “I live here.”

“Oh.” She giggled. “Right.”

He gave her a stiff grin and turned back to Tiffany. In a low voice, he said, “Did you have to tell everyone to come here? What's wrong with your apartment?”

“We have an agreement,” she muttered back. “I get to hang out here whenever I want. Remember?”

“Um, is that actually written in the contract? I mean spelled out in just that way? And does it really cover inviting half of Manhattan . . . and, apparently, three quarters of Brooklyn?” he added, as another group of people came through the door.

Tiffany took a steadying breath. “Niall, come
on.
You could be more fun than this.”

He pulled an agonized face before he could stop himself. What had he done to deserve this? Well, he'd signed a fake-relationship contract, of course, but couldn't his contract buddy have been an intelligent, kind, classy woman? Then their fake relationship could have evolved into a genuine one, with a meeting of minds, true affection, and love/marriage/baby carriage instead of this ball-and-chain, counting-the-minutes-till-it-was-over deal?

Well. If his costar had been intelligent, kind, and classy, she wouldn't have needed a fake-relationship contract in the first place. Niall was far from perfect, but he was definitely a few steps up from the scuzzbuckets Tiff usually went for. The whole arrangement was sold to him as the opportunity to “save her from herself.” His agent and the movie's producers knew he'd go for it and, damn his bleeding heart anyway, they were right. Of course, it didn't hurt that he was being paid well to squire Tiffany all over the place. Every little bit helped.

Still, it wasn't like he hated Tiffany or anything. She was all right, in her way. She was just . . . exhausting.

He groaned. “
Fine.
Party on, Tiff.”

“That means you've got to be here.”

“Dammit!”

“Well, duh, Niall, I can't host parties by myself and let you disappear all the time. That would look really bad.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“So you'll stay?”

“Looks like I don't have much of a choice.”

“And no hiding in your bedroom, either. Or on the roof.”

“Laundry room?”

“Niall!”

“Bathroom? Pantry?”

Tiffany just glared.

“Okay, okay.” He sighed, plunked his hands on his hips, and looked up at the concrete ceiling high above, stating, as if by rote, “I
promise
I will
attend
this
party
and not
hide
in some
small
, dark place.”
No matter how much I want to
, he added in his head.

He started to walk away, but she grabbed his bicep and dug her manicured nails into his sleeve. “I'm holding you to that,” she whispered. “Now kiss me, or I'm calling my agent.”

Once he'd gotten rid of Tiffany and her crew, he turned back to Trent. “Sorry. Where were we?”

Trent flicked through his stack of notes. “You've got some interest in the LA house. You should have a solid offer by the end of the week. Aggie strongly suggests you take it.”

“Even if it's a buck fifty?”

“Even if.”

Someone plopped several bags of chips on the counter. Niall ripped one open. Barbecue. Bleah. But he ate some all the same. “Aggie's a pain in my ass.”

“If you didn't blow all your money as soon as you made it, she wouldn't have to ride herd on you to divest yourself of your assets just to keep your head above water.”

“My assets are
my
business.”

“She's got your
assets
in a sling, for your best interest. So listen to her.”

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

“She wants you to put this place on the market too.”

“Where does she want me to live? All the good subway grates in the neighborhood are taken.”

“If you'd just let her handle more of your money for you—”

“Drop it, Trent.”

“Aggie's a good accountant. Just make more of your income available for her, don't blow it on whatever you're—”

“I said
drop it
, Trent.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “Then you're going to be on this hamster wheel for the rest of your life.”

“Hey, maybe I
like
making crappy movies just for the paycheck and . . . and . . . cutting the ribbon at supermarket openings.”

Trent snorted as another large group of people flooded into the loft. One, apparently a self-styled graffiti artist, looked around, assessing, then pulled out a massive Sharpie and started drawing on the wall in the living room area . . . dangerously close to Niall's prized Keith Haring original.