by Jayne Denker
Niall held her gaze as he accepted the bag. “Pity.”
“Ew.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, but mine is the correct one. Come on in.”
“Oh . . . uh . . . I—I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t tell me. You have a wilder party to go to.”
“I don’t think that’s even possible.”
“So come on in, have a drink.”
He took her by the elbow and led her inside, helping her navigate around the knots of people. She looked for an open space, but there simply wasn’t one. She stuck close to Niall as he parted the crowds; out of the corner of her eye she caught people staring at her. She realized she didn’t quite fit in here, but some looks—from the women—were downright hostile.
“Was it okay to come over?” she shouted in the general vicinity of Niall’s shoulder. “I mean, the guy downstairs said it was okay to come up, but—”
He turned to face her, ducking his head close. For a split second Celia had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. And she realized she didn’t pull back, but rose up on her toes instead, heart thudding. Before she could deal with her own body’s betrayal, Niall spoke, his lips nearly touching her ear, his breath warm on her skin. He just wanted to make sure she heard him over the music. Oh.
In a serious, even tone, he said, “I’m so glad you’re here.” And her heart started jackhammering all over again.
He drew back only far enough to look into her eyes. She needed to respond, say something meaningful, something . . . cripes, anything. What came out was, “I was wondering if I should have called first.”
Smooth. What was she going to do next, start yammering about what route she’d taken to get here, subway or bus? Celia tried not to let the full-body flinch going on inside her show on her face. She wasn’t usually this inept when it came to speaking to men.
Or maybe it was just this man in particular who threw her off her game.
Fortunately, Niall was smiling at her. Warmly. Openly. Maybe she hadn’t just sounded like an idiot. She smiled back. And then she was nearly knocked over by someone violently jostling her shoulder.
“Niall! Where have you been?”
Celia turned to face the person at the same time Niall did, and she jumped a little. She really had to learn how to take running into celebrities—or celebrities running into her, in this case—as a matter of course. She did her best to close down her expression as Niall reached out and plucked a glass of champagne from the girl’s hand. Celia knew why. This girl really was a girl: seventeen-year-old Naomi Burdick, who’d played Niall’s little sister in a movie from a couple of years before, Wotta Nut.
“Hey!” she exclaimed, reaching for the glass.
Niall held it high out of the petite girl’s reach. “Nuh-uh. Not on my watch.”
“Niall! Come on! Nobody cares—”
“I care. You’re not drinking if I have anything to say about it, you hear me?”
Suddenly the expression in the girl’s enormous blue eyes switched from fury to devotion, and her entire body softened. She stopped grabbing for the glass, and her shoulders slouched under her tiny gold halter top. “Aww,” she cooed. “You care about me.”
“Of course I care about you, Neener. You’re like a real little sister to me, you know that.”
The dark clouds reconverged on the girl’s pretty features. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what I meant. Now, can I get you some soda?”
Naomi sighed. “Fine.”
Niall nodded and said to Celia, “I’ll be right back.”
He threaded his way through the crowd, and Celia watched him go with the terrifying realization that she’d just been left with Naomi. She turned back, and sure enough, Naomi was still there. Studying her. With a displeased duck face that would put McKayla Maroney’s original to shame.
Celia hoped flattery might clear the girl’s expression. “I like your movies.”
“Hmph.”
Maybe not.
“Who are you, anyway?” Naomi demanded, the emphasis she put on the word “you” implying she was . . .
“N-nobody,” Celia stammered. “I just—”
Then the young girl cut to the chase. “Don’t think you’re going to get a piece of Niall, okay? Just forget it.”
“What?”
“People like you don’t get a shot at somebody like Niall. You got that?”
“You’re making a mistake,” Celia insisted. “Besides . . . you know . . . Tiffany, right?”
“Tiffany?” Naomi’s lip-twist got so severe the lower half of her face looked like it was being reflected in a fun-house mirror. She let out an indelicate snort. “Please.”
“But they’re—”
“Just mind your own business.” With one last dismissive look up and down Celia—which effectively communicated her severe disapproval of everything from her scuffed shoes to her inexpensive jeans to her hairstyle—Naomi spun around, her long, honey-streaked hair lashing at everyone around her like a cat-o’-nine-tails as she pushed her way through the crowd, heading in the same direction Niall had gone.
Celia let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Yikes. She’d just been shut down and reduced to the nothing she’d described herself as, by a girl less than half her age.
Fun night.
Celia waited a while longer in the same spot, but Niall didn’t return. She wondered if Naomi had intercepted him. Even though the young girl was making no secret of her interest in him, it was obvious he didn’t return the sentiment, which was a relief. Celia realized she was still expecting the worst of him because there had been no proof to the contrary. Now she clung to this little bit of evidence that maybe he was a decent guy. But for all she knew, maybe he really did lead the wildly decadent, debauched life that was hinted at in all the articles about him, which might very well include sleeping with teenage costars. Everything in her immediate vicinity implied he most certainly was as wild as the press regularly reported.
She was no prude, but the action all around her was a bit startling. Body shots on the dining room table? Check. Some girl-on-girl action from a couple of gorgeous model types standing over the body-shot woman, on the same table? Check. Someone with a monkey on his shoulder, and the monkey was drinking more than his owner? Sure thing. Quite a bit of bending-and-snorting off the coffee table in the sitting area? Major check.
Oh, she absolutely did not belong here.
This was just plain-old too much for her. Never mind the promises she’d made to herself to take more chances, live a wilder life, outside of Marsden. She wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe she was too old for it already—not just this taste of the celebrity lifestyle, but her choice to make a go of it outside her hometown. Was the far side of thirty-five too old for all this? She suspected it was.
And what about Niall? Where’d he gone? For all she knew, she’d be standing there, watching all the licentious activity swirling around her, until she dropped over, senses overloaded, before he found his way back to her. She should just leave, instead of waiting around like a dope for him to come back.
Easier said than done, however. She had no idea which direction was the way out. She turned around on the spot, craning her neck, trying to see over the crowd. Which way should she go? Away from the windows. That was the ticket. Unless this loft was at a corner of the building and had two walls of windows. She picked a direction and started pushing. Now she knew what a salmon swimming upstream felt like . . . if every point in the journey was the spot where four streams, from all four directions, converged. And if the poor fish had lost a couple of navigational fins somewhere along the way.
Pushing through the crowd a little more, overheated from the exertion, she reached a rare pocket of empty space and spied the door. Freedom! She took a breath and dived back into the crowd, energy renewed.
“Hey!”
Niall’s voice cut through the loud music and the chattering crowd. She p
aused, but only for a moment. She would not look around to find out where his voice was coming from. But he was hard to miss—within seconds he came into view, carried high overhead, passed along from guest to guest. Crowd surfing. Of course he was.
Celia shook her head. He hadn’t been calling out to her—he’d just been startled when his friends grabbed him. She watched him float on his back over the crowd, everyone clutching at him, eager to place a hand on him. He may have been disconcerted, but he wasn’t upset. He was even laughing.
Celia felt a warmth spread in her chest at the sight of his grin. He really was too charming and attractive for his own good. Too charming and attractive for her. Naomi had been right. He wasn’t for the likes of her—not by a long shot.
She decided she’d just remember what he looked like right then, giddy and joyous and above her, and go back to her own world. Secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t see her, she blew a kiss his way, then refocused on her immediate journey, to get the hell out of this loft. She was nearly at the door. If she could just take a few more steps . . .
Suddenly an arm was around her waist, pulling her close from behind. Her insides flip-flopped. How did Niall get down to the floor and over to her so quickly?
“Wanna dance?”
She turned. It was the joker who’d called her a stalker. Crap. She pried herself out of the man’s grip, ignoring the disappointment that it was someone other than Niall. What had she just told herself about forgetting him, dammit? “No, thanks.”
“Drink?”
“Nope. I was just leaving.”
“Aw, you should stay.”
“Gotta go. Thanks anyway.”
The man made one last grab for her, but she pirouetted out of his grip, grasped the handle, pulled the door open, and spun one more time . . . into total darkness.
“Shit,” Celia hissed.
This was most definitely not the way out of the loft.
She passed her hand over the wall, trying to find a light switch, desperately hoping she was in a room and not a closet. But from the depth of the blackness and the proximity of the walls, or maybe objects, or both, she had the very bad—and embarrassing—feeling she wasn’t going to be so lucky as to find out it was a bedroom or study, or even a bathroom. Uproarious laughter from just outside the door, likely from the sarcastic guy and his friends, confirmed it. A closet.
Sighing, Celia leaned against the door, listening to the muffled chaos on the other side, including a shout of “Hey, girl! Come on out!” Not a chance. She was kind of enjoying the peace and quiet in here, even if she didn’t know how she was going to exit with her dignity intact. She figured that, based on the ebb and flow of the roiling crowd, it would take a while for the guy who grabbed her to drift off to another part of the loft, but once he was gone, she’d probably be able to sneak out unnoticed. Or at least un-laughed-at.
She waved her hand over her head; maybe there was a string to pull, to turn on a ceiling light. But no matter how much she flailed, her fingers never came into contact with one. So, what, she was just going to stand there in the darkness, waiting till it was safe to walk out? Apparently so.
Someone slammed into the closed door, and she jumped, taking a step back. Her heel caught on something lumpy—shoes, perhaps—and she stumbled into a coat. Every ounce of her remaining dignity—what little she had left—abandoned her as she promptly fell over, taking the coat with her. Its empty hanger jangled against the rod.
Fabulous.
Even more fabulous, her suitor decided now was the perfect time to seek her out instead of waiting for her to exit on her own. She heard the door open; the party noises got louder. She wondered if she should start kicking wildly now, to take the guy by surprise, instead of after she managed to haul the coat off her head. Yeah, that was a good idea.
She sat up, ready to start whaling on shins, when a voice said, “Celia?”
She froze. “. . . Niall?”
The door shut again. She worked even more frantically to get her head out from under the heavy fabric.
“Now, why didn’t I think of hiding in here?”
He sat on the floor next to her, his hip touching hers; she felt his torso twist as he tossed the coat away, and she could breathe again. In theory, anyway. Niall’s proximity made it a little difficult.
“I thought this was the way out.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I figured that out.”
She reached over to where she thought her purse had landed, found it. With difficulty, she rooted around inside until her hand closed around her keychain.
At the sound of keys jingling, Niall said, “You’re not going for the pepper spray, are you?”
She laughed softly. “No.” She turned on her mini flashlight and shone it around the closet. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks.”
She stopped the beam along the wall. “Is that . . . a framed Haring ?” Niall shrugged. He seemed embarrassed. She suspected it wasn’t a cheap print, either. Must be nice to have so much money that you could stuff a Haring original in a closet, she thought. Then she felt Niall studying her; she glanced over to see his shadowed eyes traveling over her slowly.
“You were leaving? Without saying good-bye?” he murmured.
“You were kind of busy.”
“Never too busy for you.”
“You never came back.”
“I was trying, believe me. I got hijacked.”
“I saw.”
“I saw you seeing.”
“You did?” Had he seen her blow him a kiss? Oh God, she hoped not.
“Naomi didn’t scare you, did she?”
Celia took a deep breath before she answered. She could smell a bit of beer on his breath, residual cigarette—and other—smoke coming off his clothes. And she felt warmth radiating from his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was awfully close. It disturbed her how much she liked it. Just like during their photo shoot, he made her nervous, but a good nervous. Never once did she have the urge to move away. Just closer. Good lord, how was she going to keep her promise to herself to walk away and forget this guy?
But right now he was waiting for an answer. So she said, in what she hoped was a lighthearted tone, “Naomi? Of course not.”
“Liar. She even scares the shit out of me.”
“Come on. She’s, what, seventeen?”
“Seventeen going on fifty. A scary, biker-chick kind of fifty. So you can admit it. Go on. She’s terrifying.”
Celia laughed softly. “Maybe a little.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She paused, then forced herself to say, “You should get back out there. Your guests will be looking for you.”
“They’ll never notice I’m gone.”
Niall moved closer. His shoulder pressed against hers as he turned toward her. Celia’s breath caught. She started to move back, and the flashlight went out.
“Dammit.” That would teach her to buy her safety devices from a guy with a folding table on the sidewalk.
Niall’s hand found hers, pushed it down gently. “Leave it,” he murmured, his voice rough.
Oh God.
“I mean,” he went on, reverting to his usual joking tone, but still softly, “it’s kind of nice, isn’t it? It’s like that party game from middle school, where a boy and a girl get shoved into a closet—”
“Seven minutes in heaven.”
She felt him laugh against her. “Oh. My. God. I am absolutely in love with you right now, just because you knew that.” He paused. “So. You were a player in middle school, huh? I should have expected as much.”
“No,” she insisted, mortified, although she felt a ridiculous bubble of laughter well up inside her.
“Hey, let me have my fantasies, all right, woman? Lord knows I had enough of them the last time I had a chance with a girl in a closet. And back then that was all I had. I was a disaster—I never knew what to say or where to put my hands
. . . Now, now, I didn’t mean—well, maybe I did. Anyway, I’d just be sitting there, a quivering lump of nerves, and then all of a sudden I’d just sort of lunge, you know? Go in for the kill and hope I hit the target.”
“And then both your braces would clack,” she couldn’t resist adding. “If one set was really heavy duty, one of you would end up with a cut lip . . .”
“I knew you knew what I was talking about. Player.”
“But now we’re adults.”
“Speak for yourself,” he shot back without missing a beat. “Still, I’d like to think I’m better at this than I was back then.” He paused. “This is the part where you’re supposed to say ‘prove it.’ ”
Celia froze. She wanted to say it. Oh God, she wanted to. But what came out was, “I . . . I can’t do that.”
“Well, then,” Niall murmured, “I guess I’ll just have to go in for the kill.”
His fingertips found her lips, traveled over them with the lightest of touches. She felt light-headed at the contact. She needed it to stop, if she was going to think clearly. She didn’t want it to stop.
“Niall, I—”
His wandering touch traced her jawline. “I meant it when I said I was glad you came. I’ve been dying to see you again.”
“But—”
“Celia, you . . . do something to me. I don’t know what it is, and it scares me a little bit. Not like Naomi.” She could hear the smile in his voice. His hand crept into her hair, and he ran his long fingers through the strands at the back of her neck. “I really like you,” he said earnestly. Then the switch back to joking, as though he were reading a kid’s scrawl on a piece of notebook paper. “Do you like me? Circle one: yes, no.”
Celia laughed again, even as her heart raced, beating triple time against her chest, which was now inexplicably pressed up against Niall’s. She had every intention of pushing him away. She really did. But when his hand in her hair pulled her closer, slowly and gently, she went to him. A denial was in order, at least. She could protest, say he’d gotten it all wrong, that she didn’t like him one bit. Then his soft, generous lips met hers, and every logical thought deserted her.
