by Jayne Denker
“Tell me about your grandmother.”
Celia blinked and looked over at Niall. He pulled out his wireless headset and tucked the phone away to indicate he was done talking to other people.
“What do you want to know?”
He shrugged. “Anything. Just tell me about her. What was she like when you were growing up? You said you were her favorite—I’ll bet you guys baked cookies together, didn’t you?”
“Are you going to make fun of me if we did?”
“Of course not. I think it’s cute. What’s her name?”
“Why are you so interested in my grandmother?”
“I’ve got a soft spot for old ladies.”
“Right alongside the one you’ve got for teenage girls?”
“Don’t be gross.”
“Sorry.”
“Look, about Naomi—”
“It’s okay. I get it. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. You were trying to do a good thing that got misinterpreted.”
Celia studied him; a few locks of his longish hair were being tugged out the slit of open window by the car’s slipstream, his striking features locked in a grim expression. Obviously he was very concerned about how the whole thing with Naomi looked.
“Don’t say it’s okay if you don’t mean it, just to shut me up or something.”
“I’m not.” She paused. “Why do you care what I think, anyway?”
Niall pinned her with an intense, steady gaze for as long as he allowed himself to look away from the road. It was only a couple of seconds, but to Celia it felt like ages. He looked her over, just as he had the day they met—had it really been less than a week ago?—but this time, when he scanned her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, it wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t lustful. Well, wait—scratch that. It was lustful. But it was also . . . something more. Finally he murmured, “I’m still trying to figure that out. All I know is . . . it matters. A lot.”
Celia struggled to take a breath, and she was glad when he returned his attention to driving. Then again, she wasn’t.
“Don’t worry, though,” he muttered briskly, almost as though he were talking to himself. “Hands to myself. On the steering wheel, eight and four, like a good boy. Chaperone balloon animal is chaperoning.” And that simply communicated to her, quite clearly, that he wanted those hands of his to be somewhere else entirely. She wondered what he would do with those hands, given half a chance.
Her skin prickling, she turned her head away and studied the thick, dense trees glutting the side of the highway. It was warm in the car. Way too warm, all of a sudden. She put the window down and tipped her head, letting the rushing air cool her suddenly hot cheeks.
A strong gust of wind swept through the car, tangling Celia’s hair in her eyes. She pulled it away and cleared her vision just in time to see the balloon animal lift off. In an instant it was sucked out the window. Niall looked at her again, one eyebrow raised. Then he looked back at the road. Celia cleared her throat uncomfortably.
“Twenty miles to Marsden?” he exclaimed, surprised, as they passed a large green sign on the side of the road.
“Told you it was far.”
“No, I mean . . . only twenty more miles?”
“Wait . . . you want it to be farther away?”
“Well, yeah! We haven’t had a chance to . . . you know . . .”
“Talk?” He nodded, and Celia refrained from pointing out he’d spent most of the journey on his cell phone. “What did you have in mind?”
Niall fidgeted, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I . . . you know . . . stuff.”
“Oh. Stuff. Of course. I know it well.”
“Look, never mind.” He sighed. “We can discuss some . . . topics . . . later.”
“Later?” When was later? Not when they got to Marsden, surely, as he was going to be in town for all of five minutes, or however long it took to drop her off. Was he planning to catch up with her whenever she returned to the city, even though she didn’t even know how long it would be till she got back? She thought he’d be an out of sight, out of mind type, and all this intense interest in her would wear off while she was in Marsden.
“Yeah. I still want to get to know you.”
“Do it now, then, but make it fast. I think we’ve got nineteen miles left.”
“Oh, I doubt that can be done in nineteen miles.” He rubbed an open hand on the knee of his jeans. “Okay. Um, tell me some stuff I normally wouldn’t know about you.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—anything.”
“Okay.” And suddenly she was at a loss for something to share. “My favorite color is yellow?”
“That’s lame! Not to mention you don’t even sound sure. Try again.”
“I don’t like the taste of mint?”
He boggled at her for a second. “. . . Seriously?”
“Hey, it makes it really hard to find toothpaste and I have to avoid mojitos. But at least I’m not addicted to those Thin Mint crack cookies.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Well, what then? My secrets?”
He grinned slyly at her. “Now we’re talking. Yeah, your secrets. The more sordid the better.”
“And what makes you think I’d tell you all my secrets?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“Oh, a tough nut to crack, eh? All right. How about this—we’ll trade off. You tell me one of your secrets, and I’ll tell you one of mine. Go.”
“I haven’t agreed to this yet.”
“Come on, we’ve only got seventeen miles to go now.”
She sighed. “You give me one. As an example.”
“Fine. I don’t like hot dogs.”
“Commie. And that’s not a good secret either.”
“It is too. All those commercials I did for Weiner Weiner? I was fake chewing. Wanted to barf at just the smell. Your turn. And it had better be good.”
Celia tucked her hands under her thighs and jiggled her legs as she thought. “Um . . . okay. I . . . I shoplifted.”
“Now, that’s a good secret. Details, please. But only the essentials, so we have enough time for more sordid ones.”
“I was five. I stole a toy from Marsden Mercantile—that’s the town’s grocery store—while my mom was shopping. I don’t even know why. I didn’t even like the thing—it was a plastic parachute guy. You know, the kind with the strings that always get tangled?” The more of the memory Celia recounted, the more knotted her stomach felt, like she was going to get in trouble, never mind that it had happened decades before. “I remember making up some excuse, thinking it was okay to take it because it was on the wrong shelf or something. I didn’t get caught, but when my mom saw me with it later, she asked where it came from. I lied and told her a neighbor kid gave it to me. I felt so guilty I never played with it.”
“Not bad.”
When Celia saw the grin Niall tossed her way, she felt a little lighter. “Now you.”
“Okay . . . I was on pretty strong antidepressants for about a year.”
“Wow.”
“It was a bad idea. For me, I mean. I know those meds are great for people who really need them, but I just ended up sleeping all the time. It turned out I didn’t need them long term, so after a while my doctor weaned me off them. Your turn.”
How could she compete with something like that? Anything she said would sound childish by comparison. She decided to go for shock value. “When I was eleven, I set fire to my entire wardrobe.”
“You’re a pyro? Sweet!”
“It was just the one time. I was going through this rebellious phase where I didn’t want to be the girly-girl my parents had groomed me to be. I had some notion of being a skateboard punk or something.”
“What happened?”
“No time for details! We’ve only got a few miles left.”
“Just tell me you took the clothes out of your
closet before you set fire to them.”
She laughed loudly, a bubble of happiness expanding in her chest. She’d never told anyone this. “I dragged them all into the backyard and made a big pile. I remember it looked like one giant pink and purple polyester blob. With glitter. They never actually caught on fire—they just kind of smoldered a little. I panicked, stomped them out, buried the ones with actual burn marks in the bottom of the garbage can, and put everything else in the wash.”
“Nice.”
“Your turn. Oh—and exit here.”
“Already?”
“Come on!”
“Aaaggh! Okay! I had a congenital heart defect when I was a baby. I had surgery right after I was born.”
Celia was speechless for a bit. Then she breathed, “That’s massive.”
“I’m fine. No residual effects except for the scar. Which is small, so I just tell everyone I got hurt doing a really cool stunt for a movie.”
“How did you get into acting?”
“Hey, that’s not part of the game. This is sordid secrets, not an interview.”
“Okay, fine! Tell me another one, then. I’m out.”
“Hm. I smell me one o’ them ‘good girls.’ Am I right?”
“Hush up, you. Just because I don’t have a rap sheet a mile long doesn’t make me a Goody Two-shoes.”
“But you didn’t deny it.”
Celia heaved a sigh. “I may have led a quiet life. I may have had a reputation for being . . . respectable.”
“ Excellent.”
“Still waiting for one more sordid secret from you.”
Without missing a beat, Niall supplied, “I lost my virginity when I was thirteen.”
“Jesus! Who with?”
“Never mind that. No time for details. Now, I’m seeing what would be classified as a quaint town down the hill there. Am I in the right place?”
She nodded. “Keep going straight on this road.”
“How much longer?”
“To my parents’ house? About five minutes.”
“Oh, good. Time for another one from you.”
“Really?” But this time she didn’t have to think about what to share. “I cheated on my high school boyfriend—the guy I thought I was going to marry.”
“What happened?” Niall asked softly, with no trace of voyeuristic eagerness.
She hesitated. “It happened while he was at college. He was a year ahead of me and away at school when I was a senior. I was lonely. We broke up a few months later.”
“Did you ever tell him?”
“ No.”
Niall drove down Main Street in the center of Marsden, silently eyeing the long, wide stretch of turn-of-the-twentieth-century brick and stone architecture appreciatively. Celia knew the town made a charming, picturesque first impression, and its attractiveness wasn’t lost on him. When they reached the far end of town, Celia indicated where he should head up into the hills to get to her parents’ house.
After they’d traveled a couple more miles, he ventured, “That thing you said, about cheating on your boyfriend . . . is that why you freaked out when I kissed you?”
She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Maybe. I did a stupid thing when I was young, and it taught me . . . well, cheating is evil.”
Celia pointed out her parents’ rather secluded driveway; Niall turned in and pulled up close to the house. Once he put the car in park, he turned to face her and took a deep breath. “Okay, look. I’m not supposed to tell you this. I could get sued into the next century if it gets out. But I want to. Tell you, I mean. To clear the air. Sharing secrets, right?” he added wryly, one corner of his mouth turning up a bit. He took another breath. “This whole thing with Tiffany—”
Wham, wham, wham! Celia jumped a mile as someone rapped on the car’s frame.
“We thought you were taking the bus!” Her father was leaning into the open window.
“Hey, Dad . . .”
“Well? Come on out of there and give your old man a hug.”
Then everything was a flurry of activity, with car doors slamming, her father smothering her in a tight embrace, her mother bustling out of the house and admonishing her husband to let Celia loose so she could greet her too, both of her parents talking at once, and then, rising above the confusion, a single question.
“And who’s this?”
Celia pulled away from her mother’s hug to see her father staring at Niall, a cautiously neutral expression on his face. Niall immediately came around the Stingray, hand extended.
“Niall, sir. A friend of Celia’s.”
“I see.”
“This is Niall Crenshaw, Dad,” she supplied, waiting for him to realize just whose hand he was on the verge of breaking with his viselike grip. “Niall, this is Alan, my dad, and Wendy, my mom.”
“Uh-huh. Friend, you say?”
Unbelievable. Her father didn’t recognize him. Neither, apparently, did her mother, who stood by, waiting for her turn to shake hands, a mild expression on her face. And they’d seen a few of his movies, if not at the theater, at least on cable. She’d watched at least one with them, she was pretty sure. Celia wondered if she was supposed to fill them in. Or would that be cheesy? Mom, Dad, Niall’s a movie star. Ugh. Definitely cheesy. There was no good way to bring it up. So she didn’t. Besides, she knew from the way her father was eyeing Niall, the only thing he wanted to know about him was just what kind of “friend” they were talking about.
Once Celia’s dad released Niall’s hand, the younger man retrieved her bag from the car while Alan Marshall appraised the vehicle. “Nice machine you got there.”
“Thank you, sir. I enjoy it.”
“What is it, an L-48? L-82?”
“I don’t know, sir. It goes fast.”
Celia’s dad grunted. It was a resounding dismissal. He didn’t have much patience for men who didn’t know their cars.
“Come on inside,” Celia’s mom said, heading for the house.
“You’ve probably both got to pee. I know I do at the end of that long a drive.”
Wincing, Celia glanced over at Niall apologetically.
He hoisted her suitcase and said congenially, “I could pee.”
But she headed him off before he could follow her parents up the drive. “Wait a minute. Finish your thought.”
“I did finish it: I could pee. That’s pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it?”
“Not that! You were just about to tell me something about Tiffany. What about her?”
He shook his head. “Later.”
He tried to move past her, but she put a hand on his chest. He looked down at it. She snatched it away. “You keep saying ‘later.’ What ‘later’?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” He grinned brightly, his wide mouth stretching and curling up at the corners till he looked for all the world like the Grinch hatching an evil plan. “I’m staying.”
Chapter 8
“What?”
“Staying. Here.”
“In Marsden?”
“You sound shocked. Careful—the next thing you say might be in a frequency only dogs can hear.”
“You’re not . . . I mean . . . this isn’t because of me—?”
Niall almost enjoyed watching the fleeting look of panic cross Celia’s lovely face. She always seemed so composed, so in control, that it was a kind of triumph when he could knock her off balance. Like during the photo shoot. And in the closet. But he couldn’t focus on either one of those memories right now, or his thoughts would go traveling down particular carnal paths he wouldn’t be able to tear himself away from easily. And with her parents only a few yards away, no less. That wouldn’t do.
He put on one of his patented rubber-faced expressions of incredulity and exclaimed, “Well, aren’t we full of ourselves, Miss Egopants? Can’t a guy stay in a quaint, dare I say bucolic, village without everyone assuming he’s hanging around because of some woman?”
“Tell me the truth.”
&
nbsp; He was brought up short by the sudden realization that her eyes flashed when she was irate. He could stand there and watch those sparks fly all day, if he let himself. Instead, he came back with, “Okay, if you must know, it has to do with that business we still need to discuss.”
“You expect me to believe that? Five minutes ago, you had no idea Marsden even existed.”
“It wasn’t five minutes, it was five days. Maybe six. Now, I have plans. Plus I love Marsden.”
“And you realized this during a three-minute drive down Main Street?” She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t stay here, at my parents’ house, you know. I’m not even staying here—I’m going to my grandmother’s. And there’s no extra room there.” He wasn’t sure why she was so terrified to have him under the same roof, except maybe she’d figured out it was probably a very, very bad idea that could end up very, very good. If it weren’t for all those pesky family members, of course.
“Did I ask if I could stay with you? Point me toward the nearest five-star hotel and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“We don’t have five-star hotels. This is Marsden, not Manhattan.”
Well, that was a bit of a complication. But he’d get around it somehow.
She crossed her arms and studied him suspiciously. “You’re really going to stay here.”
“I’m really going to stay here.”
“I can’t entertain you. I’m going to be busy with my family.”
“Don’t worry.” He adjusted his grip on her suitcase and walked past her, toward the house. “I won’t have a lot of time on my hands. I’ve got a job.”
From behind him, he heard, “You . . . wha—?” and then hard footsteps tapping on the driveway as she caught up with him. He ducked his head to hide a broad grin. The woman had some comic timing in her.
He didn’t turn around, just went into the garage through the side door, trusting she’d follow. “A job,” he said, his voice echoing off the concrete floor of the three-bay garage, up to the rafters and back down again. “I have one.”
“What job?”
“Ah, that’s classified information for the moment. I have to talk with somebody named Ray before I can go public with the news.”
“Ray? Ray Dubois, Ray?”
