by Jayne Denker
She’d had a very bad start to her day, after all, and ever since she’d been trying to clear her head by continuing her work from the day before, cleaning up her grandmother’s yard and garden. Holly wasn’t able to do much on her own, since she had terrible allergies and had to pop a handful of pills to spend any amount of time outside, so Celia took over. She’d expended every ounce of energy she had fertilizing and trimming and filling in holes and weeding, collecting vegetables from the garden and tidying up the flower beds. Physical exhaustion would keep her mind off . . . everything else. Hadn’t worked, though. Even after all that, she was still out of sorts, and her temper felt like it was on a hair trigger. All because of Niall.
Hadn’t she said it, straight out, only the day before? Don’t let Ray down. Yes, she damn well had. She’d looked Niall Crenshaw in the eye—actually both of those clever, intelligent, lively hazel eyes—and told him, in no uncertain terms, not to screw things up with Ray.
And he’d gone and done it already.
And now here he was, in person, destroying even the tiny modicum of peace of mind she’d managed to convince herself she’d achieved. Yep—paff—there it went on the evening breeze, with some stray rose petals and dandelion fluff.
She allowed herself a quick, sidelong glance at him. Big mistake. He was looking ridiculously sexy, in a crisp white tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and narrow, weathered gray jeans that made him look all leg and even taller than usual. But his looking good didn’t change things. Not in the least.
Keeping her eyes on the rosebushes she was pruning, and ignoring the thrumming through her veins that single glimpse of him had incited, she muttered as casually as she could, “Hey, yourself.”
“I almost didn’t check the yard—the house was quiet, and the car was gone. The front door was open, though. I got—”
She cut him off. “Worried? Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”
“No, just . . . leaving doors open . . . is that, you know, common around here?”
“Are we Marsden natives too stupid to lock our doors, you mean?”
“What? No!”
Celia, wedged between the rosebushes and the side fence, turned in the tight space with difficulty. Not fussy about making a pleasing display, Holly was a live-and-let-sprawl kind of gardener. She plopped stuff in the soil, and that was about it. If it lived, great; if it died . . . well, she’d been known to leave dead plants in her garden as a warning to the others. Gran’s rosebushes were particularly intimidating—huge, wild, and unwieldy—so Celia had just charged in and started hacking. Pruning the rosebushes . . . that should have calmed her down. After all, deadheading was a simultaneously violent and soothing activity. But judging from the way she was reacting to Niall now, it was a lost cause.
Celia made a skeptical sound and hacked at the bush with zeal. It was either that or take the pruning shears to Niall Crenshaw’s most treasured bits of anatomy.
She’d barely poured her first cup of coffee that morning when her grandmother’s phone had rung, a fritzing Ray on the other end of the line demanding she produce a missing Niall. As if she knew where the guy was at all times. As if she had him stashed under her bed. (She refused to entertain the thought of having him stashed in her bed. Not going there. Nope.) Ray had scheduled a meeting with Niall to strategize before Friday’s auditions, but the celebrity hadn’t shown up, was nowhere to be found, and wasn’t answering his cell. Ray had called the inn, and Casey had told him Niall had gone out surprisingly early.
Where could Niall have disappeared to? He hadn’t even been in town seventy-two hours yet. Of course, knowing him, he could have racked up a few options already. She tried not to think of what those “options” were (or guess their names). Although she’d eventually gotten the point across to Ray that she didn’t know anything about Niall’s absence, he hadn’t sounded fully convinced. Feeling the threads that anchored her normally calm demeanor snap, one by one, she’d pretty much hung up on him. She’d been fuming ever since.
Niall watched her whack away for a few moments, then said dryly, “Bad day?”
“Nope,” she snapped, still focusing on the flowers. “Everything’s been just dandy.”
“Really.”
Whack. “Yep.” Whack, whack. She flung another clump of roses—most of them dead, anyway—into the barrel.
“Celia?”
“Mm?” Whack, whack.
“Is something wrong?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re going to turn that perfectly healthy rosebush into a stump any minute now.”
This rootless rage she’d been keeping at bay all day, which was bubbling up again, alarmed her. It wasn’t like her—not at all. She was calm, level-headed Celia Marshall. Always. She didn’t get angry, and she certainly didn’t lash out at unsuspecting rosebushes. She never needed an outlet for her aggression, because she had no aggression. Not usually.
Well, somebody hand the movie star a trophy, because he’d managed to rile her up like she hadn’t been riled in years.
She wanted to say something, but what? Where were you? She’d sound like a suspicious housewife. And that was something she wasn’t going to be . . . ever again.
All she said was, “I heard from Ray this morning.” She snuck another glance at him, to see if she’d surprised him. She was looking for a bit of shame in his eyes, maybe.
But Niall was unfazed. “Yeah, he mentioned it. I talked to him about an hour ago.”
“Apparently he was expecting you earlier.”
“I had some business to take care of out of town, so I had to leave first thing this morning. I left him a voice mail last night, but he said he didn’t get it.”
That much was believable; Ray never could get the hang of voice mail, trusted his smartphone about as much as if it were an alien probe. Niall probably was telling the truth. It didn’t make everything all right, though. Not for her.
She found a nice, long branch that was quite undeniably dead. She struggled with it, bending it toward the ground so she could cut it off at the base. Spent rose petals, brilliant pink, fluttered to the ground by the dozens, some of them dusting her shoulders and hair on their way down. She shook them off. Bend. Whack. Yank. “So your ‘business’ was more important than Ray’s.”
Niall looked grim; when he pressed his lips together like that, it revealed a dimple in the middle of his chin. Under any other circumstances, Celia would have thought that little discovery adorable, but not today. She nearly stabbed him with the thorny branch as she threw it toward the barrel. He dodged it.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Something else came up, and you bailed on Ray. Seems pretty clear to me.”
He frowned. “That’s not—”
“Sure it is,” she said, not looking at him again. She was braver when she wasn’t looking directly at him, felt more comfortable speaking her mind. And speak her mind she would, even though the practice was foreign to her. “Evidently Marsden’s silly little singing competition doesn’t rate. You can blow it off. You don’t have to take it seriously.” Did he take anything seriously?
“I am taking it—”
“You seemed to be pretty darn amused by the whole thing in the diner yesterday.”
Niall’s frown turned into an outright glower, and he said, in a tight voice, “Hey, I honor my commitments. I postponed Ray for one day, and I gave him enough advance notice and offered a couple of different times to reschedule. You seem to be angrier about it than he was. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Celia stilled, staring at the rosebush. There was nothing more to cut. Niall was right—it was well on its way to being a stump, thanks to her ruthless gardening. And then Niall moved. Two strides of his long legs brought him close enough to nearly pin her against the fence. In such cramped quarters, it was easy for him to take the pruning shears out of her hand. His hazel eyes, darker than usual, raked o
ver her, as though he thought he could find an explanation for her mood in her features.
“You’re upset, but I don’t know why. What’s going on?” he murmured, far more compassionate than he should have been, considering the way she’d been sniping at him. “Is it just this thing with Ray? Or is it something with your grandmother?”
Celia let out a dry, cynical laugh. “Well, there’s always something with my grandmother.”
“Like . . . ?”
“Um, how about she went hang gliding with her boyfriend, Mac, today?”
“What?”
“I know, right?”
“Can she even do that?”
Celia shrugged. “Apparently so. She said she and this Mac guy both had a clean bill of health and were cleared to do it. She left bright and early this morning to pick him up—he lives in Whalen.” Celia was gratified to see Niall wince. “And off she went. Said she’d be back by dinnertime. I think she meant tonight, but who knows, with her?”
“Wow.”
“She’s turning my hair gray, I swear.”
Niall smiled, but Celia noticed dark circles under his eyes. He looked wrung out, and she wondered what he’d been doing all day.
“What about you? Are you okay?” she murmured.
“Yeah.”
“Sleeping all right?”
He glanced away and laughed a little. “No. Damned crickets.”
“Crickets are keeping you awake?”
“Among other things,” he said, with a significant look at her.
Celia felt her knees go watery. His mere presence muddled her senses. And when Niall looked at her in just that way, like he was searching for the burden so he could lift it from her, she started to feel better. She wanted to resist, but how could she? No man had looked at her that way in years.
She glanced down quickly, feeling that familiar blush heating her cheeks, but then let her gaze travel up to his face, and she wobbled just a little. It was like standing at the top of a mountain, a sheer drop-off right at her feet. He made her dizzy, made her feel like she could take a fatal tumble with one misstep. She didn’t know if the deciding step would be the very next one, or the one after that. But she knew it would happen, sooner or later.
Celia took the pruning shears back and tossed them past him, onto the lawn, then pulled off the worn, dirty gardening gloves and threw them in the same general direction. “Have you had dinner yet?” she asked quietly.
Chapter 14
Something uncoiled in Niall as he watched the fight go out of Celia. He was glad to see her shoulders drop a fraction. That was as close as she’d ever come to losing control and letting her emotions take over. Interesting that the woman had some inner fire, even if it was directed at him.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came by to see if you wanted to get something to eat. George and Casey keep talking about this place—nothing much to look at, but has great ice cream?”
“Lix,” she said immediately. “Just outside of town, by the softball fields.”
He was aware that he was still boxing her in among the rosebushes, but he wasn’t inclined to let her out. He’d keep her this close all day—and all night—if only he could. The scent from the blossoms was making his head foggy. At least, he assumed it was the roses.
“That’s the place,” he rasped, forcing himself not to run his fingertips over her bare arm or toy with the sweat-dampened tendrils of hair curling at the base of her neck, under her ponytail. “Interested?”
“Sure,” she said, and her voice sounded as shaky as his. “But you’ll have to let me out of this corner.”
He blinked. “Right.” He took half a step back.
A small smile stole across her lips. “Um, a little more? Don’t let me get too close. I’m all sweaty.” Celia seemed to know what he was thinking just as it crossed his mind—And what’s so bad about that?—because she added quickly, “And smelly.”
Smelly? he thought as he tripped backward into the grass. Not a chance. He caught a trace of Celia’s scent as she slipped past him—sun-warmed skin and grass and musk and . . . dammit, she carried the scent of roses with her. His head was buzzing as he followed her across the lawn and in through the back door, keeping close so he could catch another hint of it.
“We could stay here,” she offered, looking around the kitchen. “Gran should be back soon.”
Staying in? The two of them alone. In an empty house. It was tempting. So very tempting. The memory of kissing Celia in the closet nearly overwhelmed him. He wanted more of that. Before he could stop it, his imagination kicked into overdrive. Up against the wall. On the kitchen table. In the hallway. On the sofa. On the stairs because he wouldn’t be able to wait long enough to get her up one flight and into a proper bed.
Stop.
Besides, her grandmother was going to be home any minute. She’d just said as much.
He swallowed, with difficulty, and said, “Sure. I’d like to meet your grandmother.”
“It wouldn’t be anything fancy. Gran hardly ever sets foot in the kitchen. I don’t know what’s in her freezer besides ice for her drinks.”
“I thought you baked cookies together.”
“Well, yeah—the dough in the tube. Half of it never made it into the oven.”
“Your grandmother let you eat raw cookie dough?”
“While teaching me how to play Texas hold ’em. She’s . . . not your typical grandmother.”
“You don’t say.”
“I should get cleaned up.” Celia made for the stairs. “I’ll just be a few minutes. Make yourself at home.”
“I, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ve got to check in with my assistant. Take your time.”
Trying valiantly not to think of Celia shedding her clothes on the second floor—which only made him think of Celia shedding her clothes on the second floor—Niall paced in the small living room as he texted Trent.
Well?
After a moment his assistant texted back. Leave me alone. It’s dinnertime.
You’re fired.
Ha ha. Ask me how my day went.
Don’t care. Hear anything back from the lawyers?
You’re a lousy lord and master. You need to take more interest in your minion.
I am interested. Lawyers—>Tiffany—>my freedom—>my happiness—>your happiness. Trickle down.
Okay, okay. No need for loophole in contract. Word is Tiffany wants out too.
Niall’s heart leapt. Excellent.
Still waiting to confirm, but her agent says she might sign off on this if you do.
Oh, I do. I will. Whatever. What’s next?
Will let you know. Making progress w/ Ms. Hottie Not-A-Model?
I would, if you’d freaking get me out of the thing with Tiffany.
Always back to me, isn’t it?
You noticed that too? No pressure, now. Just hurry up.
Heard that song before. All right. Will contact you w/ next steps.
Better be soon. Can’t hold out much longer.
*Rowr.*
Gotta go, smart-ass.
To do what exactly?
Having dinner with her grandmother.
Nothing from Trent for a few moments. Then, Ho. Ly. Shit. Schmoozing the grandma? Is it LOVE?
1) Shut up. 2) Lawyers. 3) Shut up. Checking back later. Have answers.
Then Niall was left alone with his thoughts, which immediately reverted to Celia, and what, exactly, she was doing on the second floor. Luckily his imagination wasn’t allowed to get too far along; there were thumps and bumps, and then she came down the stairs again in a fresh pair of shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt with a distressingly low scoop neck. Or maybe anything short of a shapeless sack that tied under her chin would have been distressing to him. Her long hair was still damp from her shower, a few strands at her temples twisted neatly and secured at the back with a clip.
And it happened again. Niall forgot how to breathe. He realized, dimly, that he was probabl
y staring at her like a halfwit, because she avoided looking into his eyes again.
Nervously toying with her hair as she glanced around the room, she said, “Look . . . I’m sorry about . . . earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I want to apologize. I can be really protective of my friends, and sometimes it makes me quick to take offense.”
“So you’re loyal. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plus you’re under a lot of stress right now, so . . .”
“Stop making excuses for me!” she insisted testily, but a shy smile escaped her. “I don’t deserve it.”
“I disagree,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, so he went on. “Seriously. We’re good. Okay?”
“Okay.” There was a moment’s heavy silence, then she gestured awkwardly toward the kitchen. “I . . . should . . .” And she hurried in that direction. When she realized Niall was following her, she asked over her shoulder, “How are things back in New York?”
“Coming along.”
“Your next movie?”
Oh God, the next movie. Thank goodness the script was still being written—well, rewritten. Otherwise he’d never have had the time to do Night of Shooting the Stars. He stopped his thoughts. Night of the Shooting Stars. That was its real name, and he had to start using it. Celia had been right—making that type of joke, and laughing at Ray in the diner, was disrespectful. Ray, and all her other friends and neighbors, were real people, not the butt of his jokes.
“It’s in preproduction,” he answered, leaning against the counter as she rooted around in the freezer.
“Was that what you were working on today?”
Niall hesitated. All he said was, “No.”
The word hung there between them. Celia obviously was expecting more of an answer, but he wasn’t going to give her one. His business today was just that—his business. He wasn’t even going to try to start explaining it to anyone, not even her. He’d kept it to himself for this long, and that’s the way it was going to stay.
