by Jayne Denker
Celia shook her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve got the competition—”
“Who cares!” he burst out. He wanted to shout that the competition didn’t matter, but he’d learned his lesson about disparaging this thing in front of Marsden residents. So instead he said, “Ray can handle it. This is more important.”
“She’s got plenty of people who can help her, movie star,” George said. “A whole town’s worth. That’s not the problem. She is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Celia doesn’t know how to accept help. She doesn’t know how to say no. She doesn’t know how to protect herself. People ask her to do things, and she always says yes, even if she gets spread so thin she disappears.”
“I can hear you, George,” Celia said wearily.
“Then . . .” He studied the slight woman lying next to him; she definitely looked a bit ghostlike. “Don’t do the contest. We’ll get somebody else to take photos.”
Celia rolled her eyes and growled a little, startling Niall.
“What’d I say?”
“She wants to take those photos,” George said for her friend. “But it’s the first thing she’d give up, even if it makes her miserable.”
“Is that true?” Niall asked Celia.
In a plodding voice, she said, as if it were something she’d been forced to memorize, “Photography is a hobby for my free time, and I don’t have any at the moment.”
“And that,” George grumbled, “is Celia quoting from the Book of Alan Marshall. Who has always been a dick about Celia’s interests.”
“You want to do this. Professionally,” Niall deduced, studying Celia closely. “Of course being Vic’s assistant isn’t enough. You’ve got more in you than that.”
“Apparently it doesn’t matter what I want. But don’t worry—like George said, this is nothing new. I can handle it.”
She was hurting, but she was angry too—he could feel both emotions radiating from her, so strongly that they were practically seeping into his own skin from mere contact with her.
“All of it?” George snorted. “You’re going to spontaneously combust.”
“I said I can handle it,” Celia snapped, but she kept her eyes closed against her two friends watching her so closely, trying to assess how frayed her edges really were.
“Okay, so then,” Niall said loudly, over the hoots from everyone at the dining room table, “then Mr. D’s wife—what’s her name, again?”
“Therese,” Casey, George, and Jaz supplied at the same time. Sera, George’s sister and Jaz’s wife, would likely have chimed in as well, but she was busy moving the wine bottle farther away from Amelia’s reach. Maybe it was the brilliantly colorful Bully Hill label, but something about it had fascinated the child, and she’d been trying to get hold of it all night.
“Right. So Therese comes barreling in from I don’t know where, shouting, ‘Rachel Dwyer, if you so much as lay one hand on my husband, I will gut you like a flounder!’ Rachel starts shouting back that she isn’t interested in her husband, and the wife says, ‘Well, why aren’t you?’ Then,” he said, even louder, because by now the entire dinner party was roaring at the thought of Mr. D’Annunzio’s wife threatening his singing partner, “she pokes Ray in the chest and starts flaying him alive for partnering them up in the first place, accusing him of trying to break up their marriage.”
“I think Ray might be regretting this whole competition thing right about now,” Casey said, standing to uncork a fresh bottle of wine and refill everyone’s glasses.
“Oh, that’s not the half of it,” Niall went on, with a quick glance at Celia. He’d been working hard for the better part of an hour, trying to lift her spirits with stories from the rehearsal she’d missed that day. “After Mr. D and Rachel were done, it was Brianna and Alice’s turn, but . . . no Alice.”
“Of course not,” Jaz said, running her fingers over her daughter’s head, her dark skin a rich contrast to Amelia’s wispy blond curls, until Amelia grabbed her mother’s hand and gnawed on her index finger for no reason. “Alice just won eight thousand dollars in the state lottery—she asked me about taxes on it.”
“Where’d she get the ticket?” Sera asked immediately.
“Whalen.”
“Dammit. Still not setting foot there, not even for a shot at winning the lottery.”
“So she just dropped everything and took off for Jamaica—said it was her dream vacation. Three weeks, I think.”
“Well, good for her, but that means Brianna doesn’t have a partner. Ray even said he’d be her partner just to keep her in this, which is totally stupid.” Niall turned to Celia. “The chaos continues. I could go on all night.” He was prepared to, if that was what it would take to get a smile out of her. So far he’d partially succeeded, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough.
He watched her toy with the stem of her wine glass, and he just wanted to grab her hand, twine those delicate fingers in his, and kiss the inside of her wrist. God, he was pathetic. But there was no denying that the one thing he wanted more than anything was to help her, in any way possible. Whatever it took.
“Will you look at this bunch of winos! I have never seen the like!”
Niall could have sworn the chandelier trembled at the powerful force of this new voice. George and Jaz jumped up and threw themselves at a mountain of a man filling the doorway of the dining room. Even Celia genuinely lit up for the first time, irking Niall. Who was this guy who could accomplish in two seconds what he hadn’t been able to do all night?
The stranger pushed his way into the room, George and Jaz hanging off him. When the two women let go of him, he bro-hugged Casey with a firm back slap, then rested one large palm on the top of Sera’s head, the other on Amelia’s.
Sera immediately shook him off, but she was smiling. “Darryl, you bastard. Where the hell have you been?”
While he hugged Celia, Darryl answered, “Damn, woman. Can’t a guy go off on a romantic weekend in the mountains with the love of his life?”
“It’s been a week and a half longer than that.”
“Yeah, well, Joe and I got carried away. Young love and all that. So sue me.” Then he stopped short, speechless at the sight of the famous Niall Crenshaw. He shook his head once, as if to clear the hallucination. When Niall didn’t disappear, Darryl mumbled, “Dude.”
Niall stiffened, afraid the next word out of Darryl’s mouth was going to be “bananas.” To prevent that, he got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Hey. Darryl, is it? Niall Crenshaw.”
Darryl gaped as he shook Niall’s hand, then looked around the table. “For me? You shouldn’t have!”
“No, not for you, stupid,” Sera snapped, and her daughter echoed “Toopid!” She explained to Niall, “This is Darryl Sykes. He’s been in love with you for years.”
“I have,” Darryl admitted, not embarrassed in the slightest.
“Well, you can’t have him,” George said. “Celia’s got dibs.”
Celia gasped and shot George as evil a look as the sweet girl could muster, which George soundly ignored.
“Wait. What, now?” Darryl asked, still holding Niall’s hand. Niall slipped out of his grip gently while the big guy was distracted, because Darryl showed no inclination to let go.
George took a deep breath and rattled off, “Okay, here’s what you missed: Ray’s got a cockamamie singing competition thing going at the arts center—”
“Wait. What?” Darryl said again, more forcefully this time.
“Singing competition. Arts center,” George repeated. “Niall is hosting—star power to draw the crowds.”
“That son of a bitch!”
Everyone froze. Eventually Niall asked hesitantly, “Me?”
“No, no!” Darryl said hurriedly. “You, I love.”
“Good to know.”
“I mean Ray, that bastard.”
“What did he do now?” Sera asked, one eyebrow raised.
“The singing co
mpetition. Duets, right? That was my idea!”
“He’s calling it Night of the Shooting Stars.”
“Stupid name. Still my idea. Son of a bitch,” Darryl muttered again. “What a thief. I’m never sharing ideas with him ever again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hooked me and Joe up with that cabin just to get me out of the way.”
“That’s only a little paranoid of you,” Casey said with a grin.
“This is Ray we’re talking about.”
“Well, wherever it came from, he’s doing it,” George said. “It’s Nestor and Mrs. P, Rachel Dwyer and Mr. D, Nora and Laurie—we know, we know—and Brianna, who just got ditched by Alice Dermody, who won the lottery and took off to Jamaica. Nate hates the idea of his daughter competing and wants to pull her out of it entirely anyway.” She took another breath. “I think that’s everything.”
Darryl dropped into the extra chair Casey had drawn up to the table for him. Looking thoughtful, he popped a leftover salt potato into his mouth, took a swig of wine from the glass George handed him, chewed, swallowed, and then declared, “I think I’d like to be a part of this.”
“Too late,” Celia said. “Rehearsals have already started.”
“So what? I’ll be Brianna’s partner. I always liked that kid.”
Chapter 21
“So you think Ray will go for Darryl joining the competition?” Niall asked, following Celia into the kitchen with a stack of dishes.
“He might not have a choice,” she said over her shoulder. “Darryl can be pretty . . . persuasive. I wouldn’t put it past him to threaten to tell the whole town Ray stole his idea. For leverage. Ray wouldn’t want that to get out—he’s always so proud of being an entrepreneurial genius with a thousand original, creative ideas. Nate would use something like that against him for years.”
Niall shook his head, amused. “Ah, Ray. Making friends and influencing people wherever he goes. And what’s with the Nate and Ray thing? I know you said nobody remembers what started the feud between them, but this sounds pretty huge.”
Celia set her stack of dishes in the sink, then turned to him, resting the heels of her hands on the edge of the counter. “It is. My dad was in school with both of them, and from what he recalls, they were friends for years, and then all of a sudden they weren’t. That’s all he’ll say. I can’t tell if he doesn’t know any more than that, or if he knows but isn’t telling, because of the Guy Code.”
“Which side is your father on?”
“Mm, neither,” she said as Niall put the dishes he was carrying on the counter, then leaned on his elbow, all his attention on Celia. “But he really doesn’t like Ray, so I guess if he had to take sides, he’d choose Nate.”
“Why do I think your father’s choice of sides has something to do with wind farms?”
Celia couldn’t help but smile. “Now you’re thinking like a Mars-dinian.”
“Well, isn’t that frightening.” He straightened up and took a step toward her, and Celia felt her heartbeat pick up, although she tried to ensure that outwardly she appeared calm. “How are you doing?” he asked seriously.
“Better.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“If there is anything I can do—”
“Keep the foot massages coming?”
Another inch closer. “I can do that. Among other things.”
“Filthy mind.”
“Who’s got the filthy mind? I was going to say I could talk to your dad—”
“Don’t get into that mess, Niall.”
“I would, if it would help you.” His phone pinged and he hesitated, then reluctantly drew it out of his pocket. “Sorry. I’ve got some stuff going on.”
When didn’t he? Celia wondered, then immediately regretted feeling bitter. Niall had been wonderful all evening; she really had no reason to get upset when his real life demanded his attention. She wanted to walk away, back to the dining room, to show she didn’t care what was going on in his life, but she couldn’t. Her feet wouldn’t move. She watched him read a text, his eyes darting about the screen as he scrolled. When he got to the end of the message, he let out a little triumphant “Yes!”
“Good news?” she asked, although the answer was pretty obvious from his reaction.
When he looked at her again, he was absolutely alight. “The best,” he declared, that sexy, warm voice flowing over her, making her skin tingle.
Then he took the one final step that closed the gap between them. Before Celia knew what was happening, he’d wrapped both arms around her and drawn her tight to him. She stiffened, shocked at the feeling of his warm, hard body pressing against her. He was holding her. Unapologetically. Promises forgotten, balloon chaperones nowhere in sight. Anything from his past, or his present—or hers—simply vanished. There was nothing in the world except the two of them. Then his mouth was on hers—soft yet insistent. Then harder, deeper.
It took a moment for her brain to catch up. He was kissing her. And she was letting him. She knew she should push him away. She couldn’t have him. Whatever was happening was wrong, inappropriate, temporary . . . but so right. She let her hands, which she’d been holding awkwardly in the air, close around the back of his neck, and her fingers sank into his silky hair. He groaned at her touch, and his response only made her kiss him back even more deeply.
A small sound of her own erupted from her, and his strong arms tightened around her, fusing her to him. She couldn’t get close enough to Niall to satisfy her sudden need to devour every inch of him. No, not sudden. She’d been feeling this for a long time. Ever since the photo shoot, when he’d reduced her to a quivering bundle of need—physical, emotional—simply by touching her ankle. Making her laugh. Gazing hungrily at her with his warm eyes. Then . . . then he’d walked away, with . . .
With a massive effort, Celia pulled back. Tearing her mouth from his, she kept him at bay by placing her hands on his chest as she ducked her head and shut her eyes.
“Niall . . .” Her voice was husky, her breath ragged. God, what he did to her.
“No.”
She looked up, met his haunted gaze. “What?”
“No. No, you can’t. No.” He sounded more torn apart than she did. Looked it, too.
“Tiffany—”
“She just broke up with me. That text just now. We’re done.”
Now Celia pushed him away with renewed strength. “Your girlfriend just dumped you by text? And the first thing you think to do is grab the nearest woman and kiss her like . . . like that? What’s wrong with you?”
Niall took a step back and raked his fingers through his hair. “Shit. I knew you’d think that.”
“Well? What am I supposed to think? Your girlfriend just broke up with you! Why aren’t you upset? Why aren’t you calling her to try to find out what’s going on? Why aren’t you trying to—”
“What?”
“Why aren’t you trying to work it out?” she whispered, horrified. “What makes you think you can just move on in the blink of an eye?”
“Will you let me explain?”
“No!” she choked out, and it came out as a strangled cry. “You don’t just grab the next girl without thinking. You should be talking to your wife—” She caught herself, but it was too late. The Freudian slip to end all Freudian slips. Apparently she’d lied to her grandmother, lied to Ray, lied to herself. She wasn’t at peace with her past, was she? She tried to pretend she was, and then it came bursting out at the most inappropriate moments. “Dammit,” she whispered ferociously, wobbling slightly, steadying herself with a hand on the countertop.
“Celia . . .”
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “I—I just want to go home, Niall. It’s been a long day.”
“I can—”
“No.” She put up a hand—to what? Hold him off? Keep him at a distance? Was that what she really wanted? She couldn’t—wait, wouldn’t—answer that. Because she knew she wouldn’t like the answer. “You stay here.�
�
Because Celia was in the backseat of Sera and Jaz’s hulking van, sitting next to Amelia and making faces at the little girl, she didn’t see the headlights flashing behind them. Then again, even if she had been able to catch a glimpse of the traffic around them (as little as there was), the signal might not have registered in her addled cranium.
It was only minutes ago, back at the inn, that she’d somehow managed to walk away from Niall, rejoin the group, and act like she hadn’t just been kissed within an inch of her life. Hadn’t just had her soul laid bare. Hadn’t just lost all feeling from the knees down. Her voice hadn’t sounded frayed at the edges when she’d asked Sera and Jaz for a lift home. She’d sedately said her good-byes, thanked George and Casey for dinner, hugged Darryl and welcomed him home once again.
No, only Niall knew the state he’d left her in. So she shouldn’t have been surprised to find out he’d come after her.
“What the . . .” Sera muttered from behind the wheel, peering at her side mirror.
“What’s going on?” Celia asked, leaning as far forward between the two front seats as her seat belt would allow.
“Cops don’t flash their headlights, do they?”
“Only cop impersonators, who pull you over and then murder you in cold blood,” Jaz supplied.
Sera laughed. “You have a sick, sick mind sometimes.”
“And that’s just one of the things you love about me. Go on, pull over. There are three of us. We can take him.”
Sera slowed down, and the car passed her, its taillights flashing as the driver tapped the brakes. Celia knew those four round taillights.
“Oh shit. Sorry. Shoot.”
“Ah, forget it,” Sera said. “Amelia’s a lost cause.”
As if to confirm that, the little girl started exclaiming from her perch in her car seat, “S’it! S’it! S’it!”
“It’s probably just one of the tourists being a dick,” Sera grunted.
“No, it isn’t.”
“What’s going on, honey?” Jaz asked Celia.
