Picture This (8 page)

E
ntering hour three of the drive to Marsden, Celia tried to stretch her legs and wake up her rather numb butt cheeks. Niall had said he wanted to talk, and there had been plenty of that. Trouble was, it wasn't with her. He'd been on the phone nonstop since they'd hit the road in earnest, first with someone she assumed was his agent, then with someone named Trent, whom she deduced was some sort of assistant, then with his agent again. And then Trent again after that.

Celia tried not to eavesdrop, but she was curious about his current crises—proving the lie about his being able to relegate his celebrity to a box that he could seal up at will. She hadn't believed him when he'd said it, and a good thing too. From what she could discern, he was rescheduling meetings for his next film, emphasizing that he still wanted to be an integral part of the planning process because his last few movies had been more out of his control than he wished. She admired his conviction to get a tighter grip on his career.

Then there was some talk about trying to get Naomi some help, which was also admirable. She'd been paying way too much attention to Niall recently, including texting him repeatedly in the middle of the night (though not with any incriminating photos, thank goodness). It seemed the girl didn't have much support from her family, so Niall asked his agent to have her managers talk some sense into her. If, Niall complained, her parents had behaved like grownups, starting when Naomi was a little kid doing cereal commercials, instead of just spending the money she earned, she wouldn't have been so desperate for attention. And she wouldn't have misinterpreted his big brotherly intentions as something more.

Once that round of conversations was over with and Niall seemed satisfied with the results, he immediately called Trent
again
, to remind him he needed to have certain e-mails forwarded to him ASAP.

Honestly, she didn't know what to make of him. Here he was, driving for hours to deliver her to her hometown, conducting his business on the way. All on his own, no bodyguard, no PR flack, no agent. What kind of celebrity did that? This kind, apparently. She remembered how vehemently he denied having a posse, how negative he was about his own raucous party. His behavior certainly was . . . unusual. Not what she was expecting. Still, she didn't know much about him yet; she'd have to wait for him to reveal his true colors, whatever they were. Probably lots of blinding red and outrageously rich purple. Mixed.

Celia tipped her head back and closed her eyes. She was so tired; concern for her grandmother had robbed her of a decent night's sleep. Celia wondered just how bad Gran was—whether her dad was exaggerating the problem and just wanted her there for moral support. Or so he and her mother could chuck it all at Celia and not have to deal with it, which was more their speed. All she could do was get back to Marsden as quickly as possible and assess the situation for herself. And hope she still had a life to get back to in New York once everything was settled at home.

They'd driven out of the cloud cover, and sun was streaming into the passenger's side window. She turned her face to it, a sunbeam hot on her eyelids, and drifted off a little . . .

“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.