Picture This (2 page)

“F
or God's sake, Marshall, will you relax!”

Celia drew a shaky breath. How in the world had she ended up in this situation? She'd rolled out of bed—well, had been dragged out by the perpetually perky Danny—as usual, expecting a normal, uneventful day fetching and carrying for Vic. Now she was perspiring under hot lights, wearing a famous person's silk boxers, wobbling in sky-high, thousand-dollar shoes, and trying not to topple over onto the very expensive bottle of scotch on the floor, close to her temporarily tattooed leg.

Celia looked down at Niall, reclining at her feet once again, propped up on one elbow as he talked to his agent, who was standing off to one side. She hadn't seen all of his movies, just a select few, but she recalled that somehow, some way, the goofy-looking actor always managed to convey the impression that he was leading-man hot. He was emitting that kind of star quality now. He had that “thing” going on—presence, or whatever it was called—that made him look like he wasn't quite a part of the world around him. He was more vivid, somehow, like a high-definition rendering against an analog backdrop. Everything paled in comparison.

Celia realized she was staring, but she couldn't seem to stop. His smooth, dark brown hair shone under the lights. His body, used to gangly effect on-screen, was lithe and graceful in everyday life. He was actually really attractive, she thought. It wasn't an illusion after all.

And then he looked up at her with his warm hazel eyes and smiled, his generous, wide mouth stretching across his whole face, as though the sight of her was the highlight of his day. Her train of thought, such that it was, jumped the track, tearing up the embankment as it barreled toward a stand of trees in the distance.
Uh-oh.

“You look really good in my boxers.”

And her derailed train went up in a glorious fireball, taking the forest with it.

“Hey,” he whispered, “I'm not embarrassing you or anything, am I?”

“Oh gee!” she whispered back, her voice strained and unnaturally high-pitched. “I can't imagine why you'd think that! This whole thing is so completely . . .”

“What?”

“Humiliating,” she muttered. He shifted on the concrete floor, and she realized she wasn't the only one in a compromising situation. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I mean physically.”

“Well, this floor is kinda hard, but I get to fondle your ankle, and the view is exceptional, so it's all good.”

Celia wondered if her ass-cheeks were showing under the cool silk of the boxers. She had tried wearing her own underwear underneath, but Vic had taken one look at her rear, declared he could see panty lines that couldn't be erased with Photoshop (she doubted it, being handy with the program herself, but she said nothing), and sent her back to the “dressing room” (a couple of portable curtain dividers in the corner) to remove them. Now she had to resist the urge to tug the boxers lower in the back in case any extra part of her anatomy was on display. If she did, she knew Victor would kill her for ruining the carefully arranged drape of the fabric.

“It's a really nice ankle, by the way.” Niall's long, thin fingers grazed her skin lightly, putting her nerve endings on high alert. She shivered, even under the hot lights, her thin wrap cardigan nowhere near the type of armor she was going to need for this.

“Look, Mr. Crenshaw—”

“Oh, call me Niall. Please. If we're going to be intimate—”

“We're
not
being intimate. We're doing a photo shoot.”

“Okay.”

This time his touch was firm; he caressed her ankle, then his hand traveled up her calf.

“Mr.—Niall—”

“Just getting into character.”

“Vic isn't even shooting right now.”

“Prep time. Very important.”

“Look, I—I don't even know you!”

His expressive features took on a puzzled look, exaggerated for effect—arched eyebrows, and a twist of his lips that took his grin from cheerful to are-you-kidding-me bewilderment. “Of course you know me.”

“Well, s-sure, I know your
name
,” Celia stammered, unsure how to explain herself. “And . . . the usual information. Stuff in the press. But that doesn't count. I don't know who you
are.
”

Niall studied her for a moment, his expression clearing to neutral. “Really,” he murmured softly.

Alarm flared through Celia at the sudden change in him, and she worried that she'd angered him in some way. “What?”

“Nothing. Just . . . most people assume they know me really well. Especially the ones who've never met me.”

“Marshall!” Victor bellowed. “Posture!”

She was a little relieved at the interruption. For a moment, Niall had looked like a completely different person, all affectation gone and entirely vulnerable. She wasn't sure she liked what that did to her insides.

“I need a
strong line
, and what I'm getting from you right now is more like a
cooked noodle
!”

“I only looked down for a second.”

“Well, don't. Niall is indeed there, no need to check.”

Oh, she was well aware of that.

“Now, head high, shoulders back, arms rigid, elbows out. Give me attitude, Marshall. Have you got that in you?”

“For a shot of the back of my leg?”

“Do as I tell you,” he drawled. “It'll translate. Niall, if I could have you a little closer to the bottle . . . little more . . . little more . . .”

Celia could feel the heat radiating off Niall's shoulder, which was now rubbing up against her.
Click, click, click
—Victor's camera was going at top speed. Then a pause, and Celia knew her boss was scrolling back through the shots he'd just taken.

“No,” Vic said curtly. “We need something else. And Marshall, you are
still too tense
!”

Couldn't imagine why.

“Hey,” Niall whispered to her again, “let's fool around.”

“Excuse me?” she squeaked.

“With the shoot, you pervert!” Obviously the regularly scheduled Niall was back. “To loosen up.”

“Oh God . . .”

“Come on, it'll be fun. Might get him off your back too. Hey, Vic?” he called. “Mind if we try some things?”

“Go ahead,” the photographer answered wearily. “Couldn't do any harm at this stage.”

To Celia, Niall said, “Okay. Just . . . trust me, all right?”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Get closer to you—with your permission, of course. Okay?”

“ I . . . guess.”

He smiled up at her, and it occurred to Celia that even if this guy was an altar boy at heart (she doubted it, considering what she'd heard about him, but hypothetically speaking), that up-to-no-good expression made him look like he was thinking all sorts of inappropriate things. Maybe it was the way his wide lips went up and then down a little at the corner. Or maybe it was that rogue smile coupled with his expressive eyebrows. Or the wicked glint in his eye. Or everything combined. Wherever it came from, it was making Celia confused and light-headed. And more intrigued than she'd care to admit.

Niall slid closer. “I'm going to touch you now. No wild swings at my head, all right?”

She hesitated. Was he being inappropriate, or was she overreacting ? Didn't matter. This had to happen or Vic would never let her hear the end of it. She nodded down at him.

“Okay. Don't mind me. You just do your thing. That pose Vic told you to hold.”

Nodding again, she tried to stand tall and straight, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do. This way, she had to stare at the backdrop and just go by feel. It was going to drive her crazy. She'd really rather be able to see him, to get a little advance warning about what he was up to.

She propped her hands on her hips again and jutted her elbows out, the way Vic had instructed her. Tall, straight, stiff, confident. Strong line. Attitude. Everything she'd never had. She could dredge that up from somewhere deep inside her, couldn't she? Well, no. But maybe she could fake it.

Hands again. Celia stiffened as Niall touched her leg. Higher this time. Inching up her thigh.

“Niall—”

“Shh. Just go with it. I think Vic likes it.”

She looked down at him. “Yeah, well, he would.”

“Marshall! Line!”

Right. Strong line. She whipped her head back up. Niall's warm body was against her leg, his soft hair feathering her thigh just below the edge of his boxers. She started to giggle.

“Oh, you like that, do you?”

Celia could hear the grin in his voice. “Stop,” she said, laughing. “That tickles.”

“Suck it up, Marshall,” he murmured. “We're not done yet.”

His fingers traced the back of her knee, in tiny circles; now the tickling was deliberate. And insistent. She gave in and laughed out loud. Niall responded by tickling her more. She bent at the waist, twisting sideways to see him, her knees buckling. “Oh my God, stop,” she gasped.

“Are you relaxed now?”

“Stop! Stop!”

He stopped. “As my lady wishes.” As she quickly swiped at her eyes, he said, “Let's try something else, since you're up there and I'm down here.”

“Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to sound suggestive?”

“It's a goal I set for myself.”

“So what now?”

“Let's pose like those cheesy movie posters—you know, strong guy, woman clinging to his leg—”

“Vallejo?”

Niall stopped short. “Uh . . . right. That guy.”

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothing. It's just . . . you knew the reference.”

“I'm not just a pretty calf, you know.”

“I'm figuring that out.”

Now he was looking at her with something more than wickedness in his hazel eyes. It might have been interest. Keen interest.

Feeling her palms start to sweat, Celia decided it was time to tease him a little, get that serious look off his face. “You think you're muscular enough to be a Vallejo character?”

Niall recovered in an instant. “Hey, you're the strong one in this scenario. Now
flex
those glutes!” Celia laughed again. “That's more like it.”

“All of this, just to get me to relax?”

“Whatever it takes.”

Celia shook her head, incredulous, and struck her pose. Niall sat up straighter, wrapped his arm around her thigh, and ran his other hand up and down her calf where the tightness of the fake tattoo tugged at her skin. As if from very far away, she could hear Vic's camera working.
Click, click, click.
Her stomach was still in knots, but she found herself smiling. Her smile broadened when she heard everyone in the room laughing. She wondered what faces Niall was pulling. She wished she could see. What she
didn't
wish for, she was surprised to realize, was to be in the shadows with everyone else. At the moment, Celia liked where she was—in the spotlight. As long as she was in Niall's confident hands.

 

“So, what's your story? Where are you from?”

“Hm. More original than ‘Do you come here often?' but not by much.”

The formal photo shoot was over, but apparently the comedian was still in a photo-taking mood. He mashed his temple against Celia's and held his phone up to take a self ie of the two of them. At least a dozen people—sales reps from the ad agency, McManus bigwigs—hovered on the periphery, clearly dying to approach Niall. He kept them at bay simply by refusing to acknowledge they were there. It was like he'd erected a force field—and Niall and Celia were the only ones on the inside. It was an impressive feat.

After the cell phone camera clicked, Celia, emboldened by how well the shoot had gone, grabbed the phone from him. “Let me see. What the . . . Hey! This is just you!”

He took the phone back. “Is it?” He gasped. “How did that happen?”

Celia laughed. “Shut up. Take another one.”

“All right,” he grumbled, acting put out. As he put his arm around her shoulders and pressed his head against hers again, he repeated his question. “Where are you from, then? Answer me, woman.”

“Why do you care?” She paused to smile, and he pushed the button. “What, I don't look like a New York City native?”

Niall took a step back and looked her up and down. When he studied her so intently like that, it was all Celia could do to remain casual. “Hell no. You're not ballsy enough.”

“That's a detriment?”

Niall just smirked and handed her his phone. “Give me your contact info and I'll send you these.”

Celia hesitated, openmouthed. Then she clamped her lips shut and began typing quickly, not allowing herself to wonder if he wanted her contact information for more than just sending her the photo.
Don't
't
think that way
, she ordered herself.
It's just a photo.

As she finished entering her name and phone number, the phone chirped with an incoming text. She handed it back.

“ 'Scuse me,” he said, read the text, and typed a reply. When he was done, he looked up and tried a third time. “So? Where?”

“Aren't you persistent. Okay, I'm from a little town called Marsden. Upstate. Bet you've never heard of it.”

He held up a finger and his mouth fell open. “Hey, you know—!” Then, “No, you're right. Never heard of it.”

Celia smiled. “Not surprising.”

“It's a dump?”

“No! It's very . . . quaint.”

Niall shuddered. “Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, I like it there.”

“So much that you left?”

She started to answer, but he was distracted by another text. When he was finished responding to that one, she said, “My turn for a question now. I hope you don't mind my asking, but . . . why did you do this endorsement? I mean”—she rushed on as he frowned a little—“it doesn't really seem like . . . your sort of thing.”