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he was checking the lighting or his cameras’ settings or was just bored, waiting for Celia to calm the hell down and pose. And then there were the ones taken while they had been goofing around . . . He hurriedly flicked through the photos until he got to those, then scrolled through them very slowly, examining each one.
    â€œThere we go,” Niall murmured with satisfaction.
    â€œWhat?” Trent asked absently, eyes still on his agenda.
    Crap. Had he said that out loud? “Nothing. Go on.”
    Trent resumed droning about Niall’s upcoming schedule, and Niall immediately tuned out again. He was loving the candids. He had put in a strong suggestion that McManus use one of those instead, have a little fun with the ad campaign, but he doubted they’d listen to him. He was just the talent, after all. Just the famous person on display to influence scotch drinkers: “Oh hey, if McManus is good enough for Niall Crenshaw, it’s good enough for me. A few drinks and I’ll be as funny as he is.”
    He scrolled through more photos. There was Celia leaning over and laughing while he tickled her behind her knee—God, she had a great smile. There he was, pretending to gnaw on her leg, tying his bow tie around her thigh like a garter . . . gazing up at her adoringly when she wasn’t looking.
    A strange, squirmy feeling hit him in the gut all of a sudden, and he was pretty sure it was stemming from the overwhelming urge to touch that leg again. At the very least.
    â€œNiall? Niall!”
    He shook himself, focused on his assistant. “Yeah.”
    â€œDid you hear what I said?”
    â€œYeah . . . actually, no.” He said nothing about being distracted by Celia’s brilliant smile, her deep brown eyes, the memory of how her body felt in his hands. Even if he’d been completely focused, he only would have caught every other word Trent said, because of the escalating din penetrating the closed door of Niall’s office. “What the hell . . . ?”
    A few shrieks, a whinnying laugh, and a cry of “Omi god !” explained things. Niall groaned and rubbed his eyes. Peering between his fingers, he asked, “How many of them are out there?”
    â€œSeveral.”
    It sounded like a bunch of tweens having a slumber party: chaotic chatter, thumping music and, in the midst of the cacophony, Tiffany’s distinctive, piercing tone.
    â€œI thought New York women were sophisticated,” Niall muttered.
    â€œTiffany imported these from LA.”
    â€œFigures.” He cleared his throat. “Go on.”
    â€œOkay, where were we . . . let’s see . . . You probably heard all that stuff about how I signed you up for three back-to-back cruises—as kitchen help—and then penciled you in for a foreign film, six-month shoot—a buddy flick with Russell Crowe and Christian Bale. Should be a barrel of laughs. It’s in Portuguese, by the way, so I’ll order you some Rosetta Stone software and—”
    â€œVery funny.”
    Trent picked up the tablet. “Well, it’s hard to compete with your eye candy. Are these from the McManus shoot?”
    â€œYeah.”
    The other man flicked through a couple of photos. “My, my. Quite the hottie. Get her number?”
    Why, yes, I did, in fact. “It wasn’t like that, Trent.” A weak protest, but he used it all the same.
    â€œHm. These photos say otherwise.”
    â€œShe’s not my type.” Lie.
    â€œJesus, adjust. Change types.”
    â€œDon’t lecture me. Just because you found everlasting love with a burly blue-collar cop doesn’t mean we all should go for someone we normally wouldn’t date in a million years.”
    Trent huffed as he handed the tablet back to his boss. “I will get scoldy with you if you’re telling me you wouldn’t date her in a million years. That’s just crazy talk.”
    Niall wasn’t about to tell