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Trent he’d already texted Celia, not long after he received the proofs. He’d attached one of his favorite photos: the two of them standing close together, cheek to cheek, arms hanging straight down, fingers entwined, looking as though they were in the middle of a dance. Celia was tall to begin with, and in those mammoth heels, she nearly matched his height. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling, blissful. He looked about the same. His text had said simply, I believe you have absconded with my property. Fork ’em over. Don’t make me call the cops. And his address. Nothing untoward. He didn’t really want the pair of boxers back; he just wanted to see her again, even if he couldn’t date her.
    Now the question was, would she show up on his doorstep someday? He had half a mind to pull a Howard Hughes and never budge from his loft until she did. Leaving it entirely up to her made him fidgety ; he was desperate to take matters into his own hands and hunt her down, but he couldn’t do that. Not just yet, anyway.
    â€œNot your type,” Trent muttered, tapping his pen on the stack of papers in his lap. “Absolute crazy talk.” Someone turned up the music, and the volume of the conversation outside the door increased as well. “And you’re saying Ms. Sola is your type?”
    â€œMs. Sola is whatever the studio says she is. We are. Whatever.”
    Trent massaged his temples tiredly. “For how much longer?”
    â€œThree. Freakin’. Months.”
    â€œCan you last that long?”
    As if on cue, Tiffany and her friends let loose another burst of piercing laughter. It went to Niall’s brain with the force of an ice pick. “In all honesty, I don’t know, man. I just don’t know.”
    Restless, Niall pushed to his feet, yanked open the door, and headed out into the main part of his loft. Which, he was surprised to see, was populated by not only Tiffany and her friends but also about a dozen other people, none of whom he recognized. And more were coming through the door.
    â€œCrap,” he muttered. “Not again.”
    He passed a guy wearing a baseball cap backward. As the guy took a swig of beer, he eyed Niall and held up his free hand for Niall to high five. “Dude!” he bellowed.
    At a loss for what to say to that, Niall replied sedately, “Dude.”
    â€œDuuude!” the guy said again, hand still raised. “Bananaaaaaas!”
    Ah. That stupid catchphrase would never, ever die out, would it? Four—no, five—movies ago, and it still followed him around like a hungry stray. He tried to dodge the dude, but Dude was having none of it. Niall sidestepped; Dude edged in front of him again, hand still held high. Dude raised his eyebrows encouragingly and twitched his palm, waiting. Niall sighed, halfheartedly smacked it, and muttered dully, “Bananas.” Dude hooted triumphantly, and Niall was finally allowed to pass.
    â€œFriends of yours?” Trent asked, hot on his heels.
    â€œYou’re hilarious.” Niall yanked open the fridge and grabbed two bottles of water, handed one to Trent. “I can’t take another one of Tiff ’s parties tonight. Want to catch a movie or something?”
    â€œCan’t. I’ve—”
    â€œâ€”got a date,” Niall finished for him. “Should’ve known. Well, good for you.” He held up his hand for a high five. “Duuude.” Trent grinned and obliged. “Look, I’m sorry I’m keeping you here this late. Let’s skip the rest of the stuff, leave it till tomorrow—”
    Trent sighed. “Tomorrow there will be a whole slew of new business. Now would be better.”
    â€œRight . . .”
    As they turned to go, Tiffany wedged herself between them. “Niall,” she said with a cheerfully fake smile. “Where’ve you been?”
    â€œWorking, my love. Hope you don’t mind.”
    â€œWe