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need more ice. Send Trent.”
    â€œTrent’s busy.” Niall sighed. “Did we really need to have another party?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with having a party?”
    â€œI have no idea who these people are.”
    â€œThey’re our friends .”
    â€œThey are?” Niall glanced over at the flock of spray-tanned, high-heeled chicks hovering nearby.
    â€œOmigod, you’re Niall Crenshaw!” one of them fluttered.
    â€œThat’s what the tag on my underwear says.”
    â€œWow, you’ve got your own underwear line?” the girl breathed.
    â€œNo, it was a joke . . . You know what? Never mind.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    He blinked a couple of times before replying evenly, “I live here.”
    â€œOh.” She giggled. “Right.”
    He gave her a stiff grin and turned back to Tiffany. In a low voice, he said, “Did you have to tell everyone to come here? What’s wrong with your apartment?”
    â€œWe have an agreement,” she muttered back. “I get to hang out here whenever I want. Remember?”
    â€œUm, is that actually written in the contract? I mean spelled out in just that way? And does it really cover inviting half of Manhattan . . . and, apparently, three quarters of Brooklyn?” he added, as another group of people came through the door.
    Tiffany took a steadying breath. “Niall, come on. You could be more fun than this.”
    He pulled an agonized face before he could stop himself. What had he done to deserve this? Well, he’d signed a fake-relationship contract, of course, but couldn’t his contract buddy have been an intelligent, kind, classy woman? Then their fake relationship could have evolved into a genuine one, with a meeting of minds, true affection, and love/marriage/baby carriage instead of this ball-and-chain, counting-the-minutes-till-it-was-over deal?
    Well. If his costar had been intelligent, kind, and classy, she wouldn’t have needed a fake-relationship contract in the first place. Niall was far from perfect, but he was definitely a few steps up from the scuzzbuckets Tiff usually went for. The whole arrangement was sold to him as the opportunity to “save her from herself.” His agent and the movie’s producers knew he’d go for it and, damn his bleeding heart anyway, they were right. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was being paid well to squire Tiffany all over the place. Every little bit helped.
    Still, it wasn’t like he hated Tiffany or anything. She was all right, in her way. She was just . . . exhausting.
    He groaned. “ Fine. Party on, Tiff.”
    â€œThat means you’ve got to be here.”
    â€œDammit!”
    â€œWell, duh, Niall, I can’t host parties by myself and let you disappear all the time. That would look really bad.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. I know.”
    â€œSo you’ll stay?”
    â€œLooks like I don’t have much of a choice.”
    â€œAnd no hiding in your bedroom, either. Or on the roof.”
    â€œLaundry room?”
    â€œNiall!”
    â€œBathroom? Pantry?”
    Tiffany just glared.
    â€œOkay, okay.” He sighed, plunked his hands on his hips, and looked up at the concrete ceiling high above, stating, as if by rote, “I promise I will attend this party and not hide in some small , dark place.” No matter how much I want to , he added in his head.
    He started to walk away, but she grabbed his bicep and dug her manicured nails into his sleeve. “I’m holding you to that,” she whispered. “Now kiss me, or I’m calling my agent.”
    Once he’d gotten rid of Tiffany and her crew, he turned back to Trent. “Sorry. Where were we?”
    Trent flicked through his stack of notes. “You’ve got some interest in the LA house. You should have a solid offer by the end of the week. Aggie strongly suggests you take it.”
    â€œEven if it’s a