Katie Oliver - Manolos In Manhattan

“How do I look?” Chaz asked her with a trace of anxiety. “This suit’s a Tom Ford. I got it at that sample sale last week, sixty percent off ‒ can you believe it?”

“You look fabulous,” Holly told him, and meant it. His suit was three-piece, a dark, almost purple-blue that made the most of his dark hair and olive skin. “You’ll have all the boys drooling.”

“Hope so.” He glanced with approval at her fitted black dress and leopard-print kitten heels. “You look pretty fabulous yourself. Too bad Jamie’s working tonight or you wouldn’t be stuck with me.”

“I’m not ‘stuck’ with you,” she corrected him as she linked her arm through his, “I adore you, and you know it.”

It was true. She and Chaz had clicked the minute they’d met last month at Dashwood and James, where both were employed for the summer...she, because the teen magazine she’d worked on in London had folded, Chaz because he was Rhys Gordon’s new personal assistant.

“Thanks.” He squeezed her arm briefly as they made their way up the walk to the brownstone and went up the steps. “What’s Jamie whipping up for everyone tonight? Pâté de foie gras? Raspberry and lime macaroons? God, those were seriously to die for…”

“Sorry, no. He’s doing an American menu, with Angus beef burger sliders and mini BLT wraps, zucchini frites, and chocolate whiskey cake.” Holly recited the list without thought; God knows, she’d heard Jamie discussing the menu often enough.

“Oh, lord,” Chaz groaned. “There goes my diet. Again.”

The doorman checked their invitations and smiled. “Welcome. Enjoy your evening.”

Holly paused in the open doorway, still holding Chaz’s arm, and surveyed the crowd with satisfaction.

Under the glittering Empire chandelier in the entrance hall ‒ purchased at Sotheby’s in London by her father and shipped at no small expense to New York ‒ crowds of elegantly attired men and women mingled. Laughter and conversation filled the air, along with the muted sound of a three-piece jazz ensemble playing on a raised dais in the corner. Waiters in black tie balanced drink trays on their fingertips and circulated through the crowd.

Chaz leaned forward to grab two drinks from a passing tray. He handed one to Holly and took a sip from the other. “Ugh. Chardonnay. I was hoping for champagne.”

“Oh, please. Dad wouldn’t splash out on champers for something as mundane as this. He spent more on the invitations than he spent on the entire evening. It’s all about priorities.” Holly took an experimental sip of the chardonnay and wrinkled her nose. “I could never be an alcoholic.” She set the glass aside.

“Well,” Chaz mused as his glance swept over the glittering crowd, “it doesn’t look mundane to me.” His eye moved past the men in suits and the fashionably clad guests to land on a tallish young man surrounded by a bevy of women. “Wait a minute. Who’s that?” he demanded as he set his drink down on a nearby table. “Isn’t it...? Oh my God, it is. It’s Ciaran Duncan!”

Holly followed his rapt gaze. “So it is,” she said, and glanced at the film star with disinterest. “I thought I told you he’d be here tonight.” She was far more interested in finding another drink tray, preferably one with mojitos. “He promised to come to the pre-launch tonight as a favor to Mum. He was a guest on Good Morning New York! a couple of years ago, when my parents separated and she was a presenter for about ten minutes.”

“Ooh, your lucky mom,” Chaz murmured as his eyes devoured the movie star.

“She said he was pretty full of himself. Still is, I imagine. Like most actors.”

“Holly,” Chaz said in a low voice as he turned to her and clutched her arm, “you know I adore Ciaran Duncan. He’s the most amazing actor since...since ever! Why didn’t you tell me that your mom knew him? Or that he’d be here tonight? Oh. My. God.” He began to hyperventilate. “I’m breathing the same air as Ciaran Duncan.”

“What’s the big deal? He’s just another floppy-haired English actor with a posh accent...and he probably has wonky teeth. Oh, and sorry, but he’s also hetero.”

“What’s the big deal ?” Chaz echoed. “Are you serious? The big deal, my dear clueless Holly, is that Ciaran is...well, aside from the fact that he’s gorgeous, he’s...”

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Holly looked up to see the subject of their conversation standing before her, his right hand outstretched, an amused smile on his lips. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit of charcoal gray and a dark-red tie. She gave him her hand, temporarily mesmerized by the greenish brown of his eyes and the scent of his aftershave and the dazzling white of his perfect, even, decidedly not wonky teeth.

His clasp was firm and warm. “Ciaran Duncan,” he added.

As if she didn’t already know who he was. He was far better looking in person than he was on the screen, if that were possible. “Your teeth are perfect,” she blurted.

He raised his brow slightly. “Now there’s an odd compliment.”

“Sorry. It’s just...you know, the ‘English people have bad teeth’ cliché,” she managed to say. “I’m Holly James. I’m...” she stopped. Who was she? She’d forgotten. “I, um, I’m Alastair’s daughter.”

His smile, like his hand, was warm. “Yes, I know. Natalie Dashwood-Gordon pointed you out when you came in.”

“She did? You know Natalie?” Natalie was her father’s goddaughter and now, since her marriage to Rhys Gordon, she was Holly’s half-sister-in-law.

“Not very well. Your father only introduced us about ten minutes ago.” He glanced down at her hand, still clasped in his, and back at her face. Amusement lingered in his eyes.

Hastily, she released his hand so he wouldn’t think she was a complete idiot...which he probably already did.

She turned to Chaz. “This is my friend, Chaz Williams. He’s—”

“I’m your biggest fan, Mr Duncan,” Chaz gushed. “Oh my God, you have no idea! I’ve seen every one of your movies, every single one, even that one about the English veterinarian that bombed at the box office—”

“Yes, well, the less said about that, the better,” Ciaran said quickly, and took Chaz’s hand in a brief grip. “Very nice to meet you, Mr, er...Chaz.”

Chaz let out something between a whimper and a gasp and very nearly melted on the spot.

Ciaran turned back to Holly. “I wonder if I might trouble you for directions to the loo,” he murmured. “I’ve had a bit too much of that questionable chardonnay.”

She smiled in sympathy. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? My father’s notoriously cheap.”

His gaze lingered on her face. “There are other compensations.”

“Follow me, Mr Duncan.” Holly ignored the disquieting lurch of her heart – you’re engaged to Jamie , she reminded herself – and turned to go. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Please, call me Ciaran.”

“Why don’t you let me show him where the bathroom – I mean the loo – is?” Chaz whispered, and grabbed her arm. “Please!”

“Next time,” Holly promised. “Be right back.”

“Ooh, you’re a heartless bitch,” he hissed.

She grinned and threaded her way through the crowds with Ciaran behind her, everyone smiling and parting like the Red Sea for the two of them, until they reached a door at the end of the hallway. She turned the doorknob, but it was locked.

“Occupied,” she apologized, and led Ciaran towards the front staircase. “You can use one of the bathrooms upstairs,” she said over her shoulder. She unhooked the velvet rope that barred partygoers from the upper floors and waited as he followed her.