“I did, didn’t I?” He paused, one arm still around her waist, to sign for delivery of a new sink. “Thanks, mate. You can put it over there for now.” He pointed to an empty corner.
“Never mind,” Holly said, and masked her disappointment. “You’re busy. We can do lunch another day.”
“No.” Jamie handed the clipboard over and turned back to her. “I promised we’d have lunch, and we will. Let me just get my phone. Be right back.” He kissed her again and disappeared.
As she waited, one hip resting against the brand-new grill, Holly tried to visualize the kitchen as the well-oiled, gleaming stainless steel machine it would eventually become. But she couldn’t. The dust, drop cloths, and holes in the drywall made it all but impossible.
Still, Jamie would make it happen. He always did. He was a talented chef, and his staff liked and respected him. She just hoped that Gordon Scots would do as well here in New York as it had in London.
“Excuse me.”
Holly glanced up from her mobile phone. Jamie’s sous chef, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, regarded her with an upraised brow. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and had a carton in her hands.
Holly straightened. “Oh, sorry – Catherine, isn’t it? Am I in the way?”
Although she didn’t reply, the fact that she hefted the box she held on top of the grill in the spot Holly had just vacated made it plain she was, indeed, in the way.
“Oh, hi, Cat. I see you’ve met my fiancée, Holly James,” he said. “Holly, this is Catherine Morgan. She’s my new sous chef.”
“We’ve met. Apparently,” Holly added, “I’m in the way.”
Catherine managed a tight smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude; but New York is full of crazies, and right now, anyone can walk in off the street.” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”
So, Holly thought as they warily shook hands, she’s just met me and already she’s comparing me to a crazy street person.
Catherine turned back to Jamie. “I thought I’d run out and grab a bite to eat while I have a few minutes. Can I get you anything?” Her glance flickered to Holly. “Either of you?”
“Thanks, but we’re headed to lunch ourselves. I promised,” Jamie said, and grinned as he took Holly’s hand and swung it up to his lips.
“Okay. I’ll stay and take delivery of the stove and the broiler, then. They should be here any time.”
‘Oh, shit – I forgot!” Jamie exclaimed. He turned to Holly. “Sorry, Hols, but I should probably stick around for a bit longer—”
“Don’t be silly, Catherine assured him. “I can handle it. That’s what I’m here for, after all – to have your back.”
Or to stab you in it with a nice sharp knife, Holly thought irritably.
“Catherine’s right, Jamie,” she said, and took his arm. “She’s got it covered. Come on, let’s go – I’m starving.”
But he shook his head. “I need to stay, there’s too much going on today. I can’t leave Catherine to deal with it all. Maybe tomorrow?” He drew away and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Holly opened her mouth to protest, to tell Jamie he was being ridiculous and that Catherine was a Machiavelli in chef’s whites, but what was the use? She knew he wouldn’t listen.
“Sure,” she said, and turned to go. “Maybe tomorrow.”
But Jamie didn’t hear her. He’d already turned away to consult with Catherine about the dinner menu for opening night.
Natalie was sprawled on the sofa, watching the Today Show featuring Christa, the pop singer who’d nearly destroyed her best friend Gemma’s marriage, when her mobile phone rang.
She switched the TV off. “Hello?”
“Nat? Hi – Holly here. Are you free for lunch? Jamie just bailed on me. I have so much to tell you.”
“Not half as much as I have to tell you,” Natalie assured her. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Where shall we meet?”
“How about Nico’s, on Third Avenue?” Holly said. “One o’clock?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
As Natalie waited for the lift a short time later, she wondered what Rhys was doing. Perhaps they could do something together on Sunday. She’d scarcely seen him since they’d arrived in Manhattan.
With a discreet “ding,” the lift doors slid open, and she stepped in and nodded politely at the elderly gentleman standing inside.
“Good morning,” she said.
He inclined his head. “Good morning.” Although silvery-gray, his hair was thick and springy. He held a trilby in one hand and an ebony walking stick in the other.
As the lift began its descent, he tucked the hat under one arm and stretched out his hand. “Morris Holland.”
“Natalie Dashwood-Gordon.” She took his hand and noted the firmness of his grip.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon. I’ve already met your husband, Rhys.” He smiled, and there was a twinkling in his eye. “It’s quite a mouthful, that hyphenated name of yours, isn’t it?”
“Is it a bit pretentious?” She regarded him doubtfully. “Rhys thinks so. But I like my last name. Both of them,” she added, and smiled. “And please call me Natalie.”
“It’s not pretentious in the least,” he assured her. “I’m very glad that we shall be neighbors.”
“Do you live here, too?”
He smiled, amused. “Yes, my dear. I do.”
With another discreet “ding” the lift arrived at the first floor, and he waited as she got out. “It was a great pleasure meeting you, Natalie,” he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
She blushed, charmed by his old-world manner. “Thank you, Mr Holland. It was lovely chatting with you.”
He left, thrusting on his trilby and touching the brim as the desk clerk called out a deferential ‘Good morning, Mr Holland,’ and as he disappeared through the front doors, Natalie walked across the lobby to the reception desk.
“Excuse me,” she said, “could you call me a taxi, please?”
“Of course.” The clerk picked up the phone and made the call. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked as he rang off.
She
