Panic swells as I’m about to swallow the last bite. Richard hasn’t taken his eyes off me and still isn’t speaking. What am I going to say when I’ve finished chewing and have no more excuses to keep quiet? Will we just stay here all evening, staring at each other in utter silence?

My dilemma is solved by some six-foot-four hulking human careening into Richard and pulling him into a bear hug. “Mate, you’re here.”

Richard and the newcomer start a primordial dance of friendly grunts and shoulders slaps. When the ritual is over, the stranger turns, and I’m blinded by Hollywood’s most wanted million-dollar smile.

“Blair, this is my good friend Christian,” Richard makes the introductions. “Chris meet Blair.”

“Hi,” I say, and shake Christian Slade’s hand as if I was used to meeting out-of-this-world-gorgeous men all the time.

A tiny part of me wants to take a selfie with him and post it on my Instagram feed right away. So I’m equally disappointed and relieved that only the official event photographer is admitted up here. At least I’m forced not to embarrass myself with the request, but I want the selfie so badly.

Richard and “Chris” do some catching up, and I’m content to just ogle the pair. It’s like staring at a box of bonbons, trying to decide which one you want to eat first. These two are the yin and yang of masculine sex appeal. Christian: tall, blonde, green-eyed. Richard: equally tall, dark hair, dark eyes. Both impossibly sexy. Both with knee-wobble-inducing British accents. And both bachelors. Yum!

“So, how’s the evening going?” Richard asks Christian after a while.

“Ah, too much public relations. I need a break.” That’s when the mega-Hollywood star surprises me bending his head toward me in a small bow. “May I steal the lady for a dance?”

Twelve

Never Make the First Move

Aaaaaaaah! Christian Slade, asking me to dance?!

“Sure,” I say, taking his hand.

There’s a small square in the garden serving as a dance floor, and some other couples are already swaying in the middle. Christian escorts me to the center, and we start swirling in time with the music. With a hand on my lower back and the other holding mine, he leads me like a professional.

“You’re an impressive dancer,” I say.

“You seem surprised.”

“Not many men can waltz this gracefully, not in this century at least.”

He chuckles. “Comes with the job, I guess.”

“Of being an actor?”

“Yeah, sooner or later we all have to star in a costume movie with a ball, and the dance-like-a-gentleman training becomes mandatory.”

“What movie?”

Christian raises a brow. “Not a fan, I take it?”

I blush. “No, it’s not that. But I’m not a stalker either. You’ve been in so many movies… I don’t remember them all.”

“Which ones have you seen, then?”

“Ah, well. Last year’s sci-fi flick… mmm… Dancing in the Rain, of course. See, that’s another one you had to waltz in.”

“Indeed. That’s my excuse for being a good dancer—what’s yours?”