Chapter 5
“A bout damn time,” Harrison’s voice booms through the phone, loud enough to make me wince. I pull my hand from my face to shield my ear from the assault. “I need an update.”
Tucking my jacket more securely under my opposite arm, I continue browsing the rack in front of me, lined with tweed pants and ridiculously expensive wool sweaters.
The boutique is small, as are most of the high-end stores in Chicago. They’re curated for exclusivity, designed with quality over quantity in mind, both in their inventory and in the clientele they attract. Black metal clothing racks stand sparsely across the space, rustic tables stacked neatly with folded garments occupy the center, and dark wood shelves line the cream-colored walls. The style isn’t really mine, but that hardly matters. It can be Scarlett’s if I decide it suits her.
“I’m working right now,” I say, my fingers gliding over the fabrics. Pressing the volume button on my phone until Harrison’s voice is a manageable whisper. “I’ll call you back with that information in a bit.”
“Working? I can hear music. You’re shopping.”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive,” I reply breezily, moving to the next rack, this one filled with neatly hung jeans. Without caring about the style or cut, I grab a dark wash pair in my size and hold them against my waist for reference.
An older associate approaches me as I glance up, her sleek dark bob framing her face. She bows her head in a polite, silent greeting. I offer a small smile in return, and she mouths, “Dressing room?” while pointing across the store. I nod and hand her the jeans, watching as she tilts her head for me to follow.
“Find somewhere we can speak. Now,” Harrison growls.
Trailing the associate, I pluck two sweaters from a nearby table. One is a dark green casual knit, the other thinner and tailored-looking, perfect for layering over a collared shirt.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I respond lightly. “I’m about to start an important business meeting that can’t be postponed.”
Harrison goes silent, the kind of pause meant to intimidate. It might work on someone else, but not on me, especially through a phone. A pair of block-heeled boots catches my eye from a display to my right, and I pause just long enough to check the size before adding them to the growing pile in my arms.
“Call me back when you’re done,” Harrison finally seethes.
“Will do,” I say cheerfully, though my thumb is already hovering over the end call button. I hang up without so much as a goodbye, smiling to myself as I do. There’s something so satisfying about getting under his skin with so little effort.
As I slide my phone into my back pocket, the associate leads me out of the main shopping area and through an elegant archway at the back of the store. Along the far wall, several dark wood doors are evenly spaced, each fitting room blending seamlessly into the boutique’s sophisticated aesthetic. Chic wall sconces and ornate chandeliers cast a warm, inviting glow.
On the far left, another associate stands outside the only occupied fitting room, leaning slightly toward the door as she speaks to the customer inside. Her voice is low, a gentle murmur in the otherwise quiet space.
“Sorry about that,” I say, forcing my gaze away from the far door and back to the associate assisting me.
“No need to apologize. It happens all the time,” she replies warmly, gesturing toward a slightly ajar fitting room door. With practiced ease, she takes the pile of clothes from my arms. “Do you need anything else to start your try-on? Maybe something in a particular style or size?”
“You know,” I begin, glancing briefly toward the other fitting room again, where the second associate now stands quietly with her hands clasped in front of her. “I’ve been thinking about adding more variety to my wardrobe. Something beyond just slacks and jeans. Do you have any recommendations?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but the soft squeak of the other dressing room door draws both of our attention. The other associate steps forward, reaching out to collect the items from the customer inside.
I keep my expression carefully neutral, then feign surprise as Natalie steps into view, buttoning up her tailored peacoat while saying something to the associate beside her. Her dark hair falls across her face until she tucks it neatly behind one ear.
“Natalie!” I exclaim, my voice tinged with just the right amount of delight. Her eyes flick upward, her posture stiffening for a split second before relaxing as she recognizes me.
“Scarlett,” she says with a small smile. “What a nice surprise.”
“Surprise” is one way to describe it. Convenient, perhaps. Staged, definitely. In reality, I’ve been trailing her and her driver for the past two hours running errands. Ever since her art exhibit, where we exchanged numbers at the end of the night, I hadn’t heard from her. The charity events have worked so far, but I need more—another reason to be around her without forcing it. This was the most natural way I could think of.
I watched her from the coffee shop across the street, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to follow her in. I’d barely had time to ditch my untouched espresso in the trash can outside before I saw her heading toward the dressing rooms. But, of course, none of that is information she needs to know.
“The best kind of surprise,” I say, keeping my tone light. “I hope you’ve been well?”
“I have. And you?”
“The same. Just enjoying the weather and thought a little shopping might be nice,” I reply with a kind smile. The weather is unusually mild for Chicago at the end of February, hovering in the mid forties. A rare reprieve from the biting cold this time of year.
“I had the same thought,” she says with a soft laugh, glancing at the associate holding her clothes. Her eyes widen in realization. “Oh, I don’t want you to carry those any longer. Let’s get them to the register.”
Her voice is sincere, apologetic even, as she turns toward the doorway with the associate following closely behind. The contrast between her warm demeanor and her brother’s arrogance is already striking. Where Silas had exuded an almost predatory self-assurance during our first meeting, Natalie is all softness and thoughtful consideration.
As she steps toward the register, offering parting words to me, I hesitate for only a moment before speaking.
“I’m not sure what you have planned for the rest of the afternoon,” I say, interrupting her goodbye. Natalie pauses mid-step and turns back to me, her expression curious as she waits for me to continue. “But I was planning on grabbing lunch just around the corner. If you’re not busy, I’d love your company.”
Her face softens further, the thoughtful kindness I’ve come to associate with her now tinged with a hint of surprise. Just as she did the night I first handed her my business card, she looks at me with a rawness in her golden eyes that’s disarming. It’s a kind of vulnerability that makes holding her gaze difficult.
“That sounds… nice,” she says, her voice carrying a quiet sincerity. “Would you like me to wait out here for you?”
I blink, momentarily caught off guard. My gaze shifts to the associate still holding my pile of clothes, and heat rises to my cheeks as I silently curse myself for not asking her to set them down sooner.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” I say, my grin tinged with embarrassment. “I shouldn’t be long.”
–
I made short work of the items I brought into the dressing room, settling on a pair of flared pants and a skirt the associate suggested. Both are neutral pieces and practical enough to wear in the future.
If I’m being honest, the clothing is the least of my concerns. But walking into the dressing room with an armful of clothes only to leave empty-handed would have raised eyebrows. Better to maintain appearances, even for something as inconsequential as this.
This orchestrated run-in with Natalie worked out better than I could have anticipated. I didn’t expect her to agree to lunch so readily. I assumed she’d tell me she was busy, forcing me to maneuver my way into scheduling something for another day.
But the look on her face when I asked sticks with me. Genuine surprise, almost as though she’d been waiting for the catch. I’ll have to play the long game with her. Natalie’s warmth and kindness may be disarming, but she’s no fool. If I bring up her family—or her brother—too quickly, she’ll shut me out for good.
Now, as we settle into our seats at a nearby restaurant, I steal a glance at her from across the table. There were plenty of dining options nearby the boutique, but this spot felt the most casual. We’re seated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the natural light spilling over our table. Natalie sits with her back to an antiqued brick wall, her posture relaxed but poised.
It’s prime lunch hour, and the restaurant is buzzing with professionals in suits and pencil skirts, their conversations blending into a low hum of background noise. Fortunately, Natalie’s driver, James, is parked somewhere nearby, so we were able to leave our shopping bags with him instead of awkwardly cramming them under the table.
I clasp my hands in my lap, reminding myself to keep the conversation easy and unassuming. For now, this is about building rapport, nothing more.
“Thanks for joining me,” I say, picking up the menu. The options are mostly elevated pub food, and my stomach growls at the thought. “It’s been a while since I’ve had someone to have lunch with.”
Natalie offers me a small smile, mirroring my actions as she opens her menu.
“Do you miss your friends back home?” she asks, her voice soft, just as the waiter approaches to place two glasses of water in front of us. He tells us he’ll be back shortly to take our drink orders, and Natalie gives him a polite nod before turning her attention back to me.
Her question makes my chest tightens and I swallow hard, forcing unwelcome memories back into the dark recesses of my mind. No matter how much I try to bury them, some resurface in flashes of fleeting moments of a life that once felt whole. But the images never stop there. They always lead to the same haunting memory: cold, green eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
I shake my head once, focusing on the menu in front of me as I steady my voice. “The few I had, yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “I came to Chicago to try something new and severely underestimated how hard it is to make friends.”
Natalie nods passionately, the sadness behind her gaze revealing an unexpected vulnerability. It’s clear she understands. Her reaction surprises me. Could she really be someone who struggles to connect? She’s well-mannered, poised, and kind—everything I imagined her to be, yet more approachable than anyone I’ve met in this city so far. She’s witty and thoughtful, and I have a feeling she’d have a sharp tongue like mine if she weren’t a Wells child bound by the weight of public expectations.
“Finding genuine friends in these circles is challenging,” she clarifies after a pause, her eyes dropping back to the menu. Redness creeps up the sides of her neck, as though she’s revealed too much.
Her phrasing is telling. She’s been burned before—used by people she thought were friends. Just like I’m about to do.
A knot tightens in my throat, and I reach for my water, taking a sip in an attempt to dissolve it. “I’m sorry that’s been your experience,” I murmur, my lips brushing the edge of the glass.
She waves off my comment with a quick flick of her hand. “I’m used to it. I still have my childhood best friend, but she lives in California. It’s hard to see her as often as I’d like.”
“Long-distance friendships are tough,” I say quietly. “But worth it.”
“They are,” she agrees, her words laced with a quiet melancholy.
For a brief moment, the silence between us feels heavier than I intended, and I sip my water again, hoping the conversation will shift to lighter ground.
The waiter returns to take our drink orders. I opt for an iced tea, while Natalie requests sparkling water with lemon. He nods before disappearing again, leaving behind a quiet that lingers between us, just the kind that comes when a conversation pauses between two people still figuring out where they stand.
The pause starts to weigh on me, thickening with every second that passes. I take a slow breath and sip my water, hoping she’ll say something to fill the quiet, but Natalie remains thoughtful, her gaze drifting to the window. She seems like the type of woman who values directness. Someone who appreciates cutting through the pretense and getting to the heart of the matter.
There’s no reason to delay the inevitable.
“Okay, so,” I begin, leaning slightly toward her.
Natalie lifts an eyebrow, intrigued but not entirely surprised. She mimics my posture, bending slightly at the waist to meet me halfway, her hazel eyes locking onto mine.
“This is probably going to sound very forward, and maybe even a little weird, but… you’re the only person I’ve met in this entire city who I actually like, and I think we’d get along really well. Since it seems like we’re both in need of new friends, I propose we skip the awkward back-and-forth of trying to figure out if the other person is interested and just be friends. What do you say?”
For a moment, she stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then, she leans back in her chair and bursts into laughter, a warm, hearty sound that takes me completely off guard. Her hand lands on her stomach as she tips her head back, catching the attention of a few nearby diners, who glance over before returning to their conversations.
Well, that’s not the reaction I was expecting. Did I come on too strong? Did she see right through me?
Natalie wipes under her eyes, still chuckling. “I thought you were about to pitch me some kind of investment opportunity.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and sink back into my chair, laughing along with her. “And I thought you were about to laugh me out the door,” I admit, placing a hand over my chest. “I know it’s an odd question, but I really think we’d make great friends.”
Running a hand through her dark hair, Natalie gives me a smile so bright and genuine that it momentarily takes me off guard. Just then, the waiter returns with our drinks. We ask for a few more minutes to decide on our orders, and he obliges with another polite nod before moving on to another table.
“That’s honestly the most flattering thing anyone’s asked me in a long time,” Natalie says, lifting her glass and holding it over the table toward me.
Grinning, I pick up my iced tea and gently tap it against hers. The satisfying ring of glass meeting glass cuts through the hum of the restaurant.
“Let’s skip the awkward stage,” she says, her tone playful, “and just be friends.”
“Friends it is,” I agree, both of us taking a long sip of our drinks.
She sets her glass down and props her chin on her hand, a teasing glint in her eyes as her smile widens. “Alright, let’s cover the basics. Siblings? Parents? Boyfriend? I’m ready.”
And so, I give her all the half-truths I’ve rehearsed. The carefully curated pieces of the life I’m willing to share. But as we talk, my chest tightens with a pang of guilt. Because despite my ulterior motives, I can’t deny what's staring me in the face: Natalie and the real me might actually have made great friends.