8. Natalie
CHAPTER EIGHT
NATALIE
“How great are these?”
Noah held up a pair of hot pink men’s boxer shorts covered in a loud print of gold horseshoes and green shamrocks.
Natalie checked the price with a gloved hand. “Sixty bucks? Who pays sixty bucks for boxers?”
He peered over the top of his glasses. “Men who believe their nether regions deserve luxury.”
“My father doesn’t need high-dollar boxers. He’s got tighty-whities older than me.”
Noah grimaced. “A visual I can do without.”
“I need cheap and silly. A keychain. Refrigerator magnets. Stuff like that.”
He folded the boxers and set them back. “There’s a little gift shop a few blocks down. If that’s a bust, we can try the indie bookstore I mentioned.”
A brisk Chicago wind slapped her face when she stepped back outside on the street.
Even with the sun overhead, she shivered in the brutal cold.
Natalie tightened her thick wool scarf, then looped her arm through Noah’s.
They made it half a block before the warmth of a coffee shop pulled them in like a tractor beam.
The place, packed with people, hummed with espresso machines and chatter. Noah stuffed his gloves in his jacket pockets.
“You bought last time. My treat today. Americano with a splash of cream?” he asked.
Natalie eyed the long glass pastry case. “Yes, please. And one of those.” She pointed to a huge golden croissant.
“Oooh, me too. Quick—grab that table!”
Natalie spun around just as two college-age girls bundled up to leave. The moment they stepped away, she pounced, wiping down the table with napkins they’d left behind.
Noah stood in line, scrolling on his phone.
Watching him, Natalie felt the familiar tug of gratitude.
What luck in landing such a remarkable assistant at Soiree.
Their friendship had grown into something like the brother she never had.
Noah Barton was an absolute gem. She hadn’t made a showcase-related move without his input.
He returned with their coffees and slid hers across the table. “Don’t look now, but gorgeous guy near the door. Navy peacoat.”
Discreetly, she leaned to peer around him. “For you … or for me?”
“Pour moi. You’ve made it clear you’re off the market.”
“I’m already in a committed relationship. Speaking of …” She pulled out her event planning bible—an overstuffed leather notebook—and dropped it on the table with a theatrical thud. Colorful Post-it notes fanned out like peacock plumage.
Noah sighed dramatically. “You promised no work today.”
With a twist of her hand, she secured her hair up into a bun. “I promised no Soiree work. Natalie & Co never sleeps.”
Noah groaned as she flipped to her most updated to-do list.
She clapped her hands together. “Now then, let’s talk about the showcase.”
The sneer he’d worn seconds before morphed into a sly grin. He took another sip of coffee.
“What?” she asked with a wary tone.
“We got them.”
“Got who?”
“The jazz trio.”
“The triplets from Vanderbilt? With 100K followers on Instagram? Noah! Oh my God!”
Natalie shot out of her seat, engulfing Noah in the tightest hug. He quickly peeled her off, reprimanding her back to her chair while glancing toward the peacoat guy.
“Chill. Someone might think we’re a couple.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news …” Natalie pointed to the door right as it closed behind the guy.
Noah turned back and shrugged. “Short-lived romance.”
Natalie grinned. “Back to business. Why did you wait to tell me? You know I’ve been hella stressed after the last group canceled.”
“I literally just got the email when I was in line. Blame Mr. Peacoat for the distraction.”
Natalie scribbled excitedly. With three months until the showcase, she’d crossed almost everything off her to-do list, thanks to her nonstop hustle and Noah’s wizardry. They agreed on every design element for the big bash, except one.
He tore off a piece of croissant. “Where are you on the centerpieces?”
It had been their single point of contention. Noah leaned toward showy. Natalie craved understated—something that felt more like her dad. They’d traded hundreds of screenshots of potential floral designs but had yet to have a shared a-ha moment.
She braced herself, palms flat on the table. “I’ve made my decision. Want to see the inspo pic?”
“Is that rhetorical?” He shot her an annoyed look.
Natalie located the photo and handed him her phone. He pinched and zoomed, studying every aspect with a critical eye.
“I’ll upload it to our shared file. The boutonniere inspo pic is already in there.”
Noah’s face lit. “This is gorgeous. I had my doubts when you said eucalyptus, but the texture? Stunning.”
Relief washed over her. “Right? People will remember these arrangements.”
“And the best part? You get massive impact without a massive price tag,” he said, sliding her phone back.
“Exactly. We’ll have smaller ones, too—for display on the beignet bar and the cocktail bar.”
Noah stopped chewing. “Did you just say beignet bar?”
Natalie threw up jazz hands. “Surprise! We’re having an outdoor cooking station. Custom bags: BeignYAY for Foster’s 70th! The venue’s never tried it but they’re obsessed with the idea.”
Noah smiled. “That’s the best pun ever.”
“Thank you. Perfect party favors. A little sweet treat for the road.”
“Wait—I thought you were having German chocolate cake from that one bakery?”
“We are. I wouldn’t deprive anyone of Beverly’s. Imagine his cake rolling in on a cart, all seventy candles blazing. I’ve never had a client want to do that, but since I’m the client …”
“I love it. It’s gonna be like something out of a movie.”
“I’m trying to keep it elegant and not a circus.” Natalie scratched her head with the tip of her pencil. “The line, as you know, is razor thin.”
“Girl, you’re making that line your bitch.”
Natalie snorted. “Yeah, well, that line is expensive. If I don’t land an investor, I’m screwed. I’ve never gambled like this before.”
“It’ll happen. Barring some freak-of-nature disaster—”
She reached across the table and clutched his wrist. “Don’t even say it. No jinxes.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez. Relax.” He shook his hand free. “How’s Kate’s part of the weekend? The family dinner?”
“As far as I know, fine. She never tells me anything until the last minute. Drives me insane,” she said through gritted teeth.
“She’ll come through. And the showcase is basically done. Website. Brochures. Invitations going out in six weeks.”
She shook her head. “Not everything. Still no word from Nashville Now. I’ve sent two emails. Crickets.”
“Try another publication.”
Natalie jotted down a note. “I just wish …”
“What?”
“I wish we had one big guest. Someone with real star power.”
Noah tilted his head. “Imagine if Taylor Swift showed up. She’d overshadow everything. People would remember her, not your work.”
Natalie took a bite of her croissant. He’s right. If Taylor Swift showed up, I’d forget my own name.
“The guest list is already full of your dad’s wealthy friends,” he added. “They’ll actually pay attention to your business. A celebrity would pop in for a photo and leave.”
Noah had a point. The bubble of her imagined title as Officially Event Planner for X Celebrity popped like a can of biscuits. For now, anyway. Elbow on the table, she toyed with her earring for a moment.
“Do you always have to make sense?” She locked on his brown eyes, a playful glint in her own.
“Playing devil’s advocate is my favorite role—well, besides the time I played Sir Robin in Spamalot my junior year. I wish you could have seen me in tights. My glutes were gluting.”
A few drops of coffee dribbled out of her mouth as she fought back a laugh. Coughing, she grabbed several napkins and wiped them away.
“Now that’s a visual I can do without.”
The bell above the door jingled. Natalie looked up, her eyes going round.
“What?” Noah whispered.
“Peacoat guy. He’s back … and looking this way.”
Noah straightened. “Alone?”
“Yep.” She snapped her planner shut. “Which means I’m exiting stage left.”
She squeezed Noah’s shoulder in passing and headed for the door, exchanging a quick nod with Mr. Peacoat. Outside, the wind cut through her. She glanced back into the coffee shop, smiling when Peacoat Guy slid into her chair.
Natalie bit her lip and texted Noah:
Go get ‘em, tiger.
The bookstore Noah recommended was a bust, but a comic book shop around the corner delivered the motherlode. An entire room full of trinkets and gag gifts—most heavily discounted—pulled her in like a vortex. Minutes later, she dumped an armful of absurdity on the counter.
An LED headlamp shaped like the bed of a truck.
A cup holder for ketchup and fries.
A shoehorn designed to look like a human tongue.
Whiskey stones shaped like hand grenades in a box that read “Get bombed!”.
A retro paddleball game.
And for good measure, black boxers printed with OLD FART.
An hour and a half after parting ways with Noah, she was back inside her tiny one-bedroom apartment. As she shed layers of outerwear, a call came in from Kate.
“How goes the shopping?” her sister asked.
“I hit the jackpot. Give me five minutes and I’ll FaceTime you. You have to see this haul.”
Natalie tossed the overstuffed shopping bag on her bed and flopped beside it. She pulled her planner from her tote and logged her purchases in a color-coded ledger that would make any CPA emotional. Nine gifts left to buy, and her budget still held. Barely.
She pulled up her FaceTime app and called Kate back.
Between the late afternoon coffee and her success with shopping, she launched into a mile-a-minute recap of her day: the gag gifts, floral arrangements, the jazz trio, and the current state of her budget.
It took several minutes before Kate could insert herself into the conversation.
“My God, take a breath. Are you stressed out or heavily caffeinated? Or both?”
“Everything has to be perfect, Kate.”
“And it will be. But obsessing over every little thing—”
“Is my actual job. It’s literally the description of an event planner,” she snapped.
Kate paused. “And because you're so good at it, maybe relax a little?”