9. Dash/Natalie
CHAPTER NINE
DASH/NATALIE
Dash gave up, a bow tie hanging loosely around his neck. He'd tried to work the silky strip into something presentable, but after the fourth failed attempt, he called out for assistance.
"Colt, help me out here?"
"What makes you think I know how to work one of those things?"
Colt straightened the tie anyway and brushed lint off Dash’s jacket with practiced annoyance.
"I’d say you look like a million bucks,” he said, spinning Dash back toward the mirror. “But after taxes, you’re sitting at a cool six hundred grand.”
Dash huffed a laugh and studied their reflection. Hard to believe Colt was once the cool seventh grader whose father had married Dash’s mother when he was just a second grader. The age gap between them had shrunk every year since. Stepbrothers by circumstance. Best friends by choice.
When their parents died in a tragic boating accident during Dash's senior year, Colt stepped into the roles of father, brother, and drill sergeant without hesitation.
Years later, when Colt's fiancée was killed by a drunk driver, Dash returned the favor, nursing Colt through his darkest days.
They joked of their confirmed bachelor status, destined to grow old together—because what woman had the patience for their particular brand of bullshit?
"Where's this place again?" Dash asked.
"Some restored warehouse downtown. Miranda will know."
Dash grabbed his jacket. His tuxedo logged max mileage of late, thanks to a poorly judged putt and a friendly wager with good friend and surrogate dad, Cecil Everett.
After losing, he’d agreed to escort Cecil’s wife, Miranda, to every gala within a thousand-mile radius.
But Dash didn’t mind. Miranda was the closest thing he had to a mother—smart, mischievous, and a hell of a lot of fun.
Construction and detours through Houston’s swanky River Oaks put him behind schedule.
He pressed the callbox outside the Everett estate and waited for the iron gate to open.
A minute later, he jogged up to the massive front door, checking his reflection in the glass.
He rang the doorbell and in seconds Miranda glided toward him in a fantastic midnight-blue gown.
She opened the door with a Texas-size smile.
"Why, Mr. Benning," she purred, leaning against the door frame. "If you don't look positively delicious."
"As do you. You should probably change though. Everyone will be eyeing you and not the artist's work." He swept her into a spin across the foyer before dipping her dramatically. "Miranda Everett, you are every man's dream."
"Yes, but she's only one man's wife," a gruff voice barked.
Dash set Miranda upright. "I think we've been caught."
Cecil crossed his arms. "If you're gonna put the make on my wife, could you find some place other than under my own roof?"
"For your information, your wife is putting the make on me." Dash turned with a wink and shook hands with Cecil.
"You better be on your best behavior tonight," Cecil warned, giving Miranda's arm a playful squeeze.
"With Dash in a tux? I don't see how that's possible." The woman eyed her husband saucily.
"Dash?" Cecil turned to his friend for help.
Dash grinned. "I promise to keep a close eye on her.”
Minutes later, they were back in Houston traffic. Miranda scrolled her phone quietly, which suited him fine. He turned up the classic country music channel, thumbing the steering wheel to the beat of favorites by Reba, Conway, and Lyle Lovett.
Relax. Enjoy the night. You always have fun with Miranda … and who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone interesting.
This thought had barely formed when the opening bars of a certain Willie Nelson song filled the car. His chest tightened as he thought of her. Amelia. One night in London that haunted him in the best and worst ways.
With the speed of a jackrabbit on crack, Dash’s right arm shot out, hitting a preset button with a force that made Miranda jump.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Time for some new tunes. You like seventies rock anyway,” he added.
“It is the best decade of music,” she said, turning back to her phone.
Dash hummed along to Steely Dan, but his mind drifted to one night of perfection with the mysterious Amelia Earhart.
Truth be told, she penetrated his thoughts on a regular basis, filling him with gratitude.
She’d given him the shove he needed to start dating again.
In the months since their encounter, he’d gone out on dozens of dates.
Younger women, older women, women he’d met on a dating app (Colt was still giving him shit about that).
He’d met plenty of interesting women, but no one who stuck.
He had faith in Houston to change his luck.
“Dash!” Miranda shouted.
He slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a Range Rover. His right arm shot out instinctively to protect Miranda from impact. Her eyes were wide; so were his.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Miranda patted his hand with motherly reassurance. “Focus, hon.”
At the venue, he inched the car up toward the valet stand, still on edge from the near collision, and nervously tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Relax, Dash. That’s an order,” Miranda said firmly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dash answered with a nod and a heavy exhale.
A parking attendant waved him around a limo and motioned over to the curb. Dash parked and turned to Miranda.
"You promised Cecil you'd behave tonight."
"You promised Cecil. I promised nothing." She checked her lipstick in the visor mirror.
Dash tossed his key fob to the attendant and ushered her inside. The restored warehouse buzzed with wealthy Houstonians. Bright white walls and ebony wood floors highlighted pop-culture inspired works by the latest and greatest Houston unknown.
"How 'bout that one?" Dash pointed to an enormous canvas closest to the entry, a violent collection of angry colors.
Miranda wrinkled her nose. "That's vile."
"But I bet the price is right. I can have it loaded in two seconds, and we can be on our way. The valet hasn’t even moved my car."
Miranda snatched two champagne flutes off a passing tray. "You're not getting off that easy. You're mine, remember? Cecil won you fair and square. Now smile and mingle."
Arm in arm, they strolled through the main floor, stopping every few feet to critique various works or tolerate small talk.
After an hour of the same conversations, Dash’s social tank hit empty.
He preferred acquiring art ninja-style—find something obscure in a far-flung shop, buy it, and leave. No schmoozing necessary.
"Gallery owner headed this way," Miranda whispered.
Dash spotted a figure wearing all black, head to toe. He walked toward them with deliberate steps, but it was the woman beside him who stole Dash's breath. Tall, elegant, legs for days, and an emerald-green dress hugging every curve.
"Miranda, darling … " the man kissed Miranda’s hand.
"Cookie, you've outdone yourself. Nestor Rubin’s work is divine," Miranda raved.
The man’s eyes slid to Dash. "And who is this tall, dark, and handsome creature? He’s far too young to be Cecil."
Miranda tweaked Dash’s tie. "This is my cabana boy. Cleans up well, doesn't he?"
Dash didn’t even register the jab, so taken with the beautiful woman in green. Miranda elbowed him, and he jumped to attention, offering his hand.
"Dash Benning." Dash extended his hand to the gallery owner.
The man scanned him a second time. "I’ve heard of you. I’m Cookie Lehman."
Miranda gestured toward the woman. “And this vision?”
Kate extended her hand. “I’m Kate Fitzpatrick.”
Dash shook her hand. “Pleasure. And this is my mother, Miranda Everett.”
"Your what?" Miranda shot him a look.
Dash put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a playful squeeze. "I'm sorry … lover, I meant to say lover.”
The foursome fell into easy conversation. Dash's gaze held fast to Kate. Her green eyes, strawberry blond locks, and her wicked wit. She matched Cookie quip for quip yet spoke about art with grounded intelligence. Each time he glanced at her, he found her looking back.
Well, well…
"Ladies, you look about a quart low." Dash took Miranda’s empty flute then turned toward Kate. "What are you drinking?"
“French 75. But I can get it."
Cookie tapped her backside. “Be a love and bring Daddy a Cosmo?”
She rolled her eyes at Dash. "Of course. Whatever Daddy wants."
Dash followed her up to the bar on the second floor.
"So, Ms. Fitzpatrick,” he asked. “You work for Cookie?"
"Not exactly. We’ve been friends for years. He's trying to woo me. Wants to parade me around in my own show," she said.
"You're an artist?"
"A sculptor, yes. I teach at Rice."
"Really? What medium?"
"Bronze."
"I understand that's a pretty labor-intensive art form."
"Very. I also work in oils."
"What a coincidence. I do too."
"What’s your style? Realism, abstract, impressionism …"
"Petroleum.”
She palmed her face. "You've been waiting all night to use that line, haven't you?"
"I'll never tell.”
Drinks in hand, they returned downstairs. Miranda and Cookie were debating a canvas the size of a billboard. Dash and Kate delivered their drinks, then slipped away to a quiet bench.
Kate shook her head and made a tsking sound. “Champagne earlier and now Scotch?”
“You think that’s the wrong play?” Dash asked.
“My father says you should never switch horses.”
“Wise man.”
They talked about everything—cocktails, board games, movies, books, and travel. With every laugh, her eyes sparkled. God, she was clever. Hilarious. Comfortable in her own skin. Her smile and charming accent won him over in the first five minutes.
"Want to take a stroll?" Dash asked.
"As long as it's slow. These heels are killing me."
They grabbed fresh drinks then stepped onto the balcony. The lights of downtown sparkled like jewels, as did a flirtatious tension in her eyes. He motioned to two stools near the railing. Side by side, they took in the beautiful Houston skyline for a minute.
Kate stilled. "Do you hear that?"