10. Natalie
CHAPTER TEN
NATALIE
Natalie abandoned the original outfit she’d assembled during Kate’s call the night before. Her bedroom now resembled a battlefield of shirts, skirts, and shoes. After thirty minutes of twirling in front of the mirror, she had yet to gain Noah's approval.
"Let's go back to the cigarette pants with the jacket. And those suede pumps,” he ordered, hands on his hips.
"You add the jacket and the pumps, Noah. I'm done." She yanked a scarf from around her neck and let it fall to the carpet. "I'm wearing my original outfit."
"You are not wearing jeans!"
"It’s drinks with a potential client, not a state dinner."
"It’s drinks with Blaine Sherdian—of the Chicago Sheridans—at Hive, the classiest bar in the city. You're not having wings at Hooters."
She disappeared into her closet. "The last thing I want to do is to look like I tried too hard. If Katie Holmes can walk a red carpet in jeans—"
“First, we are not Katie Holmes. Second, that look landed her on half a dozen worst dressed lists.”
“A little faith, please?”
Noah shoved aside a mountain of discarded clothing and flopped onto her bed. "This man could be running for Congress soon. Blaine Sheridan is a big fish. A big, handsome fish.”
“A-ha! Gotcha!” she called from the closet.
“What do you mean, ‘gotcha’?”
She popped her head out. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Noah bit back a grin. “Would it be so awful to make a romantic connection in addition to a business one?"
“I’m not in the market for romance.”
He sighed. "So you've told me. Repeatedly."
Natalie stepped out of the closet with the confidence of a woman who could hold her own with Katie Holmes. Wide-leg dark denim. Winter-floral blouse. Black double-breasted blazer, its oversized gold buttons echoing her hoop earrings. Burgundy strappy heels. Quilted leather clutch.
"Well?" She tilted her head, ready for his veto. "Does this make the cut?"
"HOLY—are those the Dior jeans you were lusting over? The eight-hundred-dollar ones?”
“Found them on Poshmark for a hundred bucks. They’re missing a belt loop, but who cares? And before you judge: I sold an old Michael Kors bag and two Madewell sweaters. So, yes, I can afford these.”
Noah came up behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Color me wrong. You look incredible. Blaine Sheridan is gonna date you so hard, then marry the hell out of you."
"He will do no such thing. This is business.”
"But this guy could be perfect for you."
She patted his cheek. “Unfortunately, the timing is not.”
"But I want you to be happy, professionally and personally. Like, Thomas Crown-level happy. This guy’s got the looks and the bank account.”
Thomas Crown-level happy? Perhaps a bar no mortal could clear.
And it’s not like she’d made it a goal. There’d been one small glimmer though, a few weeks after arriving back in Chicago.
A conversation with a gorgeous guy at her favorite deli led to a coffee date one day, then drinks another.
Tristyn, with a y. A spectacular mismatch wrapped in a perfect jawline.
And the constant pinging of her phone with business texts proved she had no time for love.
“Thanks, Noah.”
“I need you to text me every 30 seconds that everything is okay, okay?” he said in his best Parks & Rec voice.
“You’ll get a full report tomorrow.”
Outside, she hugged him goodbye then climbed into the waiting car. She’d be at least fifteen minutes early thanks to Noah’s manic enthusiasm. On the ride, worry gnawed. She'd only seen photos of Blaine Sheridan, grainy ones with sunglasses. A wave of worry rippled through her.
What if I don't even recognize him?
Or worse—he doesn’t recognize me?
Why does tonight feel like it could end in disaster?
Her internal twenty questions carried her all the way to Hive’s iconic rooftop.
Strictly reservation only with no social media presence.
The definition of exclusive. Noah had booked it weeks ago.
The hostess led her straight to the crown jewel: a glass-wrapped terrace glowing with frosted pendants hanging from the honeycomb ceiling.
Butter-yellow leather chairs. Blue-tiled floors.
Beyond the glass, Natalie’s favorite city.
Mechanical by day, magical by night, she thought. She paused a beat to take it all in.
It’s incredible. Like a snowglobe for bumblebees, minus the snow. And the bees.
Oh, the wedding receptions I could design in this space.
“Ma’am? Is this table okay?” the hostess asked.
“Yes, it’s perfect, thank you.”
Natalie chose a seat which gave her a view of both the skyline and the entrance. A server approached but she waved him off. She wanted to wait for Blaine. Scanning the room, she found women in denim, and women dressed for Paris Fashion Week.
We were both right, Noah.
Then she spotted it: a huge black scuff mark on the toe strap of her left shoe.
Unreal! Will shoes ever stop betraying me?
And just like that, her mind shot to London.
Oh, Mr. Crown. You’d love this place. This is your vibe.
And thanks to your pocket watch, you’d be right on time.
Natalie checked the time. Okay, so technically this guy was only five minutes late, but first impressions still meant something in her mind.
She flipped through the wine book a second time, then pulled her phone from her purse.
A barrage of texts from Noah were waiting.
As she read through each one, her smile grew.
Noah: Are you there?
Noah: Mork calling Orson!
Noah: Order a No Man's Land. They make their own Grenadine!! #todiefor
Noah: Do the sexy hair flip!
Noah: Sneak into the Ladies Room and CALL ME!
She slipped her phone into her purse with a groan just as the server returned. That little shit. Does Blaine think this is a date-date? Oh, Noah, you and I are gonna have a long talk later.
“Something while you wait? Water? Pellegrino?"
“You know what? A vodka martini. No veggies.”
The man bowed his head in acknowledgment. He’d no sooner stepped out of view when another server arrived with her drink.
“But how?” Natalie asked him, glancing around in confusion. “Was he wearing a headset or something? Y’all are like an Indy pit crew.”
The second server just smiled and continued on. Natalie took a sip, her eyes scanning the entire bar. She spied a tall man near the hostess stand. Dark suit. Confident posture.
That’s gotta be him.
Their eyes met and he smiled. But the connection lasted only a second as he cruised past her table and joined a group already assembled in the corner.
Damn.
Natalie waited another ten minutes, slowly sipping her martini. She texted her dad.
Natalie: Guess who just got stood up?
Pop: Not my best girl
Natalie: Yep. At one of the best bars in Chicago.
Pop: Name him. We’ll have a little talk.
Natalie: You’d love that.
Pop: Papa Bear fury.
Natalie:
Pop: Stand by. I’m sending you something.
Natalie smirked, prepared for some silly meme or goofy selfie of her father.
Instead, her eyes widened when her phone buzzed with a Venmo notification.
Foster Powell sent a surprise in the form of dollars.
Even in their thirties with established careers and regular paychecks, he still loved to spoil his girls with what he called “little treat-prizes”.
She quickly typed a response, the disappointment of the night now replaced with familial warmth.
Natalie: POP!! Not necessary!!
Pop: Can’t I buy my girl a drink? Have two!
Her eyes stung a bit. She finished her martini and signaled the server.
"Round two?" he asked.
She held out her credit card. "Not tonight. Let's close it out. And would it be possible to get your manager’s business card?"
The guy glanced over his shoulder toward the main bar. "This one's on me."
“What? Oh, well, that's very nice of you, but-but …” she stammered, somewhat flustered.
"Whoever just stood you up sure missed out," he whispered.
His kindness pierced something in her chest. Outside, she slogged along the sidewalk as rain sprinkled, then intensified. With her purse over her head, she sprinted toward the closest refuge: a bookstore buzzing with customers riding out the storm.
Once inside, she texted Kate.
Natalie: What was the book you mentioned? I’m at the bookstore.
Kate: YOU’RE BOOK SHOPPING IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR BIG BUSINESS MEETING??
Natalie: Breaking: He stood me up.
Kate: WHAT?!?! Geez, what an SOB.
As Natalie typed a response, someone bumped her hard, sending her phone skittering under a display table featuring an oversized poster of a novel.
She crouched and reached under the table, her gaze snagging on a man.
He stood nearby, leaning against a bookcase, chatting with a store associate.
She quickly sized him up. Ginger-traced beard, tortoise-shell glasses, monochromatic ensemble, right down to his scarf.
City-hipster chic. Not her usual type, but on him it worked.
Oh, it worked.
Natalie retrieved her phone and straightened, picking up one of the few remaining books.
"You're about ten minutes too late," the bearded man announced.
"Late?"
He pointed to the poster. "For the book signing."
"Tamboor Realm and the Mystix of Dellacasspia?" she read aloud. "Seriously–who reads this?"
"Apparently, a lot of people.”
Natalie eyed the author's name. “Hart Lockwood. That’s his real name?”
"I think so."
"Sounds more romance than sci-fi.”
"Not a big sci-fi fan, I take it?"
"I'm probably the only person who hasn’t seen Star Wars," she confessed.
They fell into an easy discussion about bestseller lists and genres. His green eyes sparkled as he spoke, his tone playful and relaxed.
"You know your stuff," Natalie said.
"I teach creative writing at UC. Reading and storytelling are basically my oxygen.”
A professor.
Of writing.
Who dresses well.
And could be Ewan McGregor’s twin.
With eyes like St. Patrick's Day.
Somebody pinch me.
"Listen,” he said. “I’m about to head to the Tosche Station to pick up some more power converters. Care to join me?"
"Tosche Station?”
"You really haven't seen Star Wars, have you?"
"I really haven't.”