14. Dash/Natalie
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DASH/NATALIE
Three Days Before the Showcase
“The security gate opens up into the property. Pull all the way up. I’ll punch in the code,” Dash croaked. His voice barely passed for human.
The driver nodded and inched the luxury sedan up until the security keypad was right outside Dash’s window. He typed in the digits and the wrought iron gate to Miranda and Cecil’s estate opened. A pre-dawn gray painted the property. Dash hadn’t slept a wink and his body felt like wet cement.
Cecil stood waiting in the driveway, dressed in his robe and cowboy boots, and flanked by several suitcases. Dash and the driver exited the car at the same time.
"Morning, Cecil," Dash spoke, his voice a gravelly whisper.
Cecil shook his hand with a sympathetic wince. "You look and sound like holy hell."
"Let the record show that Dash Benning follows through on his word—even without a voice."
"Say Uncle and we'll end it here. You've made good on our bet. Miranda's a big girl. She can fly solo to Chicago for this shindig."
"And give her the chance to say I didn't go the distance? No way. A bet is a bet. I'll be okay." Dash fell into a fit of deep coughing that lasted a full minute.
"Well, use it to your advantage. If you can't respond, maybe she won't talk your ear off." Cecil squeezed Dash's shoulder.
The two men talked as the driver forced Miranda’s mountain of luggage into the trunk of the car.
"That's just her makeup," Cecil warned. "She's still got two steamer trunks to load."
"I guess we'll have to strap them to the roof," Dash said.
"Like hell. They're Louis Vuitton. For what I paid for those, you can strap Miranda to the roof. Those suckers are riding inside."
Miranda appeared a few moments later, fresh, radiant, and too energetic for the early hour. Dash couldn't help but smile.
"Kiss me, darlin’. If we don't get on the road in thirty seconds, we won't have time to stop for coffee," she said, patting Cecil’s chest.
"Your favorite caramel macchiato is iced, ready, and waiting. I had the driver stop on the way," Dash announced with what little voice he had left.
"Good lord, what happened to you?" She eyed him with motherly concern, then pressed a hand to his forehead. "You sound horrible. I think you're running a fever."
"I'm fine,” he insisted. “Nothing an Irish coffee won't cure."
"You look a little like roadkill, honey. I want you to skip tonight’s dinner party. I need my foxy-fox in tip-top shape for tomorrow's gala."
“Foxy-fox?” Dash questioned.
“Did I not tell you? The opera gala is masquerade-themed this year.”
Dash shot a look at Cecil. “She’s not serious.”
Cecil held up his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I offered you an out and you didn’t take it.”
Miranda patted Dash’s shoulder. “You’re going to love the fox mask I had made for you … unless, of course, you don’t think you’ll feel well enough to—”
"Miranda, my love, have I ever let you down?" Dash asked.
The ride to the airport was quiet. Miranda sipped her coffee and Dash watched the city waking up. His mind on overdrive, he welcomed the lack of conversation, but only for a while.
"Miranda?" he finally asked.
"Hmm?" she uttered, not looking up from her phone.
"How did you know Cecil was the one?"
She lifted her eyes up from the glow of the screen. "Are you asking if there was a lightning bolt moment? Stars across a crowded room?"
"Was there?"
She shook her head. "No. Cecil and I aren't that kind of love."
"What kind are you?"
"The slow-burn kind. We knew each other for years. We grew up together. I thought he was the most loud-mouthed, egotistical, self-absorbed bullshit artist in the world. Everyone kept trying to push us together and we kept resisting."
Dash nudged her. "Really? Even with that much in common?"
She laughed. “Please. Honey, looks are deceiving.”
"But you're soulmates,” he said quietly. “I've never known two people more in love."
"We don't feel that way all the time. There are times when we can't keep our hands off each other—yes, even old farts like us. Then there are days when we can’t stand to be in the same room. He calls me his Trollmate. I call him my Lump-of-Coalmate."
Dash grinned. "That proves it."
"I wish it were that simple. There were plenty of times we wanted to walk away. We both had attorneys on speed-dial at one point."
Her words hit him like a freight train. He’d seen their arguments over the years–loud, dramatic, theatrical. Yet underneath it all, an unshakable love.
"Miranda," His hoarse voice dropped. "I had no idea."
"No one does. We both drink too much. We're both stubborn. We fight like feral cats behind closed doors. But losing Eli … that nearly broke us.”
Dash squeezed her hand. Eli’s death. He still remembered the day the news came, the heart-shattering loss of their only child.
"Love isn't perfect," she continued. "It's not all romantic dinners and horse-drawn carriages. Love is work. Real, honest to goodness work.”
"You two make it look easy."
“That’s because Cecil picks me up on my darkest days, and I do the same for him. There isn’t one day where I said, ‘yep, he's the one’ and left it at that. We keep discovering it, over and over. He reminded me to pack my contact lens solution. I left him the last sleeve of Thin Mints.”
“The give-and-take of everyday life?”
“Exactly. It's not about the rooftop moments. I mean, the rooftop moments are wonderful and we've had our share. But really, when it comes right down to it, it's about fixing the leaky roof together."
Dash let her words sink deep, to a place he hadn’t acknowledged in months.
"Spending your life with another person can be the most beautiful thing in the world. But, at times, it can also be the most painful.”
“I’m glad y’all didn’t give up on each other.”
She squeezed his hand. “Me too.”
Miranda turned back to her phone. Again, Dash focused on the city outside his window. If only he could’ve recorded every word. She’d served up life lessons before, but this one was different. And delivered at the moment he was most ready to receive it.
“And to answer your original question—no, I can't tell you how I knew Cecil was the one. I just know the universe kept pushing Cecil and me back together. And when the universe deems it to be so …"
"Cecil is one lucky sonuvabitch."
"I’m the lucky one. He's a good man. And I know with absolute certainty he’d go to the ends of the earth for me."
"And you'd do the same."
"Well, I'd drive across Harris County at the very least," she smirked. "But never during rush hour."
Noah poked his head into Natalie’s office. "I think we have a problem."
She closed her copy of Nashville Now. “Hey, I was just about to text you. I'm grabbing lunch. What’s up?"
He stepped inside and closed the door. "Actually, you might not have much of an appetite when you see this." He slid a white invitation across her desk.
"What's this?" she asked, skimming it. “A charity gala? I didn’t know you were going.”
"I'm not. You are." His brows lifted. “Otto isn’t requesting your presence. He’s insisting."
Natalie's face turned from relaxed and cheerful to irritated and gloomy as she read.
“I’m flying to Nashville tomorrow night, you know that. Can you email his assistant and see if someone else …” Natalie’s words trailed off as she watched Noah shake his head.
"Did Anne Hathaway say no to Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada? No one tells Otto no."
"Yes, I know, but–"
He held up one hand. “Otto expects a full report first thing Monday morning, all the way down to the size of the shrimp. Spying is practically a commandment around here.”
Ethereal Events. Soiree’s main competitor. Her boss wrangled invitations to their biggest bookings. Of course, the man himself wouldn’t be caught dead making an appearance, because how would that look? No, he secretly sent his minions.
“I’m not even flying back until Monday night,” Natalie argued.
Noah’s mouth tilted in sympathy. Natalie glanced at the cover of Nashville Now—a cover that could one day be hers. The spark inside her flickered.
Noah folded his arms. “I guess we can tell Otto we’ve been secretly working right under his nose on your big showcase, laying the groundwork so you can launch your own firm.”
Her eyes and mouth turned down simultaneously. “You know I can’t do that.”
“No, you can’t. As much as we believe this showcase is going to be a success, there’s still a chance you might not find an investor. You need to keep Otto happy for now.”
Natalie’s chest filled. Her growly exhale filled the room.
He’s right. Again.
Dammit.
Noah leaned against her desk. “Here's the good news. I think I've figured out a way to make it worth your while."
She arched her brow. "You've lined up Daniel Craig to be my escort?"
"No. Better. Two words: Blaine Sheridan.”
Natalie groaned. "Not this again. His contacts are useless if he doesn’t show up.”
“He had emergency surgery, Nat. It’s not like he was ghosting you.”
“It doesn’t matter because I’m dating Hart."
Saying it out loud startled her with how good it felt. Syncing their schedules had been a challenge, but phone calls and flirty texts filled in the gaps. For now, it worked.
She tapped the invitation on her desk. "I'd ask him to go with me, but he has a speaking engagement tomorrow night."
"Come on, Nat. Please let me call Blaine, just to do a little preemptive recon. He goes to events like this all the time, so he might be there," Noah begged. "Probably dressed like a stag or a lion, all confident and fierce."
She narrowed her eyes. "I’m sorry, what?"
Noah winced. “Okay, now don't freak, but … it's a masquerade ball."
"A masquerade ball? Are you kidding me? Nope, no way. I'm not going, Noah. Otto can fire me for all I care."
Noah’s mouth fell open. "Wow. Dramatic much?"
Natalie stood and shoved her chair under her desk with a force that rattled her pencil cup.
“Hell yes, I'm dramatic. I don't have a mask, Noah. Or a dress. Or time to go shopping either. I have to pack and finish the last of my wrapping. I need to focus. This event is going to either make or break everything we’ve been working for.”
“Oh, please. Packing will take you fifteen minutes. And I can wrap the last few gifts."
"I. Don't. Have. Anything. To. Wear." Natalie clapped with every word for emphasis.
“Wear the dress you got for the showcase. Spritz the pits with a little vodka and stick it in the freezer; it’ll be fine.”
“It’s too casual for a gala. And what about a mask? I can’t just conjure one up from thin air.”
"A little faith, please? Remember Mr. Peacoat? He works in theatre. One call and you’ll have the most exquisite mask at the gala. And there’s a thrift shop near my place that specializes in formal clothing."
Natalie rubbed her temples.
You better be right, Noah.
I don’t have a spare minute in my schedule.
Or a dime’s worth of wiggle room in my budget.