15. Natalie
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NATALIE
Two Days Before the Showcase
"Time check?" Natalie asked, pulling the pale-pink taffeta coat over her shoulders.
"You're right on schedule." Noah tapped his phone like a NASA engineer. "Based on traffic and the fact that half a dozen other events are happening in a two-block radius, you should arrive at the peak of cocktail hour. Fashionably late, but prime time to see and be seen."
"How do I look? Presentable?" She tucked a loose strand back into her sleek chignon and twirled around, feeling more super model than event planner. The beaded white dress she’d scored in a thrift shop highlighted all her best assets. She and Noah had argued about the neckline. She hadn’t wanted to show too much skin, but Noah had insisted.
In the end, they compromised. Sort of. She had to admit, the forties-inspired, off-the-shoulder gown made her feel spectacular.
"All you need is the cherry on top." Noah peeled back layers of tissue paper, revealing an elaborate mask.
Natalie huffed. "Do I really have to wear that? It's huge. With my hair up like this, it’ll make me look bald."
"I sold my gay soul for that mask. You're going to wear it. And you're going to love it.”
"Not in the cab though," she muttered, running her fingers over the intricately beaded ears, smirking at the stylized tip of one ear, playfully bent forward.
"You absolutely have to wear it in the cab. Think of the buzz when you step out in front of one of the most famous hotels in Chi-Town. You, in that show-stopper dress, the mysterious white rabbit? You’re a modern-day Candice Bergen.
You'll put the magnificent in the Magnificent Mile.
" He framed her with his hands, as if lining up for a shot.
“Candice who?” Natalie asked.
Noah pressed his fingers to his temples. “You’re not serious. Candice Bergen? Model. Actress. Daughter of the Edgar Bergen. She wore a rabbit mask to Capote’s famous Black and White ball in the sixties. FX literally made a series about it.”
“Well, pardon me for having a life beyond cable.” She secured the mask and checked her reflection in the small powder room mirror off her office. “This damn thing covers my entire face. I can barely breathe."
"There are times when sacrifices must be made. Now get out there, flash that flirty grin, and channel your inner Carrie. Maybe there will be a little Sex in the City tonight."
"It's a fundraiser, Noah, not a meat market.”
“It's the wealthy and the powerful mixing with the bold and the beautiful. Sex is definitely on the menu, right after the double-chocolate mocha trifle."
"Not for me," she spoke adamantly, giving her perfectly toned midsection a pat. "On either account."
He crossed his arms. “And when was the last time you shared an intimate moment with someone?"
"Last week," Natalie answered matter-of-factly. They both knew it was a lie.
"A bikini wax doth not an intimate moment make,” he muttered.
Noah walked her downstairs and flagged a cab. Two air kisses later, she was off. Unfortunately, Noah’s confidence in Chicago traffic was unfounded. Five minutes in, she hit gridlock. She fanned herself with the stiff invitation.
This effing mask! I think my make-up is melting off my face! And this must be the itchiest dress ever created! Plus, these shoes are medieval torture!
Hells bells, Noah! How did I let you talk me into all this…
"Sir, could you blast the air?” she asked, her fanning more furious.
The driver obliged with a nod.
Her phone buzzed. Noah texted a photo–one he snapped on her way out. She smiled despite herself. The dress and the mask looked incredible. She sent the pic to Kate, along with an update on her mini gifts.
Natalie: A wooden back-scratcher, a four pack of En Fuego hot sauce shots, and assorted scratch-offs. I AM DONE!
Kate’s reply came immediately … only it wasn’t Kate.
Pop: Not sure what all that means, but you look beautiful, honey! Prettiest bunny I’ve ever seen.
Anxiety sliced through her like a hot knife.
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
Fix it. Fix it fast.
Natalie: Sorry, Pop! Meant to send that to a coworker. But thank you!
Pop: Looks like you’ll be burning the midnight oil.
Natalie: Nah. Just popping into an event. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
Pop: Me too. Can’t wait to have my girls all to myself.
Natalie: I love you MORE!
Pop: Hey! That’s my line!
Crisis averted. Natalie exhaled and switched text threads. Her sister’s reply was also immediate.
Kate: LOOK AT MY BABY SISTER!!!
Natalie: Thank you! I can’t believe I got stuck with this assignment. My plan: work fast, be packed and asleep by midnight.
Kate: Throw everything in your suitcase and we’ll knock it out together tomorrow.
Natalie: Does Pop suspect anything?
Kate: Nope. Same old Pop.
After a few more texts, Natalie put her phone away. The cab crept within a few car lengths of the hotel. Limousines pulled to the curb, releasing masked opera patrons. She inhaled deeply, basking in the magic of it all.
Relax, Nat. This could be fun.
"I'll get out here," she told the cab driver.
Inside, Natalie grabbed a glass of champagne and parked herself in a balcony niche overlooking the Grand Ballroom.
Her party of one didn’t last long. People swarmed her, everyone enchanted by her dress and mask.
At times she wondered if she was spying for Otto, supporting the arts, or running for public office.
When her flute emptied, she slipped to the nearest bar. She ordered another champagne, squinting to read the label for her report to Otto.
Damn. They splurged. Big time.
When the line thinned, Nat let herself flirt with the bartender.
Jaxon. With an x. A total hunk with biceps for days, dark curly hair, and a mustache to rival Magnum PI.
He bragged about top shelf liquors while she typed notes and snapped pics, including one of him (for research, obviously).
She scored his business card before moving on to Phase II: appetizers.
She’d just tucked her clutch under her arm when a tall man appeared beside her.
"Can I get a Sprite or Seven-up? Or club soda?" His hands braced the bar. His fox mask hid most of his face, but the sheen of sweat on his neck and his slight sway told her he wasn’t drunk.
This man was ill.
Natalie took a step toward him. "Sir, are you okay?"
He nodded but said nothing.
"Can I go find someone for you?"
"No … I just need a minute," he said, his voice like sandpaper.
Natalie’s event-planner instincts kicked on. She'd witnessed guests go down time and again for a number of reasons. She scanned the balcony for a chair, then remembered an ottoman in the ladies' room.
The man downed the soda in one gulp and held the glass out.
“More,” he whispered, his knuckles bone-white on the bar.
“This guy needs a cold cloth of some kind," she said to the bartender.
Jaxon worked quickly, shaking a wet cloth with ice in a cocktail shaker like a pro. He tossed it to her.
"Sir," Natalie said softly, touching the man’s arm. “This will help. May I?"
Heat radiated off him as she held the cloth to the back of his neck. His quiet sigh signaled relief. He lifted his hand, covering hers as he pressed the cloth more firmly against his skin. Her heart drummed a sympathetic beat.
Poor guy! Please don’t let this be the flu. I cannot get sick.
"Better?" she asked.
He lifted his face. The fox mask didn’t hide the pain in his glassy eyes. Her chest tightened and an unusual feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Blue eyes. Her greatest weakness.
I bet those eyes sparkle when he's actually conscious. Poor guy!
"I think I know something else that’ll help. One minute."
She turned and hustled to the ladies' room. An attendant eyed her suspiciously from her perch on a stool, as Natalie hoisted the ottoman.
"Wow!" She wrestled to gain comfortable positioning. "This thing is heavier than it looks."
The attendant shot to attention. "Ma'am, you can't take that.”
"There’s a sick guest. I promise to bring it back. Could you get the door for me?"
When she got back to the bar, the man was gone. Her eyes swept the balcony, but Mr. Fox had vanished.
Well, at least he's not face down on the floor.
Natalie returned the ottoman. As she turned to leave, the attendant gasped.
"What?" Natalie asked, locking on her reflection. A giant black smudge, dead center at vajayjay level.
"Oh my God!" She looked down, horrified.
"Don't touch it! I think I have a Tide Stain Stick."
"This is unbelievable! Does no good deed go unpunished?"
"Take it off," the attendant insisted.
"What?"
"Take off your dress. I'll try to fix it.”
Natalie yanked off her mask, tossed it on an overstuffed velvet chair, then slipped into a stall to shimmy out of the dress.
Shivering in just her bra and thong, she thought of the fox-masked stranger.
Instantly, her mind landed on the image of a man of similar height and build.
A man with bright blue eyes, sitting in a London pub, wearing the ugliest tie known to man.
What is it with me and foxes?
Aren’t they supposed to be lucky?
Minutes later, the attendant sighed and returned the dress. “I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.”
Natalie thanked her, dropping a few bucks in the tip jar. She threw the mask back on for cover and fled. She grabbed a glass of champagne for courage and headed downstairs. The dim lighting and the strategic position of her clutch bag hid the worst of the stain, but she couldn’t stop looking down.
Which is how she plowed headfirst into a guest.
Mr. Fox.
Her glass champagne sloshed and spilled down the front of her dress. Likewise, his drink drenched his shoes.
"Ma'am, I am so sorry." he rasped, offering a monogrammed handkerchief before collapsing into a fit of nasty coughing.
Ugh! I give up with this guy!
"It's fine." She snatched the handkerchief. “This is all on me."
Literally! Champagne is pooling in my bra. It’s even in my shoes!
A gray-haired woman in an elegant owl mask approached. “Can I help?”
"No, thank you." Natalie walked away before she screamed.