16. Natalie
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NATALIE
Natalie kicked off her heels and dropped her clutch bag on the floor. Would anyone care if she screamed at the top of her lungs? Tears on her cheeks, she stripped down to the bare essentials, poured herself a drink, and collapsed onto the sofa.
Fucking Roman! It’s all his fault! Mr. Crown was right there, and he—
A call from Noah interrupted her internal rant. She answered, her tone defeated. "Noah, listen–"
"Don't tell me you've locked yourself in the ladies’ room?" he barked.
"What are you talking about?”
"Where the hell are you?"
"Home."
"Let me get this straight. I broke out my prized Versace tux, rushed my skinny ass down here—against my better judgment—and you're not even here?”
"Wait … you're there?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm here. Royally pissed off but looking fabulous. I've closed a ring on my Apple Watch walking all over this damn hotel and—"
"Noah, I am so sorry, but—"
"So, let's hear it. Chipped nail? Broken heel? Your monthly visitor? I'm sure you have some excuse."
"My ex is there."
"Your ex? You mean the yummy Italian morsel with the lead foot?"
"That's the one. And feel free to take a nibble if you like. I do not want him," she said with disgust.
"You two had words?" he inquired.
"You wouldn't believe it. I don't even believe it!"
"What happened?"
"He said he wanted us to have dinner! Said he wanted to spend time with me, apologize, all while his-his-his pregnant supermodel wife was standing less than ten feet from us!" she ranted.
"That reckless little pepperoni!"
“And if that’s not bad enough … I saw Mr. Crown.”
Noah’s gasp was followed by several beats of silence.
“I’m sorry, there must be a bad connection because it sounded like you just said you saw Mr. Crown.”
“I did. He was there. We had a conversation but didn’t recognize each other.”
“Ho. Lee. Shit. Are you sure it was him?”
“I saw him without his mask right as he was leaving. I tried to catch him but …”
Natalie touched the back of her hand, remembering the clamminess of his palm. They’d actually touched. Skin to skin. She’d looked into his eyes—dulled by illness but still a beautiful shade of blue.
“And if you’d caught him? What then?” Noah asked.
Good question. One she absolutely did not have an answer for.
"What about Blaine? Did you ever find him?"
"Noah, I wouldn't recognize Blaine without a mask, much less with one.
And I spent the majority of my time in rest rooms in various states of dress.
The night was a total loss and one I want to forget.
Tell Otto the shrimp were huge and the champagne runs about forty bucks a bottle.
A beautiful event. Nothing more to add."
“Nothing more to add?” Noah’s tone dropped, warm humor gone.
“What the fuck, Nat? Otto doesn’t give two shits about your one-night stand.
Furthermore, Otto doesn’t want to hear from me because I’m not a lead designer.
Tonight was your job. The thing that pays your bills and gives you health insurance.
We talked about this. You’ll nail the showcase, I’m sure, but until you sign investors, you’ve got to play by Otto’s rules. ”
“I couldn’t sit in the middle of Chicago’s elite with my nipples standing at attention through my wet dress, Noah. I had to leave,” she snapped.
“You’re missing the point. You made this event all about your personal life when you were there to work. You think you can just waltz in on Monday with a champagne label and call it a day?”
“Hey, who's the one going on about Blaine this and Blaine that?”
“I mentioned Blaine because I thought that maybe, after you wrapped up all your recon, you might want to dance with a gorgeous guy. Keyword after. Business first.”
“Do you honestly think I got an ounce of pleasure out of tonight? I’m completely humiliated. And the one person I thought would understand is raking me over the coals. So, thanks for nothing.”
Hands shaking, Natalie ended the call and threw her phone on the couch. It rang two seconds later; she let it roll to voicemail. Rage coursed through her. Too risky to answer and say things she couldn’t take back.
You’ve gotta give me some time, Noah. I’m too mad right now.
And what’s done is done.
I must stay focused on the showcase.
She forced herself into the shower, then finished her final tasks: wrapping, packing, and re-organizing her to-do list. An hour and a half had passed before she checked her cell phone. Noah hadn’t called back. But he had sent one text—a GIF of David from Schitt’s Creek: I think you’re kind of rude.
She cracked a smile and replied with a Benedict Cumberbatch GIF: You’re right. Forgive me.
Two minutes later, he called.
“Noah, I love you and I’m so sorry,” she said immediately.
“I love you too and I’m sorry. I want to apologize in person. How about that all-night donut shop you love? I’ll grab us a couple of chocolate creams and we can hug it out.”
"That’s a sweet offer, but I'm exhausted. I have to get up in a few hours, remember?"
"I could read you a story. Stay 'til you fall asleep," he offered.
"Noah …”
"Well, since I can't administer to you in person, at least let me write you a prescription."
"A prescription?" she questioned.
"First, light some candles. Dozens. Break every fire code in the city. Then pour a good Kentucky bourbon. Four Roses, Woodford Reserve—something respectable. Drink it out of your favorite coffee mug. It adds comfort.”
"You know I hate bourbon."
"Finally, look up Larry Carlton on Spotify—the Strikes Twice album, track number eight. It’s the perfect score for your mood. My mom listened to it on repeat when she was in the throes of divorcing my stepdad."
Natalie laughed. "Noah Barton, you are too much."
"What can I say? I live for excess. Now promise you'll call if you need me."
"I will. Sorry I bit your head off."
“Forgiven and forgotten. And don’t worry about Otto. We’ll figure it out on Monday.”
“I wish you could go with me to Nashville.”
“Me too, girl.”
She ended the call and retreated to her bedroom. City lights glittered across the windowpane. Somewhere out there, Mr. Crown walked the same streets. Seeing him again cracked something inside her. That night in his arms. His smile in the pub. His warm breath on her neck.
Stop it! This is ridiculous.
The timing with Mr. Crown was wrong then; it’s wrong now.
You have something good with Hart.
Call Hart. It’ll make you feel better.
She scrolled to his name and hesitated. He might still be at his speaking engagement. After a beat, she opted for a quiet text instead.
Natalie: Hope your event went well. Call or text me tomorrow. Looking forward to Sunday.
In the middle of reliving the hot scene on Hart’s desk, he chimed in with a text.
Hart: All packed?
Natalie: All packed.
Hart: It’s gonna be a great party. Looking forward to being a part of it.
Natalie: I really appreciate your support. It’s a lot to fly to Nashville for one afternoon.
Hart: It’s nothing I haven’t done before.
Natalie: Hashtag author life?
Hart: Creatives like us have to support each other. I scratch your back …
She left him on read for a bit, her mind reeling with possible replies. Things were definitely ramping up between them. His most recent texts had been flirtier and flirtier.
Let’s see how he responds to this.
Natalie: Or front …
Hart’s typing bubbles flickered for a full minute, then stopped. He called instead.
“Ah! So that’s how to lure you off texting,” she teased.
"You know what the most sexual organ is, Ms. Powell? It's the brain. And your quick wit is doing something to me. It's making me think about being with you … on you … in you."
"Don't confuse quick with fast," she purred.
His sexual quips were a lasso, pulled taut and leaving no wiggle room. Where would it lead, this weird but wonderful flirtation? When minutes before she’d mourned Mr. Crown?
"This is the part where I ask you what you're wearing."
"And this is the part where I tell you there are 1-800 numbers and an entire internet for that."
"You like to make a guy work for it, don't you?"
"Anything worth having is worth working for, Mr. Lockwood.” Her voice lowered, velvet smooth. “And if you haven’t figured it out yet … I’m one hundred percent worth it.”