18. Natalie
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NATALIE
Showcase Day
“Just got a notification from Southwest. My flight’s been delayed?! What the hell?” Natalie announced, projecting her best distressed-traveler performance from the back of Foster’s SUV.
Foster caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “You don’t want to wait it out at the airport, do you? Let’s head back home and I’ll throw something on the grill.”
Kate immediately shot the idea down. “Or we grab something at Terrace Oak. I’m dying for a big bowl of their crab-and-oyster bisque.”
Natalie chimed in with the same enthusiasm. Foster shrugged and made a U-turn. Natalie slid her hand up between the front passenger seat and the center console and gave Kate a stealthy nudge. The trap had been set. Next stop: showcase-slash-surprise-birthday-blowout.
At the restaurant, a long line snaked from the valet stand. Natalie’s pulse spiked as she scanned the crowd, hoping all their guests were already assembled in the private courtyard out back. Should Foster catch sight of a few familiar faces, he might put two and two together.
"I don't know,” Foster said. “Seems awfully busy. Why don't we try Carmella’s? They don't have the bisque but everything there is great. And who knows how long the wait might be. And with Nat’s flight up in the air, we shouldn't push it. We don’t want her sprinting through Security.”
“She’ll be fine.” Kate poked her father's shoulder. “You're a big boy of seventy now. Live on the edge a little, Pop."
Inside, Natalie whispered the password to the hostess stand, who in turn motioned to a gentleman in a dark gray suit. Hans, the manager.
"Welcome in. How many in your party?" The man stepped forward.
"Three," Kate said.
"Right this way.” He threw Natalie a covert wink.
Her stomach tightened with each step toward the patio doors.
The moment had arrived.
Every sleepless night. Every frantic email. Every penny she’d saved (plus a thousand bucks borrowed from Kate). Behind those frosted French doors, a verdict awaited: Founder and CEO of Natalie & Co, or broke youngest Powell daughter, back under Otto’s thumb.
"We've set up a few overflow tables outside with complimentary chicory coffee,” Hans said at the doors. “We'll call you as soon as we have a table ready."
"Thank you," Natalie said, pulse hammering.
Kate swept an arm toward the door. "After you, Daddio."
Foster pushed them open and the patio erupted as a wall of voices belted out the Happy Birthday song.
The trio from Vanderbilt banged out the tune and for the second time that weekend, Foster’s eyes brimmed.
He turned to his daughters and pulled them in for a trembling hug.
Moments later, he was swallowed by a sea of friends.
Natalie made a visual sweep of the space, mentally sorting the group by net worth. Recording executives. Club owners. Restaurateurs. Horse-world millionaires. Real estate moguls.
Some of the deepest pockets in Nashville are in this courtyard. Just need to dip my hand into one.
Drinks and laughter swelled. Natalie and Kate shared a victorious high-five and slipped back into the shade.
"Mission accomplished," Kate whispered. “It’s gorgeous.”
"Uh, yes," Natalie agreed.
"Are you okay? You've hardly said two words all day. Other than your bit of acting in the car, which was amazing, by the way.”
"What? No. Just a lot on my mind. Game Day mode. I'm going to check in with Hans about the food. Also, we’re supposed to have three bartenders out here.”
And her most important task: withholding her late-night discovery of Mr. Lockwood's marital status. No way would she drop that bomb. Let the adulterous asshole serve the role as high-profile guest and nothing more.
After touching base with Hans and security placements, she returned to the patio.
The crowd had doubled. Foster stood with a cigar in one hand and a mimosa in the other.
Kate stood tucked in the corner with a small group.
She caught Natalie’s eye and waved her over.
Natalie wiggled her way through the crowd, her smile widening—until she spied a tall man standing beside her sister, only the back of his head visible.
Big Tex. Finally!
Kate beamed. "And here comes the woman responsible for this gorgeous soiree.”
The man turned.
Natalie met his gaze.
The whole world stopped.
The courtyard, the music, the people—everything faded to black. All that remained? London. His hands on her hips. His mouth on her throat. His voice, low and sinful against her skin.
"If I knew your name, I'd whisper it a thousand times. Stay one more night. Dinner, dancing … every room … fall asleep with me."
"Natalie?" Kate’s voice floated in from a far-away place.
Her throat closed. Her vision tunneled. Beads of sweat dotted her neck.
Her armpits transformed into Louisiana swampland.
Her brain fired off images like an industrial printer gone berserk.
Every second of their night, vivid and magical.
Then, the shocking realization of the phone call.
The voice she hadn’t recognized. The question she’d asked: Is this the boyfriend?
Dash is Kate’s boyfriend.
HER BOYFRIEND.
"Nat, I'd like you to meet Dash," Kate said proudly.
Natalie couldn’t move, frozen as solid as the venison in Foster’s freezer back home. She devoured Dash’s blue eyes, hungry for any sign of recognition on his part.
She found none.
Nothing.
Not a spark.
Natalie’s eyes then darted to Kate’s, hers bright and cheerful and flirty, for the first time since Malcolm’s passing. Like death by a thousand cuts, agonizing questions severed her thoughts as she focused on the glow of her sister’s face.
Does Dash look at her the way he looked at me?
Kiss her the same way?
Touch her the same way?
Dash extended his hand. "Very nice to meet you." His voice, still low and gravelly, but somewhat improved since their conversation at the opera gala.
No. No, no. no.
We have met. We danced. We kissed. We had hot sex on your couch. You begged me to stay. Tell me you remember.
She hand moved on its own, wooden and numb. "Natalie Powell."
In all her thirty-four years, she and Kate had shared everything. Barbies. Clothes. Tears. Laughter. Secrets. But never men. Not even celebrity crushes. Her beloved Mr. Crown was now her sister’s boyfriend. No amount of wishing, crying, or pleading with the universe would change that fact.
Her heart plunged like an Olympic diver, slicing through her deepest emotions into a cold, merciless truth:
Kate had finally found happiness.
And Mr. Crown could never be hers again.