Page 102 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

It was the fire at Terrace Oak.

The double whammy: no investor had replied to the emails she’d sent while waiting for her flight back—reassuring them that partnership with her would be lit, but not with actual flames.

So much for starting Natalie & Co in nine months. Or eighteen. Or ever.

The universe has spoken.

Time to move on from this dream.

Another one bites the dust.

Drained and drenched, she walked in defeat back to her apartment. A trail of wet clothes in her wake, she took refuge in a hot shower. As the water rolled down her bare skin, her thoughts returned to Dash and the moments they shared behind her bedroom door.

Natalie's chest heaved again, tapping the well with more tears. Her thoughts divided into opposing camps: the proverbial angel on one shoulder, devil on the other.

You can’t go on like this. You have to tell Kate the truth. No man is worth sacrificing your love and loyalty to your sister. And she’s more than a sister. Kate’s been like your mother for years. And Mom would want you to be honest with her.

And Dash agreed it was best to say nothing. Because he wants to make it work with Kate? His not wanting to mess things up couldn’t mean anything else.

She stepped from the shower and into her favorite silky robe, then twisted her hair up inside a towel. From the kitchen, she contemplated Noah’s prescription—straight bourbon out of a coffee cup, but decided against alcohol. Instead, she refilled her water bottle, grabbed a half-eaten pint of ice cream, and headed for the couch. She reached for her cell phone and queued up her favorite playlist on Spotify. In seconds, Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” echoed softly throughout her living room via a wireless speaker.

Natalie stared out at the city beyond her tiny balcony in silent contemplation. Dash owned her thoughts, now more than ever. The details of their secret Sunday night pow-wow played in her head like a movie. As her head bobbed in time with the song, she quietly dissected Ms. Nicks' haunting lyrics, recalling exactly what she had … and what she’d lost.

What she had.

And what she’d lost.

Eyes closed, Natalie made a final plea for inner peace, praying the morning would bring clarity and a white flag for the internal war that raged within.

She polished off the ice cream and retreated to her bedroom. Teeth brushed and book in hand, she read until her phone lit up with the notification of a missed call from Noah. Aww, Noah. Natalie had lost count of the many voicemails he’d left over the last twenty-four hours. They’d spoken only via text since her return, and her responses had been pretty cryptic: I’m home. I’m sick. We’ll talk later.

Her phone lit up again, this time with a text from him containing three words: I’m coming in. Seconds later, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

“Are you decent?” Noah yelled.

“I’m naked and already in bed,” she called out.

“Good thing I’m a gay man and not tempted in the least,” he hollered back.

“Give me a second, please.”

Natalie fished a clean pair of leggings and a faded Hall & Oates’ t-shirt from a laundry basket beside her dresser. She dressed quickly, taking inventory of her bedroom. Her bed, nothing but a mass of rumpled linens dotted with books and magazines. The floor, littered with an assortment of discarded clothing. Her whole apartment, like her life, in total disarray. For those who knew her well, these were giant red flags.

"That key is for emergencies only,” she announced.

"By the look of things, I think this qualifies as such," he shot back. “This kitchen is a disgrace. But you’ve been busy with the showcase and under the weather, so I won’t judge.”

Natalie tore off her head towel and raked her fingers through her damp hair. She made her way to the kitchen where she found Noah darting around like a man on a mission.

“Stop!” he warned upon sight of her. “Get back in bed before you ruin the whole surprise.”

“Noah, you shouldn’t have.”

“But I have, so indulge me, s’il vous plaît.” He made a motion with his hand.

Natalie turned and retreated to her bedroom, scooping up enough dirty clothes to clear a path to her bed. She’d barely slipped back under the covers when he entered, tray in hand.

“Powell, table for one!” he said, beaming with pride as he placed the tray on her lap. He stood beside her bed, ready to receive her endless praise.