Page 120 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"I finally convinced Natalie to let me make it up to her for missing our date. You went to so much trouble to set us up. You look gorgeous, by the way. Absolutely gorgeous,” Blaine said, his arm snaking around Natalie’s waist.

He deposited a kiss on her cheek, then whispered something in her ear. Natalie threw her head back, releasing the flirtiest laugh she could muster.

Noah's jaw dropped even more, which Natalie hadn’t thought possible.

"You two have been … talking? You never said a word, you tight-lipped little brat." Noah gave her shoulder what should have been a playful punch, but it landed with much greater force.

Oh, he is freaking out! God, I love this!

"I wanted to keep it a secret because, well, you've been the secret to my success from the minute I walked into Soiree. It's time you started making a real name for yourself in this town."

"What do you mean?” he asked.

"You're taking the lead on the Everett party tonight. From humble assistant to full-fledged designer."

"I'm sorry, what?" Head cocked to one side, Noah blinked a couple of times, looking exactly like one of her favorite memes.

"Surprise! And congratulations! You've earned every bit of this opportunity, and I am so proud of you."

She threw her arms around him in a tight embrace. His body went completely stiff, and it felt a little like hugging a dead tree. It took every ounce of willpower she had to not break character or go off script.

"Congratulations, Noah. Natalie's told me repeatedly she'd be lost without you," Blaine added, patting his shoulder with friendly affection.

"Yes, well, Mrs. Everett is going to be lost without her. She's counting on you being here and I believe you made her a promise," Noah said firmly.

"She’ll be fine. Trust me, she only has eyes for you, the man with the wicked sense of humor and the smile that won't quit."

The elevator doors opened again, and several staff members entered with carts of various items. Tableware. Candles. Champagne buckets. More flowers. The whole space buzzed with activity. The musicians began their sound check with the bassists playing a few chords. The time had come. Natalie gave Blaine a discreet but knowing look.

Blaine placed his hand on the small of Natalie’s back. "Listen, I hate to rush but we need to be going. We're attending a small dinner party."

"Blaine! Don't be so modest." Natalie swatted his arm, then turned back to Noah. "We’re attending a private formal dinner with a lot of top political brass, including our very own mayor."

"I think it will be an evening to remember.” Blaine’s gaze locked on Natalie, his eyes shining with attraction.

"Nat, could I, uh, could I talk to you privately for one quick sec?" Noah asked, his jaw tight and rigid.

"I'm sorry, Noah, but we must go. Check your email. I’ve already sent you my notes for tonight. If you need anything else, talk to Anton. The man can run these events in his sleep, there isn’t a terror ring member in sight, and I know there's nothing about tonight you can't handle," Natalie said, taking hold of Blaine’s muscular arm.

Back in the elevator, she turned around for one last look. Her plan, now off to a flawless start—better than she imagined. As the doors closed, Natalie bit down on her tongue and watched as the shock and frustration on Noah's face turned to panic. His slumped shoulders played beautifully off the crookedness of his bowtie.

And that, my dear Noah, would be checkmate!

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DASH

The limousine stopped in front of the restaurant at the appointed time. Dash's talk with Miranda on the ride over had helped calm his nerves.

“Nervous is good,” she'd told him. “Means you're fully invested. If you didn't give a shit, we'd have never come along on this wild ride.”

The driver quickly opened the door and, in minutes, the entire party piled into the elevator for the short ride up to the rooftop space.

"How're you feeling, Dash?" Kate asked.

"I'll let you know in about sixty seconds," he answered at the exact moment the doors opened.

A collective gasp rang out as the six of them stepped forward and drank in the elegance of the space. The glow of the candles. The soft sounds of the jazz trio. The perfume of hundreds of gardenias. All of it, resplendent against the twinkling Chicago skyline. And there, at the end of the table, wine glass in hand and bowtie loose around his neck, sat a defeated Noah Barton shaking his head.