Page 31 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

“Yes, sir. I would check, but our system was down for a short time earlier. Access was still available, but keypad activity wasn’t logged for close to an hour. Security cameras were down as well. The systems work in tandem, you see.”

“So, no footage at all?”

“I’m afraid not. But I do recall seeing her. I was working on the problem with a couple of gents at my computer terminal when she entered. I’m sorry I can’t give you a specific time. Perhaps the gentlemen who were assisting me might be able to⁠—”

Damn! I probably missed her by minutes. Might as well be centuries.

“No, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” he said, his words more encouraging than his tone.

“I’d like to reassure you this lapse in security has been fully remedied.”

“Like we say back home: shit happens.”

“It most certainly does, and we appreciate your understanding, Mr. Benning. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“No, Pete. That’ll do it. Have a good evening.”

“You as well, sir.”

Well, shit. So much for trying to get those dogs to hunt.

Dash read her note again, mining for any hidden meanings he might have missed. A clue of some kind. The tiniest hint of her identity, her destination. He found none.

Time to let it go.

Colt’s right. This woman gave you exactly what you needed. You’ve been in perpetual flatline for two years and she restarted your heart.

And if she can do it, then surely there’s another woman out there who can, too.

You’re thirty-nine years old, Dash Benning. You swore you’d be settled by forty.

Maybe now’s the time to change the purpose of that old stopwatch.

Take the ladies off the clock …and put yourself on it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NATALIE

6 months later

“How great are these?”

Noah held up a pair of hot pink men’s boxer shorts covered in a loud print of gold horseshoes and green shamrocks.

Natalie checked the price with a gloved hand. “Sixty bucks? Who pays sixty bucks for boxers?”

He peered over the top of his glasses. “Men who believe their nether regions deserve luxury.”

“My father doesn’t need high-dollar boxers. He’s got tighty-whities older than me.”

Noah grimaced. “A visual I can do without.”

“I need cheap and silly. A keychain. Refrigerator magnets. Stuff like that.”

He folded the boxers and set them back. “There’s a little gift shop a few blocks down. If that’s a bust, we can try the indie bookstore I mentioned.”

A brisk Chicago wind slapped her face when she stepped back outside on the street. Even with the sun overhead, she shivered in the brutal cold. Natalie tightened her thick wool scarf, then looped her arm through Noah’s. They made it half a block before the warmth of a coffee shop pulled them in like a tractor beam.