Page 36 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

“Then why?”

“This event is huge—like, three hundred plus invites—and he’s dying for me to put myself back in circulation.”

Natalie’s gaze slid to another frame: Kate and her late husband, Malcolm. Their last Christmas. Smiling through the pain. Three years gone, and Kate still guarded.

“And how do you feel about … circulating?” Natalie asked in a gentle tone.

Kate nuzzled the dog. “I don’t know. Part of me agrees with him. Part of me feels like it’s too soon.”

“It wasn’t that long ago you told me that when the time is right, the perfect guy will appear. I think you should open yourself up to the possibility. Just see what happens.”

“Are you using my own Big Sister logic against me?”

Natalie laughed. “Absolutely. But seriously—someone special is out there. You’re going to fall in love again, and I can’t wait to watch it unfold.”

Her eyes drifted to the dried gardenia bloom in a silver frame on her nightstand. And hopefully, one day, when Natalie & Co is up and running, it’ll happen for me …

Her thoughts were interrupted by an incoming call. Her pulse jumped when she recognized the number.

Be calm. Be professional. You’ve got this.

“Kate, I’ve gotta take this. Love you. Have fun tonight.”

Natalie switched calls before Kate could respond.

“Natalie Powell,” she answered brightly.

“Hi, Ms. Powell, it’s Hannah Hunt, from Nashville Now magazine. How are you?”

Natalie snatched her notebook and flipped pages with jittery fingers. “I’m great. How are you?”

“I’m well, and I need to apologize. Your initial email slipped through the cracks. Thanks for following up.”

“No problem at all. It happens.”

“I’m very interested in covering your showcase. Based on what you sent, it sounds like quite the event. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

“Absolutely.”

Natalie smiled and crossed off another item on her list.

CHAPTER NINE

DASH/NATALIE

Dash gave up, a bow tie hanging loosely around his neck. He'd tried to work the silky strip into something presentable, but after the fourth failed attempt, he called out for assistance.

"Colt, help me out here?"

"What makes you think I know how to work one of those things?"

Colt straightened the tie anyway and brushed lint off Dash’s jacket with practiced annoyance.

"I’d say you look like a million bucks,” he said, spinning Dash back toward the mirror. “But after taxes, you’re sitting at a cool six hundred grand.”

Dash huffed a laugh and studied their reflection. Hard to believe Colt was once the cool seventh grader whose father had married Dash’s mother when he was just a second grader. The age gap between them had shrunk every year since. Stepbrothers by circumstance. Best friends by choice.

When their parents died in a tragic boating accident during Dash's senior year, Colt stepped into the roles of father, brother, and drill sergeant without hesitation. Years later, when Colt's fiancée was killed by a drunk driver, Dash returned the favor, nursing Colt through his darkest days. They joked of their confirmed bachelor status, destined to grow old together—because what woman had the patience for their particular brand of bullshit?