Page 37 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"Where's this place again?" Dash asked.

"Some restored warehouse downtown. Miranda will know."

Dash grabbed his jacket. His tuxedo logged max mileage of late, thanks to a poorly judged putt and a friendly wager with good friend and surrogate dad, Cecil Everett. After losing, he’d agreed to escort Cecil’s wife, Miranda, to every gala within a thousand-mile radius. But Dash didn’t mind. Miranda was the closest thing he had to a mother—smart, mischievous, and a hell of a lot of fun.

Construction and detours through Houston’s swanky River Oaks put him behind schedule. He pressed the callbox outside the Everett estate and waited for the iron gate to open. A minute later, he jogged up to the massive front door, checking his reflection in the glass. He rang the doorbell and in seconds Miranda glided toward him in a fantastic midnight-blue gown. She opened the door with a Texas-size smile.

"Why, Mr. Benning," she purred, leaning against the door frame. "If you don't look positively delicious."

"As do you. You should probably change though. Everyone will be eyeing you and not the artist's work." He swept her into a spin across the foyer before dipping her dramatically. "Miranda Everett, you are every man's dream."

"Yes, but she's only one man's wife," a gruff voice barked.

Dash set Miranda upright. "I think we've been caught."

Cecil crossed his arms. "If you're gonna put the make on my wife, could you find some place other than under my own roof?"

"For your information, your wife is putting the make on me." Dash turned with a wink and shook hands with Cecil.

"You better be on your best behavior tonight," Cecil warned, giving Miranda's arm a playful squeeze.

"With Dash in a tux? I don't see how that's possible." The woman eyed her husband saucily.

"Dash?" Cecil turned to his friend for help.

Dash grinned. "I promise to keep a close eye on her.”

Minutes later, they were back in Houston traffic. Miranda scrolled her phone quietly, which suited him fine. He turned up the classic country music channel, thumbing the steering wheel to the beat of favorites by Reba, Conway, and Lyle Lovett.

Relax. Enjoy the night. You always have fun with Miranda … and who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone interesting.

This thought had barely formed when the opening bars of a certain Willie Nelson song filled the car. His chest tightened as he thought of her. Amelia. One night in London that haunted him in the best and worst ways.

With the speed of a jackrabbit on crack, Dash’s right arm shot out, hitting a preset button with a force that made Miranda jump.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. Time for some new tunes. You like seventies rock anyway,” he added.

“It is the best decade of music,” she said, turning back to her phone.

Dash hummed along to Steely Dan, but his mind drifted to one night of perfection with the mysterious Amelia Earhart. Truth be told, she penetrated his thoughts on a regular basis, filling him with gratitude. She’d given him the shove he needed to start dating again. In the months since their encounter, he’d gone out on dozens of dates. Younger women, older women, women he’d met on a dating app (Colt was still giving him shit about that). He’d met plenty of interesting women, but no one who stuck.

He had faith in Houston to change his luck.

“Dash!” Miranda shouted.

He slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a Range Rover. His right arm shot out instinctively to protect Miranda from impact. Her eyes were wide; so were his.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Miranda patted his hand with motherly reassurance. “Focus, hon.”

At the venue, he inched the car up toward the valet stand, still on edge from the near collision, and nervously tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Relax, Dash. That’s an order,” Miranda said firmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dash answered with a nod and a heavy exhale.