Page 41 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"Dinner at my place. We can listen to my Barbra collection on vinyl.”

"That's a terrible idea." He fought back a shit-eating grin.

She cocked her head to one side. “Why?”

"Because Plan B should never sound better than Plan A."

Natalie's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Still half-asleep, she squinted at the Caller ID.

"Is it Dad?" Natalie asked, her voice full of panic when she answered.

"Why do you assume a late call means tragedy?” Kate slurred. “You woke me at all hours when you were in London.”

Natalie recognized her big sister’s tone—one fueled by a heavy-handed bartender.

“You’re right. Sorry. How'd it go tonight?"

"That's why I'm calling," Kate said, dissolving into tipsy giggles.

"Cookie finally wore you down? You're getting your own show?"

"No. That fussy little queen is on my shit list. I met someone," Kate confessed.

Natalie shot straight up. “What?”

"Yes. And Cookie nearly ruined it.”

"What happened? Start talking."

"There was this gorgeous older woman—Miranda something—early seventies, loaded. She knows Cookie. Anyway, she brought this incredibly handsome man, an energy CEO who⁠—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. My environmentally conscious sister spent the evening with an oil and gas guy? By choice?"

"He used to be in oil and gas. Now he runs a renewable tech firm. Brilliant stuff. Trust me, we are totally aligned where the environment is concerned."

Natalie snorted. "Yeah, we'll see. Continue."

She put Kate on speaker and stepped into her closet, staring down tomorrow: an extravagant Soiree bridal shower, then drinks with Blaine Sheridan, a well-connected potential client for Natalie & Co. She pulled shirts from hangers as Kate chattered on.

"Cookie interrupted us because he ‘needed a driver’. Drama queen.”

“You didn’t drive home … in your current condition … did you?” Natalie asked.

“Of course not. We called for a car, duh.”

Natalie sighed with relief. "So, what was this Miranda woman doing while you monopolized her date?"

"Oh, they’re just friends. Dash—that's his name—brought her because her husband couldn't make it. Nat, I’m telling you. This guy’s got it."

"Got what?"

"Potential.”

"You didn't sleep with him, did you?"

"You mean drop my skirt for some rank stranger like my baby sister did in London? We were in an art gallery, for God's sake."

Natalie’s eyes shot to a certain pair of jeans hanging on the bottom rung of her closet. "For your information, they were jeans, but point taken,” she conceded, feeling a tiny sting at her sister's playful jab. "Was there a kiss?"