Page 42 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"Only on the cheek. Right up by my ear. Sexiest non-kiss of my life."

"And he's got your number?"

"I gave him my business card. He might stop by the studio tomorrow."

"How old is he? What’s he look like?"

"I didn’t check his ID, but he’s my age. Late thirties. Maybe forty. Tall, dark and handsome."

"Our favorite flavor."

"And the bluest eyes too. And wow, can he fill out a tux."

The bluest eyes. God, to see Mr. Crown’s again.

Or hear his voice. Like whipped butter … and I’m toast.

Ok, stop. This is Kate’s moment.

“He’s also worth millions, according to Cookie. A mega-millionaire, he said. Not that I’m into him based on his finances, but it definitely doesn’t suck.”

Natalie crossed to her dresser and picked up the framed photo of Kate and Malcolm. Their smiles, frozen in time. The kind of love she and Mr. Crown never had the chance for. Bold. Unapologetic.

"I'm proud of you,” Natalie said softly. “Malcolm would be proud too."

Kate sighed. "It probably won't go anywhere. But flirting felt good. Really good. Not to brag, but I’m damn good at it."

"World-class,” Natalie agreed. “Every boy I ever brought home fell madly in love with you."

"Incorrect. They fell in lust with my tits. They fell in love with you. And speaking of tits, I ordered a pair for Dad’s birthday—soap-on-a-rope boobs.”

“Oh my god, Kate. You know he gets so embarrassed about stuff like that.”

“Exactly. Payback for all the times he’s embarrassed us.”

He’s gonna turn forty-eleven shades of red.

Oh, Pop, it’s gonna be so fun to watch you squirm.

CHAPTER TEN

NATALIE

Natalie abandoned the original outfit she’d assembled during Kate’s call the night before. Her bedroom now resembled a battlefield of shirts, skirts, and shoes. After thirty minutes of twirling in front of the mirror, she had yet to gain Noah's approval.

"Let's go back to the cigarette pants with the jacket. And those suede pumps,” he ordered, hands on his hips.

"You add the jacket and the pumps, Noah. I'm done." She yanked a scarf from around her neck and let it fall to the carpet. "I'm wearing my original outfit."

"You are not wearing jeans!"

"It’s drinks with a potential client, not a state dinner."

"It’s drinks with Blaine Sherdian—of the Chicago Sheridans—at Hive, the classiest bar in the city. You're not having wings at Hooters."

She disappeared into her closet. "The last thing I want to do is to look like I tried too hard. If Katie Holmes can walk a red carpet in jeans⁠—"

“First, we are not Katie Holmes. Second, that look landed her on half a dozen worst dressed lists.”