Page 45 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

Pop: Stand by. I’m sending you something.

Natalie smirked, prepared for some silly meme or goofy selfie of her father. Instead, her eyes widened when her phone buzzed with a Venmo notification. Foster Powell sent a surprise in the form of dollars. Even in their thirties with established careers and regular paychecks, he still loved to spoil his girls with what he called “little treat-prizes”. She quickly typed a response, the disappointment of the night now replaced with familial warmth.

Natalie: POP!! Not necessary!!

Pop: Can’t I buy my girl a drink? Have two!

Her eyes stung a bit. She finished her martini and signaled the server.

"Round two?" he asked.

She held out her credit card. "Not tonight. Let's close it out. And would it be possible to get your manager’s business card?"

The guy glanced over his shoulder toward the main bar. "This one's on me."

“What? Oh, well, that's very nice of you, but-but …” she stammered, somewhat flustered.

"Whoever just stood you up sure missed out," he whispered.

His kindness pierced something in her chest. Outside, she slogged along the sidewalk as rain sprinkled, then intensified. With her purse over her head, she sprinted toward the closest refuge: a bookstore buzzing with customers riding out the storm.

Once inside, she texted Kate.

Natalie: What was the book you mentioned? I’m at the bookstore.

Kate: YOU’RE BOOK SHOPPING IN THE MIDDLE OF YOUR BIG BUSINESS MEETING??

Natalie: Breaking: He stood me up.

Kate: WHAT?!?! Geez, what an SOB.

As Natalie typed a response, someone bumped her hard, sending her phone skittering under a display table featuring an oversized poster of a novel. She crouched and reached under the table, her gaze snagging on a man. He stood nearby, leaning against a bookcase, chatting with a store associate. She quickly sized him up. Ginger-traced beard, tortoise-shell glasses, monochromatic ensemble, right down to his scarf. City-hipster chic. Not her usual type, but on him it worked.

Oh, it worked.

Natalie retrieved her phone and straightened, picking up one of the few remaining books.

"You're about ten minutes too late," the bearded man announced.

"Late?"

He pointed to the poster. "For the book signing."

"Tamboor Realm and the Mystix of Dellacasspia?" she read aloud. "Seriously–who reads this?"

"Apparently, a lot of people.”

Natalie eyed the author's name. “Hart Lockwood. That’s his real name?”

"I think so."

"Sounds more romance than sci-fi.”

"Not a big sci-fi fan, I take it?"

"I'm probably the only person who hasn’t seen Star Wars," she confessed.

They fell into an easy discussion about bestseller lists and genres. His green eyes sparkled as he spoke, his tone playful and relaxed.