Page 66 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"What?" Natalie asked, locking on her reflection. A giant black smudge, dead center at vajayjay level.

"Oh my God!" She looked down, horrified.

"Don't touch it! I think I have a Tide Stain Stick."

"This is unbelievable! Does no good deed go unpunished?"

"Take it off," the attendant insisted.

"What?"

"Take off your dress. I'll try to fix it.”

Natalie yanked off her mask, tossed it on an overstuffed velvet chair, then slipped into a stall to shimmy out of the dress. Shivering in just her bra and thong, she thought of the fox-masked stranger. Instantly, her mind landed on the image of a man of similar height and build. A man with bright blue eyes, sitting in a London pub, wearing the ugliest tie known to man.

What is it with me and foxes?

Aren’t they supposed to be lucky?

Minutes later, the attendant sighed and returned the dress. “I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.”

Natalie thanked her, dropping a few bucks in the tip jar. She threw the mask back on for cover and fled. She grabbed a glass of champagne for courage and headed downstairs. The dim lighting and the strategic position of her clutch bag hid the worst of the stain, but she couldn’t stop looking down.

Which is how she plowed headfirst into a guest.

Mr. Fox.

Her glass champagne sloshed and spilled down the front of her dress. Likewise, his drink drenched his shoes.

"Ma'am, I am so sorry." he rasped, offering a monogrammed handkerchief before collapsing into a fit of nasty coughing.

Ugh! I give up with this guy!

"It's fine." She snatched the handkerchief. “This is all on me."

Literally! Champagne is pooling in my bra. It’s even in my shoes!

A gray-haired woman in an elegant owl mask approached. “Can I help?”

"No, thank you." Natalie walked away before she screamed.

She ducked into another restroom and stuffed wads of toilet paper in each cup of her bra. The electric hand dryer had little effect on her shoes. She shoved her feet back inside them, cringing with each squishy step.

Please, for the love of all things holy, get me out of here.

Back in the ballroom, she pushed through the crowd, muttering ‘excuse me’ more times than she had in her entire life. Halfway to the exit, a heavy hand clamped on her shoulder. She whipped around, ready to unleash fury—then froze.

Roman.

No effing way.

He tipped his mask down. “I thought that was you."

"Oh my God … hi." Natalie’s voice thinned.

Of all the ballrooms in all the cities in all the world, Roman DeLuca—Grand Prix golden boy—stood inches away.

"You look incredible,” he said, kissing her cheeks in smooth Italian fashion.