Page 70 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

“Nothing more to add?” Noah’s tone dropped, warm humor gone. “What the fuck, Nat? Otto doesn’t give two shits about your one-night stand. Furthermore, Otto doesn’t want to hear from me because I’m not a lead designer. Tonight was your job. The thing that pays your bills and gives you health insurance. We talked about this. You’ll nail the showcase, I’m sure, but until you sign investors, you’ve got to play by Otto’s rules.”

“I couldn’t sit in the middle of Chicago’s elite with my nipples standing at attention through my wet dress, Noah. I had to leave,” she snapped.

“You’re missing the point. You made this event all about your personal life when you were there to work. You think you can just waltz in on Monday with a champagne label and call it a day?”

“Hey, who's the one going on about Blaine this and Blaine that?”

“I mentioned Blaine because I thought that maybe, after you wrapped up all your recon, you might want to dance with a gorgeous guy. Keyword after. Business first.”

“Do you honestly think I got an ounce of pleasure out of tonight? I’m completely humiliated. And the one person I thought would understand is raking me over the coals. So, thanks for nothing.”

Hands shaking, Natalie ended the call and threw her phone on the couch. It rang two seconds later; she let it roll to voicemail. Rage coursed through her. Too risky to answer and say things she couldn’t take back.

You’ve gotta give me some time, Noah. I’m too mad right now.

And what’s done is done.

I must stay focused on the showcase.

She forced herself into the shower, then finished her final tasks: wrapping, packing, and re-organizing her to-do list. An hour and a half had passed before she checked her cell phone. Noah hadn’t called back. But he had sent one text—a GIF of David from Schitt’s Creek: I think you’re kind of rude.

She cracked a smile and replied with a Benedict Cumberbatch GIF: You’re right. Forgive me.

Two minutes later, he called.

“Noah, I love you and I’m so sorry,” she said immediately.

“I love you too and I’m sorry. I want to apologize in person. How about that all-night donut shop you love? I’ll grab us a couple of chocolate creams and we can hug it out.”

"That’s a sweet offer, but I'm exhausted. I have to get up in a few hours, remember?"

"I could read you a story. Stay 'til you fall asleep," he offered.

"Noah …”

"Well, since I can't administer to you in person, at least let me write you a prescription."

"A prescription?" she questioned.

"First, light some candles. Dozens. Break every fire code in the city. Then pour a good Kentucky bourbon. Four Roses, Woodford Reserve—something respectable. Drink it out of your favorite coffee mug. It adds comfort.”

"You know I hate bourbon."

"Finally, look up Larry Carlton on Spotify—the Strikes Twice album, track number eight. It’s the perfect score for your mood. My mom listened to it on repeat when she was in the throes of divorcing my stepdad."

Natalie laughed. "Noah Barton, you are too much."

"What can I say? I live for excess. Now promise you'll call if you need me."

"I will. Sorry I bit your head off."

“Forgiven and forgotten. And don’t worry about Otto. We’ll figure it out on Monday.”

“I wish you could go with me to Nashville.”

“Me too, girl.”

She ended the call and retreated to her bedroom. City lights glittered across the windowpane. Somewhere out there, Mr. Crown walked the same streets. Seeing him again cracked something inside her. That night in his arms. His smile in the pub. His warm breath on her neck.