Page 82 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

Natalie spun around, her cheeks flaming. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m scratching your back, remember …” he said innocently. “But now that I think about it, you wanted your front scratched.”

He cupped her breast.

Natalie shoved him. Hard.

Hart stumbled into a server carrying drinks. The server crashed into the beignet station. Hot grease from two deep cooking vessels sloshed onto flames, igniting an instant fireball. Another server panicked and threw a pitcher of water, sending the flames sky-high.

The beloved 150-year-old tree—the crown jewel of Terrace Oak—caught fire in seconds. Flames raced along a river of spilled grease. Tablecloths ignited. Guests screamed. Foster hollered for everyone to stay calm, but chaos had already claimed the patio.

Natalie froze, taking in the whole scene as though it were cut straight from The Matrix. Her dream, going up in literal smoke in extreme slow motion and ample pyrotechnics. The sprinklers erupted in the private dining area. Water rained down from the chandeliers. Men shielded their cocktails. Women fled under their designer handbags as they bolted toward the exit gate. The fire’s searing heat was nothing compared to the intense embarrassment melting Natalie from within.

Tears would come, enough to extinguish every flame. Natalie had no choice but to succumb to the absurdity of it all. Someone grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the emergency gate. It wasn’t until they burst into the parking lot that she realized that someone was Dash.

CHAPTER TWENTY

NATALIE

“Are you hurt?” Dash asked.

They were a safe distance from the patio now. Dash held Natalie by her shoulders, his gaze surveying her person for signs of injury. She could only answer with a nod. To make an utterance of any kind, no matter how small, would release a floodgate of emotion. Any vocalization would have been drowned out by the sirens of fire trucks and first-responder vehicles anyway. A moment later she felt the protective, comforting arms of her father and sister around her. Dash walked away, giving them some privacy in this harrowing moment.

Kate smoothed Natalie’s hair with a loving touch. “It’s gonna be okay, Nat …”

“It was an accident, sweetheart, and by no means your fault,” Foster added.

But it is my fault!

I let that piece of shit into this event knowing he was married!

Because I was so hungry for a celebrity endorsement!

“I need to find Hans.”

Natalie spotted him across the parking lot, now a carnival of chaos as patrons from the public dining areas poured out the front of the building. She bolted toward him. Together, they made a quick headcount, confirming that all her guests were accounted for and unharmed—except for the jazz trio. While the musicians themselves were safe, their instruments and equipment were currently being deluged by Nashville FD. It would be a total loss. Both Natalie and Hans reassured the students that somehow, someway, they would be fully reimbursed, once insurance adjusters weighed in.

Hopefully, I won’t have to sell a kidney to cover the cost, but if I do, so be it.

Natalie circled through the parking lot again, checking in with each guest, extending her most heartfelt apologies. While reactions were kind and supportive, no one made mention of a future with Natalie & Co. Foster and Kate joined her and the three of them huddled together on a curb. Natalie pulled her knees to her chest, burying her head in her hands.

“My purse … and my work bible. Oh my God! All the photos on the memory table,” Natalie said.

“That’s why we used copies of photos and not the originals. Once the fire is fully out, we’ll ask a fireman to check,” Kate said.

“This place has insurance out the wazoo, honey. I wouldn’t worry about a thing.” Foster patted her shoulder.

“It’s not your fault the beignet station wasn’t secured. That’s one hundred percent on them,” Kate insisted. “My God, you were standing right there. You could have suffered serious burns.”

“Speaking of, where’s your author friend?” Foster stood up, a hand shielding his eyes as he skimmed the crowd.

Hopefully, on the next flight back to Chicago! Back to his wife and kids and his dog, that for some unknown reason he named after a goddamn salad!

Foster pointed. “Looks like he’s being treated by a paramedic.”

Natalie looked up and followed her father’s finger to an ambulance. A medical technician stood wrapping Hart’s hand in a white bandage. As mad as she’d been, she’d never meant for him to sustain any sort of physical injury. Wound his pride? Hell yes! But nothing that would leave a visible scar. She stood and dusted off the back of her dress.

“Kate, can you help me?” Natalie asked, pointing to her downed zipper.