Page 34 of One Midnight Kiss

That stopped me in my tracks. Natalia? Missing work? It didn’t fit the image I’d built of her. The sharp, unflinching, power-suited queen of the marketing world didn’t take days off.

“Why not? Is she on vacation? Pretty shitting timing.”

“She’s not on vacation. She’s out sick. Show a little compassion, huh?”

“Sick?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “She has the sniffles or what?”

“I don’t know,” Penelope said. “She just said she was sick. Although it’s strange, because she never uses sick days, let alone a four-day weekend. Is there something urgent you need her for? She did tell me I could call if there was an emergency.”

Yes, I wanted to say. I need to see her. I want to know she’s okay. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Penelope, of all people. “I just needed to go over some details for the symposium,” I said instead. “I’ll catch her when she’s back.”

“You could send her an email. Or have one of your assistants reach out. She’s not on Mars.”

“Between you and me, Penelope, I wanted to thank her personally for the Hanna pitch. It’s perfect.”

That did the trick. The suspicion melted from her face, replaced by a reluctant smile. “It is pretty great,” she admitted. “Her team worked themselves into the ground on that one. I think that’s why she’s sick. She wore herself out.”

“All the more reason to make sure she gets the credit she deserves,” I said smoothly. “Any chance you know where she’s holed up? I could send over some flowers.”

“Flowers, huh?” Penelope’s eyebrows shot up.

“Just trying to be a gentleman,” I replied with a wink, not letting on that I was actually worried about her. If Natalia was sick enough to stay home for days, something was definitely wrong.

“I’m sorry, but she would kill me if I gave you her address. You can send them to the office if you would like.”

There was more than one way to skin a cat. “That’s fine. Thanks, Penelope. Thank you for not pepper spraying me.”

“This time,” she said with a smile.

I left her office and immediately called Wilder. I still didn’t have Natalia’s number. She and her staff were gatekeeping that information. I doubted she would consider giving it to me even if I managed to make her fall in love with me. She was prickly, like trying to get close to a cactus.

Wilder had to know where she lived. He would tell me. But I would have to have a good excuse. I quickly came up with a story and then called him. I told Wilder I needed to have something delivered to Natalia’s house, flowers from the team for helping with the marketing, etc. When Wilder thanked me for being nice and then gave me her address, I was surprised to learn she lived in Kirkland.

I hadn’t pictured that at all. For someone like Natalia Dawkins, I’d imagined a glass-walled penthouse downtown, a sterile space with nothing but white furniture and cold marble floors. I swung by the florist and picked up a bouquet of flowers that was meant to be a thank you and a get-well gift.

GPS led me through a quiet neighborhood and soon I was pulling up to a cozy little house nestled behind a pair of old-growth trees, the kind of place that had ivy creeping up the brick. It looked like something out of a storybook. Like she was a fucking Snow White type of girl feeding birds out of her hands.

That was not the woman I knew.

I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, taking it all in. It was late in the day, and the sun was dipping low, casting a golden light across the yard. With a deep breath, I stepped out of the truck, headed to the front door, and knocked softly. The neighborhood reminded me of a library. I didn’t want to be too loud.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open, and there she was, wrapped in a thick blanket, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her nose was red, her lips chapped, and her eyes were glassy with fever. She looked like a wreck. A very cute, very miserable wreck.

“I assume that the sky is falling if you’re standing at my door,” she croaked, her voice rough like she’d been gargling gravel. “Did something go wrong with the campaign?”

“Quite the opposite,” I announced. “I came to bring you flowers, but now I see I’m making you some soup.” I stepped forward and brushed past her before she could slam the door in my face. “Beep beep. I’m coming inside.”

“What—Fox!” she spluttered, trying to block my way, but I was already in.

I froze once I got a good look at her living room, wondering if I had walked into the wrong house. It was warm, cluttered, and full of color. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, plants, and little trinkets. A soft blanket was draped over the back of the blue couch, which was decidedly not sleek or modern. A framed photo sat on the mantel—her with a group of friends, all of them laughing. It felt like stepping into another world, one I hadn’t expected to find.

“Your place is nice,” I said, the words coming out more surprised than I’d intended. “Cheerful.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “I don’t let people into my house, you know.”

“Technically, I barged in. Don’t tell Penelope.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did she tell you where to find me?”