by Natalie Wrye
“Miss Somerset.” I start. “Sophia…” Her name is soury-sweet on my lips. “You’re a liar. Clearly crazy.” I cock a brow. “And a thief. And despite all of that…” I inhale deeply, blinking slowly as I stare at her as if for the first time. I exhale my doubt. “I’m still going to help you.”
Her eyes widen. “You will?”
“Of course.” I sit back. “Unless you give me another reason not to. Not that the little note you left wasn’t reason enough.”
She sighs, a breathy sound that makes me want to touch her lips. “Then it’s settled then. We’ll meet up later today?” She tilts her chin, waiting for my nod. “Head over to the pawnshop. Talk to the owner.”
“Sure.” I grin, the expression more sinister than nice. “I promise…” I roll the words around on my tongue, feeling their weight. “And unlike you, I know the meaning of that word. Unless, of course, you don’t trust me?”
My question hangs mid-air.
Sophia stares at me, not saying a single word, and it is as if the very air thickens around us, spinning into a web.
Caught—like two flies in a trap, the last woman in the world that I should trust looks at me, knowing there’s no way out.
Knowing, just as I do, that this arrangement will cause more questions than we can afford.
A dull heat warms the surface of my flushed skin as I stare at her once again. Still silent, she only blinks until her golden-green eyes slant, the spun web of silence finally getting the best of her.
She matches my stare with hers.
“Okay,” she answers at last. “I trust you.”
I take a steadying breath. “Then we’ll meet later today.”
“Before my shift.” She squirms in her seat. “I switched slots at The Alchemist.”
“I’d thought as much.” My eyes scan her lips, resisting the urge to go lower. “We can go before your shift starts. I’m nothing if not fair.”
But that’s not true. Not really, anyway.
I don’t have lots of qualities. Least of all, trust.
Especially in her.
But as she pushes her curtain of dark hair over her shoulder, shoving that lilac scent my way, I make a mental memo to make sure my dick remembers that little fact.
Chapter 12
SOPHIA
Tuesday morning
Shit! I’m late to meet up with Noah.
No surprise there.
I’m barely awake when my alarm clock starts ringing.
A sleepy sun stretches over the city outside my bedroom window, pulling at my eyelids, and I fight against the tug, wishing I could will my body to stay back asleep.
It doesn’t work.
After leaving Giani’s in the early morning hours with a face full of mozzarella and a stomach full of knots, I took the liberty of actually using my red vibrator when I arrived home.
I needed the frustration out of my body as soon as possible. But the glaring, undeniable, inconvenient problem was that when I tried to use my battery-operated boyfriend I could only see his face—only see Noah.
The biggest mistake I’d ever made was imprinted under my eyelids, and every time I put my “electronic boyfriend” to work, there he was.
Dark-haired and dark-mannered.
A gorgeous mistake in a suit.
But I push the man, the mistake and his suit to the back of my mind.
I sigh, turning over against my pillow, squeezing it to fight back against reality. The memory of staring into Noah Quinn’s navy-blue eyes is still in my brain when I open my own, my gaze shifting towards the blue-white light blinking from my blaring cell phone.
I grab the shrieking black square, finally realizing that the ringing is not from my alarm, but from an incoming call. I press on the center button to shut it up, answering even as sleep still blocks the air from my throat.
I cough.
“What?”
“Hmph. I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the vibrator this morning.” A feminine voice fills the air around me with a soft laugh. “And here I was, hoping I was doing you a favor. Figures.”
I sit up in bed, clearing the remaining cobwebs from my brain. “Mare, I’m sorry. It’s been a long night. The longest. You wouldn’t even believe…”
“Try me.” She laughs, the sound a twinkling note that has already claimed the hearts of TV viewers everywhere. “We’re shooting for the new spring season while I have a pimple on my face that practically talks. My family still hasn’t sorted out the details from my father’s estate, and his funeral was months ago. And, if that’s not bad enough, I haven’t started to think about planning the wedding…”
I frown. “Maybe it’s not the wedding planning that’s the pain. Maybe it’s the man you’re getting married to.”
She laughs. “I’m sure your brother would love to hear you say that. I got your text late last night. Sorry I’m just now responding.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s literally only five hours later.”
“In TV show-shooting time? That’s like two weeks. I just wanted to update you about that watch. The one you asked about.” I hear what sounds like paper on the other end of the line shuffle. My soon-to-be sister-in-law pauses. “I’m not so sure I’ve ever heard of a watch that fits that description.”
“Shit.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, hustling to the bathroom. I slam the door behind me as if the sound will snap me out of the nightmare it feels like I’m in. “I only asked because I know you know jewelry better than anyone.”
The dark-haired actress that has stolen my brother Jesse’s heart doesn’t go easy. “Oh no,” she corrects me. “Jewelry is a very different animal from men’s watches. They hardly count; you’re comparing apples and dicks here.”
I grab for my toothbrush on the counter. “I think you mean apples and oranges, Mare.”
Marilyn snorts. “Not really. You’d be surprised at the things I experimented with in high school…”
“Well, whatever.” Frustration and lack of sleep makes me cranky, and I brush my teeth like a jackhammer drilling for gold. “What am I going to do now?” I whisper.
It’s a question for me. A question for the universe.
But Marilyn answers.
“You want to tell me what’s so damn important about this watch?”
“Nothing,” I respond. I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste suds, refusing to look at my own reflection. “It’s just got sentimental value.”
I can hear the wheels turning in Marilyn Sparrow’s gorgeous head. She pauses. “I’ll tell you what: If it means that much to you, then let me see what I can find. I know more than a couple of designers and dealers in the area.”
I start the shower, needing its steam to soothe my senses. I snort. “Dealers? You make jewelry sound like an addiction.”
She scoffs in return. “Oh sweet innocent Sophia. In a place like Manhattan? It certainly is.”
We cut the call not a minute later, and I strip to my skin.
I let the shower stream beat my body into submission, my brain following, trying to come to terms with what will happen if I don’t get Noah’s watch back.
And the option of finding another to replace it might not be a choice after Marilyn’s little revelation.
And it’s all because of that damn note.
My conscience was causing me bigger problems than my crimes ever did.
The prospect of being fired from The Alchemist when I’m already on thin ice looms bigger and bigger. Not to mention the prospect of going to prison.
I make quick work of my washing, scrubbing my skin raw. Half-damp, my skin is still slick when I squeeze into my collared shirt, skirt and coat, and nerves follow me out the door as I scramble from my tiny two-bedroom, anxiety eating away at me from the inside out.
The sun’s no longer sleepy when I leave the front door, the orange globe glowing bright. In the early morning cold, I hustle to the elevator, heading down, and five minutes later, I flounce into the lobby, n
early dropping my human-sized purse to the floor.
This is it, I realize.
The test my mind has been mulling over all morning.
I can run. Run from Noah. Run back to The Alchemist.
Run back to the promise of overdue bills and handsy bankers.
Or… I can move forward. Whatever that means in a morning filled with such uncertainty.
Storming farther into the lobby, my small black heels stumble across the patterned floor, my legs weighed down with worry. A wave of cold air ripples across my skin the second I’m inside, and I swallow around the ball of nerves stuck in my throat, my eyes straying to a familiar female neighbor when my stare finds something else in the lobby.
Or rather, someone else.
The cold air grows Arctic as I slowly take in the man waiting in one of the few seats.
He slips a large newspaper from his fingers towards the tiny table in front of him, stretching to his full height. Now standing, he looks over at me—as if waiting, and goose flesh on my arms roar to life, turning my sensitive skin into Braille.
Fuck. There’s still time.
Time to take off. Leave before I’m in too deep.
But I don’t.
That ball of anxiety dancing on my tongue doubles in size. Noah ambles right for me, a hand on his smooth dark tie, his dark hair matching it exactly, and I inhale a sharp breath that’s almost painful, resisting the urge to rub the chill on my body away.
Because no. No, no, no.
No, no, no. Just…no.
I didn’t sign up for this.
I didn’t sign up for Noah Quinn, his smart-ass mouth or sexy smile this early in the morning before I’d even had my coffee. I sure as hell didn’t sign up for him waiting for me in my apartment lobby.
And I certainly didn’t sign up for him looking better than he’d even looked when I left him in that gigantic bed three days ago.
New York City’s newest Aussie import sure looks damned good in his navy suit, his dark brown hair slicked perfectly. A stark contrast against me—the woman shifting endlessly in her sensible black heels, utterly unaware of all that she’s just walked into, this panicked woman who, less than four days ago, would have been waiting his table.
That woman is wholly oblivious as to how a man so stoic, so seemingly cold in his demeanor, can possess a stare that can start blazes.
But I know better.
I know better than to trust that stare right now.
He’s a man who’s basically blackmailing me. And I’m so terrified I’m letting him.
He’s dangerous.
And as if all those reasons aren’t enough, Noah Quinn has made it clear: He’s only keeping himself around because he wants the one item I can’t give him right now.
His watch.
I may have always been good at shots. Tequila and otherwise.
But this shot was currently circling the drain.
Before I’d known the name Noah Quinn, I’d dreamt about the chance at owning my own apartment—a home; now that home might be a jail cell.
I wait as he walks towards me, his indigo eyes simmering as he stares. He stops right before me.
“Good morning, Miss Somerset.”
I nod once. “Good morning. I didn’t know we were going to be using formalities with each other.” I pause. “Mr. Quinn.”
“Well, honestly? I make a habit of using informalities with my friends. And we’ve already seemed to establish that you’re not one of them.” The corner of his mouth quirks, dropping just as quickly. He glances over at the female neighbor—a tight-skirted business exec with a tiny waist and an even tinier dog, casting her a warmer look.
“Thanks for the newspaper, Julia.” He picks it off the table in the lobby, handing it to her. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Noah.”
It’s not “Mr. Quinn” to her, apparently. The blonde in the tight skirt smiles, her red lips widening in appreciation at the man made of stone, and I resist the urge to suck my teeth.
He turns back to me. “So are we good to go?” He asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, lifting one shoulder, before letting it drop. “You tell me; you’re the one who seems to be having all the fun in my building.”
I hear his soft laughter behind me. And I want to scream.
I hail a taxi outside, quieting the noise inside my mind.
The ride uptown in the yellow taxi is quiet, full of tension.
Noah’s back straightens beside me in the frayed cab seat, those broad shoulders of his pulling taut. He stares directly out of the windshield, his eyes seemingly making a mental note of everything but me, and fifteen minutes later we pull up to Al’s Pawnshop, the dim lighting inside almost warning away customers.
But I know different.
I’d been to Al’s enough as a child.
Pawning away valuables was a way of life when you lived with little. It was either sell that expensive vase in Aunt Roberta’s living room. Or eat.
Your choice.
If life were a fairytale like the ones my beloved aunt used to tell me, a pawnshop would be the place where you picked up the magic beans. Only this time? The magic beans were money.
I try not to imagine her kind, creased face as I pull the front door open, just ahead of Noah. He follows closely behind, his cedar-vanilla smell flooding me and I tamper down the need to inhale, my arms wide as I greet Al behind the counter.
“Al!” I call out.
“Sophiaaaa…” The man with the big belly and even bigger personality exclaims behind the wide glass countertops. “What are you doing here so early? I just opened up. Back so soon?”
His eyes flit between Noah and me, a question in his dark brown eyes. I clear my throat.
“Yeah, so we’ve got sort of a problem.”
“Problem?” Al’s bushy eyebrows furrow.
“Uh, kinda.” I resist the urge to wring my perpetually-painted stained fingers. “You know that watch I sold you the other day?”
“Of course.”
“Well, the thing is…the watch…” And suddenly nerves are crawling out of my ass, making it impossible to speak. My tough Bronx upbringing never prepared me for this. Never prepared me for a man like Noah, and instantly, the sharp tongue that I’m known for goes dull, incapable of forming complete sentences.
The tip of that tongue turns even duller as I continue tripping and falling over my words, just as another voice sounds behind mine, this one much deeper, much more sultry, much more suited for the task at hand.
Noah speaks over my shoulder.
“Hi. Al, is it?” I watch Al nod. “Miss Somer—I mean, Sophia told me all about the watch she sold to you. And I decided that I just had to have it.” The air stills. “I’d love to buy it from you, if you still have it.”
I backpedal away from the glass counters, recognizing the look on Al’s face. I point towards the back of the store, one finger in the air as Noah’s question hangs.
“Bathroom still back there, Al?”
His curious eyes bounce back to me from Noah. “Sure, Soph. Help yourself.”
But that’s exactly what I intend to do.
The “magic bean store” as I liked to think of it has much more than magic beans, and I need to get my hands on it. As I disappear behind the curtain hiding the back of the shop from onlookers, I find myself bypassing the bathroom to head towards the back office, where the security camera setups sit.
Remnant of my old life come rushing back to me in that moment, and the tingle I’d become used to at the innocent age of ten is back in my fingers, signaling the onset that I know is coming.
I may be out of practice. But stealing was a lot like riding a bike.
You never forget.
My blood is rushing, heart racing as I stare around the dark room which gives me a birds-eye view of Al and Noah out front.
I don’t even have to hear the conversation. I know what’s being said.
Al doesn’t have the watc
h. Al doesn’t have what we need.
Al sold it.
I saw it in his eyes the second I mentioned it.
My black heels scrape lightly against the carpet as my stare peruses over the cameras and tapes lined along the walls of Al’s little security room. Denoted by dates, one tape stands out to me in particular. And I grab it, slipping it down the back of my skirt and shirt where I loosen the fabric only to tuck it back in again.
I slap a smile on my face, emerging from the back only to find Noah’s dark brows furrowed in frustration, his large hand splayed against the counter. I walk up to him, placing my hand on one.
At last, he looks at me. “No watch, huh?”
“No.” He glares. “Al here sold it.” The phrase is accusatory, but Noah’s face barely moves, his jaw set. A subtle anger works inside his assessing eyes, and when he sees the look in my pleading eyes, he blinks, his face fully relaxing. He pulls his back straight, looking as regal as ever and as haughty as I remember.
Al shrugs, his meaty shoulders rising to his chin and dropping. “I wish there were something I could do, pal,” he counters in his thick Bronx-accent, his face showing anything but remorse.
“That’s alright, Al,” I interject. “I’ll make sure Noah gets what he needs…” I let a hidden subtext play beneath my words, and with little left to say, we leave Al’s with me walking fast and Noah falling in step.
Almost a block away on the increasingly chilled city street, the Australian Adonis grabs me, stopping my long legs and surprising me. His broad body nearly crashes into mine like a swinging brick wall, and he catches my shoulders as I stumble into his, his large figure hovering over mine.
The breadth of his chest and arms overwhelm me, squeezing out the cold air on the busy concrete sidewalk.
His countenance is calm, his eyes ever-moving when he finally speaks. “You stole it, didn’t you? The watch? Do you have it?”
He watches me like a hawk watches his prey, and as I adjust my footing in front of him, he lifts his chin, his hands still over my shirtsleeves, warming my skin.
I can barely breathe. “I didn’t.” I answer at last. “But I did steal the security tape that will show us the man who has it now.”
