by Natalie Wrye
All air leaves my body as I wait, my nerves humming as I meet his dark gaze.
The space around us barely stirs, the sidewalk now quieting as people move into buildings and enter work around us. The atmosphere shifts as Noah and I face-off, the air growing thick—hardening and warming—with the underlying tension that always exists between this man and me.
I lick my suddenly dry bottom lip as Noah’s stare softens down at me. His eyes glimmer with a hint of appreciation. “That’s a start.”
And then he lets me go, heading back in the same direction we were barreling.
And this time? I follow him, wondering how much I might regret not running when I had the chance.
Chapter 13
NOAH
Wednesday afternoon
“Want to tell me about Sophia Somerset?”
“No. Please. Don’t knock, Cynthia. Feel free to barge in to my office.”
I don’t look up from my desk as one of my closest friends dawdles near my office doorway. A frayed copy of “Doctor Sleep” lies on the edge of my mahogany desktop—which is funny because I didn’t get any shut-eye last night—and I try hard to concentrate on the work right in front of me.
I’m going to be late for another scheduled lunch rendezvous with Sophia, and I’m still writing notes from our recent attempt at a sale of Manhattan’s Millennium Gardens when I hear Cynthia’s voice from just across the threshold, barking questions.
The sale’s not enough to put much of a dent in our soul-crushing debt. But it would do.
It’s business as usual at the Quinn Real Estate Group building in our Midtown Manhattan offices, but in my office? There’s additional business on the table.
Namely, the issue of how to save the company currently under my feet.
It’s only a day after Sophia and my visit to Al’s Pawnshop, and I’m still trying to calm down after fail number fifty-seven to locate the person who bought my watch.
Sophia and my quick stop to the office yesterday to copy the shop’s security footage was enough to get my employees’ tongues temporarily wagging about my love life, but an entire day later, love is the last thing on my mind as I scan over the tape from the buy-stuff-for-cheap-and-sell-it-for-a-whole-lot-more store in the solace of my own office.
Skimming the footage does nothing; glancing over the fuzzy videotape is not enough. Because after poring over hours of security film all day, I haven’t managed to find anything of use, besides the fact that Al doesn’t wash his hands.
I remind myself never to shake the shop owner’s hand again when I finally glance up as Cynthia levels me with a hard stare, her pointed chin tilting as she does. I heave a heavy sigh. “Does the nameplate on my desk now read “Cujo the dog”? Or did I miss that misprint? Because you’re looking at me as if I’m a canine, not obeying an order.”
She sighs, her blonde hair pale under the fluorescent light, her earthy eyes rolling. She steps inside anyway.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she comments.
“Maybe because you still haven’t learned to knock before entering my office.” I shoot her a stern look. “And I thought you were still too busy looking into those Chris Jackson accusations. What do you care about Sophia Somerset anyway?”
“Because,” Cyn takes a seat without invitation, her bare legs crossing. She glances across my desk at me. “It’s all anyone in this office can talk about. Apparently, Stephanie the receptionist told the coffee boy who told the mail guy who told the vending machine lady that a woman walked into work with you yesterday.” She leans in. “A woman who you looked awfully cozy with.”
“Seems like Stephanie and the coffee boy and the mail guy and the vending machine lady don’t know the meaning of ‘cozy’ then.”
Cyn arches a finely-plucked eyebrow. “Then you did walk into work yesterday morning with a woman after all?”
I sigh. “I did. And believe me: If she was someone worth ‘cozying up’ to, Cyn, you would know. Speaking of ‘knowing,’” I peek down at the notes on my desk, my brow furrowing.
I tap the pen in my hand on the paper. “I had no idea that this Millennium Gardens sale wasn’t already a done deal. This sale was supposed to be two months at most. But there’s been little mishaps here and there. Minor burglaries at the building. Someone’s car got broken into. Someone stole a wedding ring from a tenant.”
I meet her eye. “Truth is… I don’t think it’s a coincidence. We are trying to sell this building—a building associated with a man with more enemies than the mafia. Hell, some of those enemies are the mafia. And we need to cover our arses.”
Cyn raises a brow. “Covering your arse would be not getting involved at all. Covering your arse is not doing felon Chris Jackson a favor by selling off one of his dirty properties.”
“You mean our dirty property? The Quinn name is still on the building.”
“Your grandfather bought the damned building.”
“But then he left it to us when he died.” I find myself growling. “Or did you forget that funeral several years ago, Cyn?
Cynthia snaps. “Trust me: After the friend I told you about clued me in on Chris Jackson’s possible involvement on a murder charge, I’ve been taking specific steps so that you and your brothers won’t have to take the fall, if this doesn’t turn out well.”
She blows out a long hard breath. A breath I feel in my body as neither one of us backs down. Cynthia straightens in her seat, her brown eyes as molten as the sun-dried earth. “Now, I thought, after our call and all, that priority number one would be to cut all ties between Quinn Real Estate and that fraudulent financier Chris Jackson?”
“It is.” I nod.
“By helping Jase sell your grandfather’s last—for lack of a better word—dirtied property, The Millennium Gardens, associated with Chris Jackson?”
I inhale. “Yes.”
“And I’m guessing you need to be in the right mindset for taking on a sale like this?”
“Of course.”
Cyn sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m just not sure you’re in the right mindset.” She leans closer. “I mean, come on, Noah. You haven’t exactly been yourself these last two months.” She exhales. “Not since the day you came back into town.” Her brown start to shimmer. “I know something had to have happened when you came back.”
The comment steals my breath, knocking me right in the gut.
I experience the eerily familiar feeling of falling, and I stare at Cynthia as if for the first time, feeling myself pale, my skin growing cold at the knowledge that she might know.
Know about my father’s funeral.
My real father’s funeral.
Not that anyone would have recognized me there.
I certainly wasn’t the focus; his other name-bearing children were.
Because when you were the family’s dirty secret, when your mother and your grandfather lied about the affair that resulted in your birth, in the back of your mind? You always somehow felt relegated to the shadows.
That was the price of being “Mr. Perfect.”
Inside, you felt that everyone could see your little secret.
Under that damn dark umbrella at my father’s funeral plot, I’d tried to disappear—just like a little secret—into the cemetery grass, to mingle in on the outskirts of the large mainly Manhattanite crowd. To blend. I can barely inhale, my voice threatening to croak as I prepare to do what I’ve grown best at.
Lie.
I resist the urge to lick my lips as my mouth goes dry.
I lift my chin.
“Maybe you’re right,” I deflect. “Maybe my head is not all the way in the game. But it will be soon. You’ll see.” I turn my head back to my notes, writing fast. “The old Noah will be back before you know it.”
I feign nonchalance as Cynthia folds her hands.
“Rumors are rumors, Noah. They’re bullshit. But if there is some truth to this particular rumor about you having a girlfriend, if there is some semblance of honesty in thi
s Sophia Somerset story? Then I have to admit: I would be glad. Honestly? I would be happy to see a new Noah now. It’s been too long.”
To my surprise, Cynthia smiles and I catch a glimpse of it as my eyes stray back to hers, the air thickening just at the mention of Sophia’s name.
I hold in my impatience as all of Cynthia’s attention focuses on my face.
To my surprise, Manhattan’s best real estate attorney backtracks just as fast, her eyes closing a second just too long, scrunching.
“I’ve said too much,” she exhales. “I shouldn’t even repeat this shit—these rumors. No matter what I’ve seen…or heard. Don’t listen to me…”
A half of a lie.
My truths are much more twisted than I could ever let Cyn know, but her truth is written on her face.
She catches my probing stare, nodding as our gazes clash and guilt twists in my gut.
Guilt that I’m lying. Guilt that I’m just as much of a fraud as the felon we’re cutting ties with, as the mother who raised me, as my beloved grandfather.
I blink away the shame behind my eyelids. “I rarely do listen to you, Cyn. Even when I should. But I promise you: There’s nothing to worry about. Let’s keep these details where they belong: Stuck in the rumor mill…” I take a heavy breath. “And let’s certainly not take any stock in them. I won’t make a mistake like bringing Sophia to the office again.”
I wait. “So is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
She shrugs, her head tilting. “No… I guess not.”
I lean forward, focusing her attention. “And let me worry about Sophia Somerset…” I hesitate. “Despite what pictures or gossip may have seen coming out of the company printer.”
I hang back, and Cynthia offers up a small smile. “Sure. I just…want us to be careful these days. And I’m sorry for all the premature warnings.” She smirks. “It’s like the Surgeon General’s taken out ad space on my ass.”
“Ugh, please. I can do without the visual, Cyn.”
She balls up a nearby paper, sending it flying at my head on her way out.
The second she’s gone, I take a detour, snatching from the printer all of the materials I’ve found on Sophia, all of the in-office gossip.
Just in case… I remind myself to forward any potential calls from Sophia to the company phone to my cell.
And away from Cynthia, my company, and—most importantly—my family’s prying eyes.
—
SOPHIA
“Do I have the words ‘Annoy Me’ written on my ass? For the last time, Drew, I do not. Have. A. Boyfriend.”
“Lies.” Drew hisses at me, wiping his hands on an off-white towel at the bar. “You were with someone. The night that the movers came to your apartment. And earlier when you came in from lunch today. You had the look of a woman who wants to kill a man, and I’ve seen that look more than most.”
And I believe every word Drew is saying.
But when he says, “And I want to know who. I deserve to know,” I’m no longer listening.
I roll my eyes, picking up a tray as I go to serve my last set of customers of my early shift as the afternoon stretches on. The Alchemist’s herd thinning out in the last hour has done nothing to improve my mood since my scheduled lunch rendezvous with Satan himself.
Arguing with an agitated Noah Quinn wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time, and even hours later, many exhausting minutes after telling New York’s hottest Aussie to “kindly my ass,” I’m still pissed off by his unwarranted behavior, despite the reprieve of a busy post-lunch crowd dissipating one by one.
The restaurant-pub might be emptying, but Drew’s motor-mouth sure isn’t.
My over-eager coworker and neighbor gnaws at my last nerve, pressing me incessantly, his pale blue eyes intent as he follows me even now as I set an array of drinks in front of my smiling customers, the smile sliding off the second I turn.
Fuck, he’s still there. The engine running those full lips of his doesn’t let up one single bit. I bite down a sigh as he blocks me with his large body, one eyebrow forming a semi-circle on his handsome face.
“I can do this all afternoon long, you know,” he points out.
“Then you’ll be doing it by yourself because honestly, Drew? It’s none of your business. And you, my dear man-whore, don’t deserve to know shit. Anyway, I’m about to clock out.”
I walk around him.
“You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” Drew calls out over my shoulder.
I keep walking. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m so glad we never slept together,” my coworker taunts. “Because if we had, I’m sure I’d be the party left out on his ass in the morning. With nothing to show for it but a “Free-Get-Out-of-Jail” card and a note reading ‘Thanks for the orgasms, asshole.’”
I stop, turning, taking my apron off so I can set it at the bar as I sidle up beside it, my eyebrow arching sky-high. “Who said you’d be giving me orgasms?”
“Add ‘liar’ to your list of vices along with ’stubborn.’” He leans closer. “You know my ‘work’ better than most people.”
“Unfortunately.” I circle the edge of the mahogany bar, ringing up my last customers’ receipt. “It’s just my luck I have to live next to you and hear the screams.”
“You should be so lucky,” Drew comments. “You could learn a few pointers. Namely,” he inclines near, “how to please a person of the opposite sex. Or at the very least, how to have a normal sex life.”
I glance up from the cash register in front of me. “Drew, nothing about your sex life is normal.”
He pauses for a second, thinking. “Point taken.” He places an elbow on the bar, inching in. “At least let me know what the guy looks like. That way I can size him up. Let you know what kind of bastard you’re dealing with.”
I shake my head, still rifling through the cash register, a small smile working its way on my lips.
Because I knew exactly what kind of bastard I was dealing with.
Unbeknownst to Drew.
Noah Quinn was a man who showed up to work two hours early, just to prove that he could. He was a man who imposed perfection on himself and everyone around him. A man who projected confidence in every single detail of his life, down to the cufflinks.
But beneath the three piece suits?
There lay someone else beneath the three-thousand dollar threads, a hidden secret.
A slightly broken man with a strong stomach for scotch and a love of strange Stephen King novels.
With his sometimes icy demeanor and dry humor, he did a good performance of showing the world he didn’t give a damn.
But it was his curiously intellectual eyes, his oddly affectionate use of the nickname “Little Bear” and his timid touch that showed something else beneath the suits…
Or rather, someone else.
In my worst moments, I imagine him as he would be in his private Manhattan office—unaware.
Cufflinks shiny. Suit perfect. Sitting alone in his leather chair, figuring out how to dominate the world.
Or maybe just dominate me.
Had he thought of me the way I’d thought of him? Imagined me in his bed?
The fantasy of him is one I know I can’t fulfill, but that doesn’t stop Noah from making his hourly appearance in my mind, and in my imagination, I see him, sitting there in his office…
Thinking of me. Harnessing an erection that could nail a two-by-four, his long thickness prodding slowly at the center of his immaculately pressed pants.
His hand slips inside his slacks, his fingers stroking his hardness to the memory of what could have been between us that fated night.
In the back of my mind, my Big Bad Wolf looks just how I remember him. Even better.
The shock in his deep oceanic eyes when his fingers find the right spot on his cock makes the blue orbs widen, and it is all I can do not to smile at the thought, not to gloat at the idea that Noah wants me every b
it as I wanted him—or want him—the night that ‘never happened.’
Maybe even more.
The thought of his palms pumping against his steel-like cock makes everything below my waist tingle, and I resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, clenching them tight.
But that doesn’t stop my thighs from clamping down.
I nearly smash the two of them together at the fantasy of Noah’s sexy deep moans of anger and ecstasy, his furrowed frustration of how much he wants me, despite himself, making his erection as hard as stone.
Rock-encased.
Ready to fucking explode…before I do, too.
The fantasy is so real I almost come on the spot. A shuddering sensation rolls across my skin as I envisage Noah’s seed pouring onto his hand as he sits there, still in his office leather seat, and still he never stops pumping, never stops stroking.
And I never stop.
Never stop imagining myself with him. Never stop reliving a night that should have gone so differently. A night that reveals the undeniably sexy reality that the only man I want is a man who only wants one thing from me. And it’s not my pleasure.
I take a deep breath as Drew eyes me curiously, likely wondering what the hell is taking me so long to count money at the register.
But the sound of slow footsteps in front of us stops whatever he was going to say. I peer up and into the eyes of the stranger who’s suddenly joined us.
A set of serious, sapphire irises stare back at me, a stubbled jaw working its way underneath as Noah stares at me across The Alchemist’s bartop, a worried look on his face.
He blinks. Only once. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 14
NOAH
I fix my eyes on Sophia, meeting her amber gold-green gaze. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter.
Her stare is an accusation.
She looks angry. And I almost want to see that hot gaze grow even hotter.
But I’ve got better things to do.
Right now? I’ve got to talk to her. If we’re going to make any headway with moving forward as co-partners… AKA Ms. Note-Taker and Mr. Blackmailer.
