The Note

by Natalie Wrye

  “Well?” he asks, his deep voice husky, full of a scarcely hidden rasp.

  “Well, what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think…” My gaze flicks up to the ceiling. “I think I’m glad I stick to espresso. I’m off tequila and the hard stuff for a while…” I place a hand on his own, patting. “But thanks for giving it a try.”

  His shoulders fall. “You’re a tough crowd.”

  I laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment from a man who regularly stomachs Stephen King.”

  “Is that an insult?” He eyes me, his blue eyes heating.

  “On the contrary, actually.” The taste of the scotch plays hopscotch on my tongue, slowing my speech. “I don’t know how you do it. Stephen King absolutely terrifies me.” I sink farther onto my stool. “Me? I’ll take a Happily-Ever-After story any day.” I giggle, feeling the effects of the alcohol. My skin tingles. “It’s why I majored in Russian Literature, for God’s sake. I had no idea…”

  Noah’s brows tighten. “No idea of what?”

  I set down my glass, listening to it thud. “That fairytales aren’t really real.”

  I wait for Noah to laugh at me, to blow it off. I don’t know why I even reveal the thought. But the second it’s out of my mouth, I snap my lips shut, hoping to shut the secret doors to my past tight.

  Unfortunately for me, Noah knocks right on them, his stare intent—completely intense as he sidles closer, his muscular forearm taut as he sets an elbow on the bar top.

  “You sure seem to know a lot about them. Care to tell me more?”

  My first instinct tells me not to trust him. But I promised to do just that at Giani’s.

  Unlike Drew, the look in Noah’s eyes tells me he’s neither teasing or taunting, and likely thanks to the scotch, and to my surprise, I reveal the fairytales Aunt Roberta once told me as a kid, the ones that made me fall in love with the tales. Years of fables from the one woman who raised me come tumbling out of my mouth, and I find myself reliving each one.

  With a love that predates Disney, my father’s sister once tucked me into bed at the tender age of five and taught me the true meaning of what it meant be a heroine in a story.

  Tough. Take-no-shit. And always, forever always, destined from something greater.

  I’d imagined for a long time that that would be me.

  But life as I knew it was looking closer and closer to a Stephen King horror and when I question Noah about his taste for novels known for being wicked and strange, the curious gaze in his eyes shuts down, replaced with something much darker.

  My own intrigue peaks. I press harder.

  “Come on. What’s a guy who looks like he owns stock in Armani doing reading books made for virgin, pimple-pickers who convene alone in their basements?”

  Noah grabs his own glass of scotch, holding it close. “Who told you I wasn’t a virgin?”

  “Um, my eyeballs.” I scoff, scanning my eyes over his body. “Have you seen you?”

  “Haven’t you learned by now not to judge a book by its cover?”

  “Mmm, nope.” I take a lasting final sip of the scotch in my hand as Noah orders another, actually enjoying the taste. Or maybe I’m already drunk.

  I set my Corbita glass down, agreeing. “Because if I’d judged you by your cover, I’d think you were just one of those fuckboys back at The Alchemist bar.”

  The sophisticated man beside me stills. “But that’s exactly what you called me.”

  “I did?”

  “Back at the apartment.” He smirks. “Before you passed out on my bathroom floor.”

  I feel my cheeks burn. “Oh. Yeah. That.”

  “Yeah. That.” He motions towards me. “And I’ll have you know that I looked up the meaning of a ‘fuckboy’…and it was nothing close to the definition I’d thought it’d be.”

  “Makes the ‘virgin’ title sound a hell of a lot better, don’t it?”

  He shrugs. “At least the fuckboys actually get to do what they were named for.”

  I thank the bartender as he slides another scotch my way, the spicy aroma making my head light when I finally look over at Noah.

  “And what’s that exactly?”

  “Well…” He peeks back at me. “They get to fuck.”

  And suddenly the room goes warm.

  And the memory of Noah telling a drunken, past me that he wants to “fuck me tonight” hits me in the solar plexus. Forgotten visions of Noah telling me that he wants to “sleep with me, to fuck me so hard that I’d forget my name” come racing back.

  He sits there, staring at me, his hands atop his Tom Ford tailored-slacks. His button-down shirt still looks perfectly dry-cleaned despite the rain-soaking, and here am I, the woman born in wrinkles, with the perpetually disheveled hair and the socks that never stay on.

  Noah and I had all the makings of a fairytale that would never be. Because unlike Cinderella, I was still walking around without the one thing I’d wanted my whole life…

  Security.

  I hadn’t told anyone. Not Drew or Nancy. Not my old roommate Kayla or even my brother.

  But my goal in life was to own my own home—my own apartment—after my family had lost ours when I was five.

  Having the money to pay rent was about more than putting a roof over my head.

  It was buying a piece of my fairytale, sealing a fate.

  Proving to my mean landlord Mrs. Merkle that I was capable of purchasing my place was a dream that Noah’s ill-gotten watch had, for a second, turned to a possible reality.

  But as long as Noah holds onto that note, he holds my fate in his hands, a fact no fairy dust will avoid.

  It was going to be up to me to make my home-owning dream a reality. (Drew had told me as much days ago, and he was right.)

  But fuckboy or not, forgetting that Noah Quinn was the Big Bad Wolf—the villain—in this story was a mistake. One I can’t afford right now as I shrug off his comment, clearing my throat. I take a sip from the edge of my drink.

  “So, uh, what was it that you needed to talk to me about in the first place? The fact that we were almost made into street kabobs back on the street got in the way.”

  And just like that, the villain is back. Noah’s eyes turn ice-cold, that usually frigid demeanor of his more frozen than before.

  He rubs his chin. “Of course. Forgot to mention that…” I wait as he takes a weighty breath. He shakes his head as one hand perches on his slacks-covered hip. “I need a favor.”

  I feel my eyebrows fold together as Noah moves his head further to fully look at me, and I seek a reflection of myself in his eyes—soaked and soggy like a rag doll.

  My pale blouse clings to my bra, exposes the black lace beneath, and I fight the urge to cover the damn material with my hands. “What kind of favor?”

  “My company knows about you. They saw you walk into work with me yesterday.”

  I blink. “Okay…?”

  “And now my brothers know about you. And it’s a mess. I couldn’t explain how we knew each other. So…”

  He leaves the sentence trailing…and me with it.

  Uncertainty shifts inside his almost indigo irises, and for a second, I see the man behind the facade, the guy behind the barrier he’s built.

  I get a glimpse at a man more caring than he lets on, more modest than the suits and the swanky apartment. But then the perfect facade is back in seconds as if it never faded, his bricks of distrust back in place. And I lose my patience.

  “So, what, Noah? What is this favor you want to ask me?”

  I listen to him sigh. “I’m not giving up on that watch. Not now. Not when we have the security cam footage of that day and we’re so close to finding out who has it. I don’t care how many hours of Al’s footage we have to sift through. And while we’re looking for the watch, I need everyone around us to keep the questions to themselves. So the favor I have to ask, why I needed to talk…well, it’s simple.” I watch him swallow, his stubble-covered Adam�
��s Apple bobbing as he does, one damp eyebrow arching into a hook.

  He grabs my hand. “Sophia Somerset, I need you to agree to be my girlfriend.”

  Time moves in slow motion as I process Noah’s words, and I stare at the man across from me, wondering if I’m imagining it all.

  I wonder if I’m imagining this prince of a man in front of me. Imagining his words. I wonder if I’m hallucinating that collared shirt still stuck to his skin from the sleet and snow, the ink black hair plastered across his brow, his shiny black shoes set innocently against the floor as he watches me.

  Waiting for my answer. Soaking it all in.

  I drop my hands in my lap, staring at the surreal-looking man, my stomach bottoming out against my will, taking the scotch already inside with it as I realize that he’s not looking at me as if it’s a joke.

  Because it’s not.

  The words are barely out of his mouth before he destroys the distance between us, eliminating the space between us as he leans in, grabbing my chin in one hand, his dark blue eyes ablaze.

  His smoky azure irises are alit in the dimmed glow of the dark-bordered bar, their shimmering depths deep.

  The amber illumination highlights the many facets in his navy eyes, and my heart seizes, completely stopped as he stares down at me, brows lowered, his eyes flittering from one eye to the next as his stare burns into mine.

  “So what do you say?” He sighs, inhaling a breath so heavy that I feel it, too. He lowers his chin.

  The Tequila Gods may have blessed me on my first night with Noah. But the Scotch Gods aren’t so kind.

  Aunt Roberta’s fairytales never prepared me for this, and I forget how to swallow.

  Taking a large gulp of air as Noah’s grip loosens, his large fingers trailing to my jaw, I let him stroke the skin there before standing to my feet, walking towards the bathroom without my mind even knowing it.

  I step inside the small closeted space. All alone.

  The door isn’t even shut behind me before I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet, retching out loud.

  The last thought that leaves my head before today’s breakfast leaves my mouth is how I once wondered how much I might regret not running from Noah Quinn when I had the chance. But with this news, I no longer have to wonder.

  I now know I should have run long ago.

  Chapter 16

  NOAH

  Two days later

  Friday evening

  Working on saving a company that was crumbling under your very feet was hard.

  It was even harder when the time clock was winding down.

  All my life, I’ve been skating on impossibly thin ice, but tonight, the night of my brother’s wedding welcome party—two days before his wedding—the ice is made thinner by the minute.

  Thin ice was the name of the game when you were your family’s savior. When your grandfather passed down a real estate empire to a mother too mentally damaged to do what was right.

  Sometimes it feels as if I were born on thin ice. Raised on it.

  But I can’t remember it ever feeling this thin, especially when Cynthia flounces in my open Manhattan office door, a grim look on her pallid face.

  I don’t dare look up into it as I continue writing a passionate case to another potential partner on the Luxe building. My patience, equally on thin ice, threatens to crack.

  “An open door isn’t an invitation to come in whenever you feel like it, Cyn.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hear from a few feet away. “I thought that’s exactly what it meant. Open door. Open guests.”

  “Maybe in another office.” I try not to snap. “In this one? It’s more to give an appearance of ‘openness.’ I like ‘appearing’ to be open to clients. And sometimes I am.” I finally glance up, my eyes finding her face. “But you’re not one of those clients. Not tonight.” I return to my notes. “I have to get ready to head to the Quinn Connecticut estate for the weekend. And so do you.”

  Not to mention I have to pick up Sophia to come along with me.

  Wouldn’t want to walk into my brother’s wedding welcome weekend without the woman I’m going to pretend-marry. Not at this juncture in the game.

  The only good part is Sophia played it pretty cool when I asked her to pretend to be my almost-fiancée back in that bar, I’ll give her that. The scotch really hadn’t set well with her stomach—I’d forgotten to mention that rule of thumb.

  But after ordering her a cup of coffee to wash down that Dalwhinnie dram, she’d nodded, her back stiff.

  When it came down to playing partners, Sophia Somerset was all the way in. I was curious as to how the weekend would play out—watch and all.

  The fact that Sophia and I have to pretend to be a couple, to share a hotel room together for over two days hasn’t escaped me, and I’m still imagining the painting little waitress, alone, in a room with only us two when Cynthia speaks, reminding me that she’s still there, taming strands of blonde hair as she stares at me.

  “I see,” she says. I hear the shuffle of her heels, scraping along the carpet as she shifts. I resist the urge to look back at her, but I fucking suck at it, and I lift my gaze.

  “I guess you’re going to have to earn the right to this coffee, then,” she continues, holding a white mug in her tiny hands. A smirk plays on her pink lips, and she turns to head out of my office, her black skirt swaying as she strolls.

  I bite down a bark, dropping my pen to the surface of the paper on my desk. I call out her name.

  “Cyn?”

  She swings back towards me. “Yes?”

  She knows she’s won.

  I need the coffee more than ever, and my best friend knows it. At Sophia’s suggestion, I’ve replaced my taste for scotch with the lesser evil of dark caffeine, and I motion for Quinn Real Estate’s number one lawyer to return and she comes back in. She shuts the door behind her and I pause, my skin hot under the collar. I press my back into my leather seat, sighing as Cynthia stands before me, dangling my cup of coffee like the proverbial carrot.

  Fuck me for being such a rabbit.

  I exhale. “I will take that cup of coffee after all…” I try hard to humble myself, a rage rolling around on my tongue. It’s a rage that only hot caffeine can temper right now, and at the moment, I’m weak without it, the dwindling time to save this company making it hard to concentrate on anything else.

  Anything else but …but Sophia.

  I swear under my breath.

  “It’s been a long morning.” It’s the only apology I will give Cynthia.

  And she seems to know it.

  That bottom lip of hers twists. Sucking into her mouth, she seems to consider my half-assed attempt at a “sorry” before handing me the hot mug, her fingers refusing to brush against my own.

  She draws them quickly back, dropping them to her sides, and I sigh, needing the dark brew, noting how Cynthia’s touch lingers on mine.

  If only for a moment.

  I have to remind myself that this wedding and damn watch have been making me a little crazy. But it’s hard when Cyn’s gazing at me like that, brown eyes a bit hot, her pale blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun that only adds to the highlight of her serious face.

  I take a sip of the piping coffee and wince.

  And still Cynthia stands there.

  I look up.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Cyn?”

  “Yes, there is,” she retorts. “You could give me something to work with.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She sighs, and the sound is loud. Or maybe it just seems like it in my quiet office.

  I’m suddenly aware that, with the door closed, there’s only the two of us. And I don’t like it.

  I don’t like being forced this close when Cyn’s in one of her moods. Like I told Lachlan, Cyn’s tougher than most. But she seems off nowadays—nearly angry, and I watch her pretty brows furrow from some confusion. But her mouth clarifies everything right up.


  She clears her throat.

  “So, the rumors about Sophia are true? You have a whole girlfriend?”

  I tilt my head. “Well, it’s half of a girlfriend more than either of us ever expected I could have.”

  “And you’ve given me nothing to go on,” Cynthia interrupts. “No real insight. No details.” She scoffs. “You’re serious enough about this girlfriend to bring her to Jase’s wedding.” She motions towards the door. “But you’ve said more to Nadia about this relationship than to me—your best friend since you were fifteen, and she’s only the receptionist.”

  “I’m sure Nadia will appreciate how highly you think of her.”

  Her hazel eyes narrow. “You know what I mean.” She squirms in her little black heels and the air shifts with it. “There’s at least one person who should be privy to your secrets first. And besides your local bartender, I thought that person was supposed to be me.” She points a red finger at her chest, adding more fragrance to the air.

  I struggle to stay motionless in my seat, the temptation to leave Cyn hanging stronger than ever, and still I say nothing.

  Because she’s right; I’ve been avoiding her, barely taking the time to say “Hi” in the office even when she does the favor of bringing me coffee.

  I know she’s doing some dating of her own. Or so I’ve heard from around the office when really I should have asked her myself.

  If not for the fact that I’ve been avoiding her like crazy…

  I might not have let Cynthia in on the details these days. But for the last two months, I hadn’t actually let anyone in.

  With the exception of Cynthia, they’d all assumed everything was business as usual. Easygoing. Same as always.

  Perfect.

  Except Sophia.

  The woman who I was using to save my company had seen the charade in me. And of course I’d underestimated the little thief. As usual.

  I stand to my feet, my grip tight on my coffee, meeting Cynthia’s eyes as I grab my briefcase, ready to pack it away.

  “Cut the jokes, Cyn. Just what exactly are you looking for before the party? A certificate of sexual exclusivity signed in blood?” I take a step around my desk, my slacks shifting. “I’ll sign up for one right away. A personal call to TMZ to confirm the rumors?” Another step.