The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

moment, I feel that familiar majestic energy about this place. The City that Never Sleeps.

Buzzing with activity, you almost feel as if you’re swallowed by its magic.

It’s a town that can make you believe in anything. And I so want to believe right now.

I huff out a hard gust of air from my lungs, responding to Drew.

“I think I can do that…”

“Good. I really hope so.” He assures me, his voice barely audible above the background noise of the streets. “Because I’d hate to see some crazy witch get in the way of your goal. And by ‘crazy witch,’ I mean you. Sticking to The Alchemist would be a move backwards, Soph. And you know it. ‘The only time anyone should ever look backwards is during doggy-style.’ At least that’s my motto.”

I wince. “Thank you for the unsettling advice. As always.”

I swear I hear him grin. “You’re welcome.”

Gripping the pizza, I turn to walk away, nearly cutting the call when suddenly Drew catches my ear, his next words throwing a quick flip to my stomach.

“By the way, you’ve got an envelope waiting on your front door this morning. Some guy dropped it off.”

I feel my brows twist together. Subconsciously, I straighten, my hands lightly clutching my collar. “A message? For me?” I blink. “Shit. It’s not our landlord, Meryl, is it? Trust me: I’ve mistaken her for a man more than once.”

He grunts. “Didn’t say. But it was a guy in a suit.” I inhale harshly as Drew keeps talking. “I noticed him out of my peephole this morning when I heard footsteps. I thought it was last night’s ‘after-hours fun’ coming back.”

“For more after-hours fun, huh?”

“No, to curse me out. She wasn’t exactly having fun when I put her in a cab last night.”

I end the call, shaking my head. There are rockets on my feet, as I head in the direction of my apartment, worrying about my future and wondering if my past—and the man I’m trying to push back in it—has caught up with me after all.

Chapter 8

NOAH

Monday afternoon

The past is a strange thing.

It shows up when you least expect it.

Like when you’re in the office, trying to focus on work. Or when you’re in Starbucks picking up your latest latte.

Or when you’re in the local Hilton on a cloudy Monday afternoon, trying to forget the last two years.

Yup, the past is strange. But it’s not nice.

And like the not-so-strange little memories that won’t leave me alone right now as I sprawl out on the king bed’s tequila-stained sheets at the Hilton—memories like Grandfather Quinn, quiet and regal on his deathbed, the wet grass underneath my feet at my father’s funeral, the linoleum beneath my shoes as I sign the Visitor Papers to see my mother—I realize something else isn’t so nice.

Me.

But I am simple. And I can live with simple.

Right now, I needed “simple.” If I was going to get the thieving Little Bear out of my system.

It’d been two days, and I still hadn’t been able to find her. It must be nice to have good friends. Because she certainly had those.

I’d stopped by The Alchemist so many times since Saturday that I’d swear they’d call the cops on me by now.

My private investigator, currently looking into our company’s ties to Chris Jackson, had taken on the additional task of locating the ballsy brunette that’d walked away with my father’s watch, and still, he’d barely got enough information about the dark-haired vixen that had swindled me.

Not an address. Not even a name.

No one was willing to talk.

Like the obligatory late-night shot of tequila on a school night, the silky-haired seductress had burned her way through my system, intoxicated me and left me with nothing but regrets.

A contrast from the Molotov cocktail of a woman who stole from me, Becky Callahan’s not the smooth scotch you sip on late in the evening while the sun sets over the city’s horizon; she’s that last ounce of bottom-shelf liquor at the bar.

I fucking hate tequila. But it’s the only drink I can stand this morning as I count down the last thirty minutes to the tuxedo-fitting appointment I’d actually taken with Jase and Lachlan.

Yup, Becky’s that last culminating, hard ounce.

Problem is… I’m not right now. Hard, that is.

With the twinkling lights of an early morning New York City beating on my body from the wide hotel windows, I slip my hands into the pretty blonde’s cheap extensions, my fingers gripping tight as her lips find my hips.

I twirl the still-full bottle of tequila from my fingertips as I lay fully-clothed on the hotel’s king-sized bed as Becky unhooks my belt, her pink lips prodding just above the leather strap.

The touch of her mouth is soft at first—hesitant, but quickly turns greedy.

She mumbles against my skin, her voice mingling in with the strings from Sinatra’s “The Best is Yet to Come” from the stereo.

“I thought you were never going to call again,” she murmurs below my belly button as she slips my belt off, letting it slide to the floor.

I take another swig of the tequila, a hand slipping between the back of my head and the pillow. I sigh. “And what would make you think that, Brittany?”

“Becky.” She corrects, but I don’t care. “I mean, you left me. Left me in your hotel room last time.”

“At least you got room service.”

“Yeah. Alone,” she whines.

“Could have asked the bellboy to join in.”

“Mmm. Dirty,” she coos, her fingers unzipping my fly.

“I meant to ‘join in on the eating….’” I pause. “Of room service.”

“Oh right, that.” But she has no idea what I’m saying.

I peek down to find her fully engrossed in getting her hands into my unzipped pants, but I find I don’t have the will to care. The neck of the tequila bottle twirls between my fingers, and I can’t help the guilt that I feel, my conscience tap-dancing on my drowsy thoughts.

My brothers’ words emerge in my mind.

The eternal bachelor.

Doesn’t believe in marriage.

Bad when it