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

“I am more Aussie than the two of you. But just because I’m not a Native New Yorker doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good pizza as much as the next Yank.” I correct. “Besides, I wouldn’t call myself a ‘snob.’ I just have…special tastes.”

Jase chimes in. “‘Special tastes,’ huh? Is that how you explain your luck with women?” He raises a sandy-brown brow. “Never deciding any of them were good enough, Mr. Perfect?”

There it goes again. That damned moniker. Tagging itself to me like a bad tattoo.

I think quickly of reminding them what happened the last time I truly thought a woman was, but decide against it. I stroll towards the door, ducking under the sudden drizzle that starts to beat down.

That is, until Jase grabs the door handle first, prompting me to meet his excited gaze.

“The tuxedo place is behind the cafe next door.” His gaze averts. “And it’s just my luck that Mindy—art obsessed as she is—found this gallery next door. She’s got a few pieces on hold. Come on; it’ll only take a second.”

Lach cuts in. “Yeah, sure, just a sec. We wouldn’t want to miss out on all that cold, uh, soil we could be eating right next door.”

The mention of a gallery catches me off-guard but I follow my brothers all the same. Taking a step back, I notice the non-descript store beside us with a wall of glass, bordered by smooth, lightly textured wood paneling. There’s a set of double doors that greet us just to the right, inviting us inside, and soon we step into a world that is nothing like its exterior.

White walls and ceiling windows greet us as we smile at the receptionist and pass inside. Circular rooms filled will bright fluorescent lights and colorful paintings offer up a soothing assault to the senses and within seconds I am inundated with a beauty I forgot existed.

Creativity brought to life. An artist’s dream in physical form.

I’m almost overwhelmed.

The pieces are amazing. Sensational.

Not even an art guy, even I can recognize the cunningness behind the works, the ingenuity of each individual artist in the craftsmanship of each sculpture, the skill in each ceramic, the whimsy in each painting.

I stroll past a series of paintings, checking out each as Jay checks out, sealing his purchases at the front desk, he and the receptionist casually discussing a public auction taking place at the gallery tonight. My interest peaked, I make it a point to gaze at the slew of names at the bottom of each painting and portrait—the never-ending sequence of artists’ signatures.

Until I find the one that steals my breath.

A signature eerily familiar, its stylish strokes calling to memory a set of handwriting my mind is incapable of forgetting.

The private investigator said she was good. I just didn’t know she was that good.

It’s the name, the artist’s signature, on the painting right in front of me that grips the insides of my throat. Her name.

My gaze travels up to the rest of the painting to find myself staring in hazel-green eyes I’d only earlier had imagined in the throes of ecstasy. Hazel-green eyes you could lose yourself in, stare back from the picture of the picturesque princess-like siren on the canvas, the brunette subject in it hiding secrets within those warm irises.

There’s no doubt who this self-portrait belongs to.

My one-night stand. My thief. The woman who I’ve been trying to find for two days.

A name I know I’ll never forget.

Sophia.

Chapter 9

SOPHIA

Monday night

Fuck, I’m late for the exhibit.

Goddamn my favorite pair of shoes for hiding in my closet.

Still feeling shaky about being out of the house for long after discovering that someone—most likely, Big Bad—was asking around about me, I was still thinking about my next moves.

I have to admit: I’m still sad that my brother Jesse can’t make it after leaving a note saying so on my front door (thanks to Drew for noticing), but now that the gallery exhibit is just minutes away, all my thoughts are on keeping my lunch in my stomach as the nerves gnaw at the pit of my gut.

God, it was all I could do through my shift not to shake my kneecaps right off from fidgeting, not to chew my newly painted fingers to nubs at the thought of what might be waiting for me when I got off.

Tonight, I’d stepped into the exhibit an unknown painter with chipped nails and coffee stains on her shirt. Tomorrow? Who knew?

Maybe the next great American artist like Georgia O’Keefe.

I’d sure as hell wanted to be.

The ticking time was practically breathing down my neck the entire time, and I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that if I didn’t try, as Drew suggested, I’d live the next year of my life in regret.

My head was swimming. My mouth needed air.

By the time I make it home to change into my exhibit auction outfit, I’m already fifteen minutes late to the exhibit opening, and once again, I’m missing a shoe…for half of the ride.

I hop out of a cab—literally, slipping on my right red heel. Skipping over the curb to the Dweller Gallery, I twist the waistline of my bodice-fit red dress into place. Picking up the long swaying skirt just past the cafe next door, I haul ass to the gallery’s double doors, and when I make it inside, I release a long breath I feel I’ve been holding for a lifetime.

I feel instantly at home.

The lights are dimmed down low inside my favorite gallery in Manhattan, and a warm, golden spotlight shines on each painting and piece, highlighting each unique and nuanced work.

Including mine.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth at the sight of my self-portrait on the wall, its own spotlight bounces offing the corners of the colorful painting.

It’s just like me.

A mess.

Eyes wide, hair up, brown wisps of strands straying across my forehead.

The black and white painting intermingles shocks