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

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, nearly 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