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

increasingly chilled city street, the Australian Adonis grabs me, stopping my long legs and surprising me. His broad body nearly crashes into mine like a swinging brick wall, and he catches my shoulders as I stumble into his, his large figure hovering over mine.

The breadth of his chest and arms overwhelm me, squeezing out the cold air on the busy concrete sidewalk.

His countenance is calm, his eyes ever-moving when he finally speaks. “You stole it, didn’t you? The watch? Do you have it?”

He watches me like a hawk watches his prey, and as I adjust my footing in front of him, he lifts his chin, his hands still over my shirtsleeves, warming my skin.

I can barely breathe. “I didn’t.” I answer at last. “But I did steal the security tape that will show us the man who has it now.”

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