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

the auction? Good. The passion you show for your work in the office. The way your employees looked at you yesterday when I stopped by the office.” She inhales deeply, her breasts rising as she does, her nipples beading from the slight chill in the air, and my mouth literally waters. I keep my concentration on her eyes. “They like you, Noah. People actually like you. And they’d be there for you. If you’d let them in.

“You pretend you don’t need anyone else. That you have a handle on every single aspect of everything you touch. But truth is? I think it’s a ruse so that you don’t have to let anyone in. Because as long as you’re perfect, as long as you pretend not to need anyone, then you don’t have depend on anyone else. Rely on anyone else. Trust anyone else. My guess?” Sophia tucks thick strands of her behind her ears. “Someone close to you betrayed your trust. And you’ve tried to pretend you don’t have any since.”

“Is that what you think, Miss Somerset?” My stare hardens, the skin across my neck and torso heating and tightening as my subconscious fights against the truth of what Sophia is saying. I incline closer, invading her space.

But this time, her gaze doesn’t flit to the floor. It remains stuck on me, and the tension—thick and dripping wet—replaces the heaviness that was once in the air.

I lick my drying bottom lip as Sophia crosses her arms. Defying me. Daring me.

My dark brows shoot up and back. “What else do you think you know about me?”

I watch her swallow, her amber-emerald eyes flickering between mine. Back and forth.

At this point, we’re inches from each other’s faces, and I realize that the dilemma I’d felt earlier is blown to bits. Shattered to smithereens.

Because “sticking it” to Sophia Somerset for screwing me over is taking on a whole new meaning as I lean in. Slowly. So slowly.

I can feel the quiet puffs of her minty cool breath on my face as I close the distance between us, my gaze dropping to her slightly opened mouth. Suddenly that mouth starts speaking.

“I think that I, uh…”

“That you what?” I minimize the distance by another inch.

“That you…”

Another inch. “That I…what, Sophia? What? Say it.”

But she can’t say it. Not now.

Not when the sound of a small explosion rings out beneath the town car, and the wheels lean at a dangerous angle. Not when the vehicle goes sliding through the slicked New York streets, kicking up slush as we careen towards the sidewalk, the brakes screeching beneath the carriage.

The tires of the town car scream as we head towards a stop sign without slowing.

It takes me several seconds to recognize that the scream is Sophia’s as I brace for impact.

Chapter 15

SOPHIA

Wednesday afternoon

I thought we were dead.

For a full three seconds as our car lurched towards a wave of crossing traffic, I just knew that our car would be obliterated, smashed to pieces by the slew of cars coming in the other direction.

I didn’t think; I just acted.

My arms braced for impact, yes. But more importantly, they braced for impact against him.

Noah.

My fingers found him in the relative dark of the town car’s backseat, and I wrapped my hand around his, squeezing tight as I waited for the car to slow, and my heart with it.

We skid to a halt, hitting the sidewalk, just before coming into contact with horizontal traffic, and a strangled breath left my lips as we slumped against the gray cement of the New York sidewalk, the heavy rain mimicking the sound of my panicked pulse.

The city continued moving around us amidst the hammering showers, and when I finally unclenched, well…everything, I had a chance to disentangle myself from the suited man who sat beside me, my insides humming from the sheer proximity of his larger-than-life presence.

The driver Caesar curses under his breath, heading out into the rain to check on the tires as Noah and I focus on re-learning how to breathe. I’m still practicing the art of inhaling when Noah looks down at me.

“I think we blew a tire.” He glances outside briefly. “Or two.”

“Better a tire than a blood vessel.” My finger brushes over my temple. “I think I almost had a heart attack.”

Noah’s fingers close over mine. “You know what the cure for almost-heart attack is, don’t you?”

I have to admit: I don’t. But I know the cure for forgetting about an ‘almost-heart attack.’ And it’s having a gorgeous Australian man touching you.

Twenty minutes later, soaked to the skin, Noah shows me the cure to ‘almost-heart attacks’…

Scotch.

At the nearest bar, we decide to wait for a tow company while Caesar idles inside the broken down town car.

The temperature drops, dumping a deluge of white snow down on the city as the Wednesday afternoon fades into evening. Rush hour traffic still rages like a contained chaos outside the Scottish pub’s dark doors, and while the sirens blare in the distance, horns honking under the quickening snowfall, Noah orders me the second taste of scotch I’ve ever had in my life.

The first taste I’ve ever had was with him. Five minutes ago.

I’m still reeling from his instructions as I hold taste number two—otherwise known as a dram, an eighth of an ounce—over the bar top.

Noah stares at me. “Now do you remember the rules?”

I nod. “It starts with the right glass. And the right ice.” I eye the large icefall currently in my Cobita glass.”

Noah grins. “For most first-timers, they need something to lessen the harshness, ease the burn. But if you want to be a Big Bear, instead of a little one,” His grin grows wider, “you won’t need the watering down.”

I groan. “In this case I think I’d rather be a Little Bear.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” His blue eyes glow under the dim light. “Next rule?”

I raise the glass chin-level, doing as I was told. I take a deep breath, my eyes skimming over the straws and