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

it. And honestly? ‘Everything's a lot tougher when it's for real. That's when you choke. When it's for real.’ Stephen King’s It.”

“Well, according to another American creative, ‘Excuses are shit. Reality is what you make it. And if you make excuses for the way you choose to live it, then all the world will ever be is shit.”

I angle one eyebrow. “One of Frida Kahlo’s quotes?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “One of Sophia Somerset’s.” And then she slips into silence.

Shifting towards her own window, she stares outside of the limousine the entire ride over.

An hour and a half later, we pull up to the Quinn Greenwich estate the lights just beyond the wrought-iron gates leading the way. Once inside, the yawning expanse of the two and half acres welcome us, visually inviting all wedding guests in.

With English Cottage architecture more mansion than house, the eight bedroom palace boasts an enclave of formal gardens and sprawling lawns. A wraparound porch flanks the entire manor and less than a hundred yards away hosts a five-bedroom in-law suite with full amenities included.

The saltwater pool is on the cherry on top of a spectacular Connecticut sundae and I watch Sophia closely as she takes it all in.

She pulls back an inch in her seat, her mouth agape, and I gaze down at her, my eyes questioning as she stares at the enclave without blinking.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“No… I just…” she stammers, her amber-green eyes sparkling with wonder. “It’s just a little, I don’t know…too right.”

I angle my head. “Too right?”

She blows out a breath, her pretty blushed cheeks puffing. Fiddling a hand through her hair, she twirls her fingers across the few strands hanging from her updo in messy waves, and I have to hold back the urge to do the same.

I continue watching her.

“I mean, this place.” She motions towards the majestic manor coming into our view, the sight of Jase’s upcoming nuptials. “That view.” To the windows. She looks back at me. “You.”

“Me?” I chuckle lightly.

“Yes, you. It’s too right. Too perfect. There’s too much pressure. What if someone notices that we’re faking it? That this relationship isn’t real. I’m not exactly the world’s greatest actress.”

I glower, a ball of tension starting to twist in my gut. “Trust me; you fooled me once before. You’ll do fine.”

But if I thought I would be fine, I wouldn’t do what I was doing to Sophia. Waving that note over her head like a proverbial prison sentence on a string.

Even I was amazed at how easily I’d lied to my brothers all these years, even all these months.

I could have told them the truth. Told them about the company, my father.

But if there was one lesson I was learning on the edge of losing my family’s company, it was to have contingency plans.

And it was looking like I was going to need one if my Little Bear was backing out. I can see the hesitance in her eyes.

I cross my arms as she turns from me, planting her tiny hands on the backseat’s leather cushions, her sexily swept-up head of hair hanging low.

“This should be simple,” she whispers.

I squint. “What should be?”

She glances up, right at me. “This.” She points between us, her finger wagging back and forth. “You. Me. What we’re about to do…”

About to do? Fuck. I inhale slowly. “Give it a chance.” My brows rise. “I’m sure one or both of us will find a way to ‘wrong’ this up.”

She laughs, the sound soft. It tugs at a smile I didn’t even know I could give at this point. She shakes her head.

“Maybe if you were a little more …”

“Serial killer-y?” I finish.

“Exactly.” She grins, but the expression is a little sad. “Unfortunately, you’re the most normal Stephen King nerd I’ve ever met.”

“If I paint some pimples on, would that make you feel better?”

She scoffs, her head lowering as she gazes at the floor. “It might be a start…”

It’s a shame that I know that’s exactly what she means.

Because if she were less perfect, maybe it would be easier to leave her in the past, to forget.

Maybe it would be easier to let this little note fixation, this watch-hunt, this need for perfection, go.

I get the distinct feeling that Little Miss Somerset may have had the month I’ve had. And God knows I’ve had enough of one.

For the past few months, I’ve tipped a shot of scotch towards my lips every night, letting it slip against the back of my throat, a part of me waiting. Waiting as it has for the past two months.

Waiting for the brain cells to die. Waiting for the synapses inside my mind to stop shooting. Waiting for the memory of my father’s funeral to fade from my subconscious.

Forgetting my past. It was my only goal.

Month two of the anniversary of his death is just as bad as month one, and the breath I inhale now feels almost angry in my nostrils, burning with a mixture of tonight’s caffeine, Sophia’s scent and some repressed emotion. I let go of a long breath, staring at the brunette’s pretty pinched face.

I want to be mad. I want to be angry at not getting what I want.

My father’s watch. My dignity back.

But I can’t be.

Somehow this girl is the distraction I didn’t know I needed. The anger I’d felt earlier is gone, probably doused by all the espresso I’ve been drinking, and I reach towards the tiny limousine bar, dipping my hand into the fridge.

I reach for a small champagne glass and another, setting both to the side.

I grab for the shiny thermos inside, and, without a moment’s hesitation, I start pouring, sloshing the dark liquid into the slim glasses.

“Well, I may not be pale…or pimply enough to be a Stephen King fan. And there’s nothing virginal about me. Or the drinks I make.” I tip the champagne glass filled with caffeine towards her. “But I know the cure for the ‘too-perfects.’ And it’s this poison.”

Sophia shakes her head. “I’m