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

over the gray granite, “we had a running bet in the office that your next girlfriend might be Cynthia. I shuddered at the thought of that one.”

I take another sip of my coffee, almost burning my damn tongue as I take it in. I didn’t see that one coming. I cough up caffeine. “Holy hell, Lachlan, you want to warn me before you tell me something like that? Good God, this company…I don’t know if we run a rumor mill or a real estate firm.”

“If we’re betting, I’d say both.” He grabs the entire bottle of scotch this time, taking a large swig from the neck, grimacing hard the second he’s done. He sets it down. “Good thing I didn’t bet too much money. Though the fact that she’s been in love with you for over a decade should have given me the edge.”

I lower the paper cup, the caffeine turning to poison on my tongue. I manage to swallow the swill. “Wait, what?”

“Come on.” Lach scoffs, another mouthful of scotch going down his gullet. He stares openly at me, his caramel-colored eyes going wide. “You hadn’t noticed? She’s only one of the best lawyers in the United States, and she works for us? Psssh, she should be working for Wall Street, making stock brokers cry. And if you haven’t noticed the Gucci shoes lately, her family also owns half of Manhattan and the auto industry. Not to mention everything else they’ve managed to buy up in the last two decades. The woman doesn’t have to work, Noah.”

I frown. “But she loves being a lawyer.”

“Then why doesn’t she work for her family business?”

“Maybe she likes working more for us,” I counter. “Her family friends.”

“A family friend. Sure.” He waves his glass, the liquid sloshing soundly along the sides. He leans in closer across the bar, clucking the tip of his tongue. His smirk is wide. “What other family friend’s university did she also happen to attend as well? Because I only remember her going to yours.” He waits. “What other ‘family friend’s’ office does she barge into on a regular basis…other than yours?”

My head is spinning, my coffee cup finally cooling. I set it down. “Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a sec.” My skin grows cold at the thought. “Are you saying that Cynthia—Cynthia Stratford, blonde hair…” I raise a hand in the air. “This height. A woman who thinks I have fleas and chases my own tail. You’re saying that that Cynthia Stratford wants…me?”

Lachlan’s voice is soft, almost understanding, all taunting gone as he angles near, his clean-shaven chin pointed in my direction as if he lowers his head—as if whispering a secret. His words are quiet.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, Noah. No, of course not.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, but Lachlan keeps talking. “I am saying that Cynthia Stratford, blonde hair…” He raises a hand in the air. “This height. A woman who thinks you have fleas and chase your own tail…wants to marry you, screw you, have your babies and potentially strap you to her bedposts for all eternity.”

He nudges me as if that’s any better, a laugh bursting from his throat.

Finishing the last of his scotch, he winces and lowers the glass, somehow not realizing that my world, and everything I thought I knew in it, is crumbling all around me.

It’s a realization that explains a lot. And confuses even more.

I needed to talk to Sophia.

Chapter 24

SOPHIA

Leaving the Quinn Estate is no easy feat.

But I’m not leaving. More like escaping.

After Ainsley leaves Noah’s room—and me reeling, I pack the rest of my weekend bag, slipping down the stairs. Hair still wet from my shower, jeans and fluffy sweater on, my fingers are still fumbling with the straps to my bag, one shoe half on—as usual, as I slip down the stairs, nearly stumbling half of the way.

But the main house on the estate is crowded, packed now that the wedding is only a few hours away, and leaving the front door without conjuring up questions is almost impossible.

I’m almost all the way down when my cell phone rings, sending me flying, more like scurrying into the only place that’s not overflowing with eager guests—a bathroom.

The cement gray-painted powder room in the downstairs foyer is bigger than my Manhattan two-bedroom apartment, and as soon as the door is shut, I answer the call, not bothering to glance at the number on the screen.

My voice is a whispered hiss amidst the house’s chaos.

“Hi, what?”

“Whoa,” I hear on the other end. “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the one-night stand.” My brother huffs. “And spare me the details, please.”

I sigh, tucking locks of my messy hair behind my ears. I fix the sleeves of my bulky sweater with one hand, holding the phone tight in the other. “Okay, you and Marilyn are so alike it’s scary.” I fumble with my shoe, slipping it farther in. “You deserve to be together. What do you want?”

“What do I want?” My older brother emphasizes. “Two weeks ago, you would have handed me my own ass if I didn’t respond to one of your texts in two minutes and half a month later, you disappear on me. Soph…where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

“You have? I don’t have any missed calls?”

“I stopped by your job.”

“Please, for the love of all things Millennial, text me when you have something to say. Stopping by my job won’t cut it. One of my coworkers probably thought you were a creepy cyberstalker.”

“Fuck,” he curses out loud. “Is that why that guy at your job with the tattoos treated me like I was trying to sell clown porn and brownie mix out back?”

I shake my head. “You must be talking about Drew. He said someone came by in a suit. Just didn’t know the ‘suit’ was you.”

“Yeah, it was me. And I didn’t text because what I had to say was