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

of strawberry-blonde hair steps forward behind my brothers’ backs, and within seconds, they step aside to reveal Nancy, Sophia’s boss, strolling casually down the hall, her reddish brow furrowed.

Her gaze scans the semi-circle of men around her, landing on me at last. “Did I miss an impromptu invitation to a party in the hallway?”

“And speaking of parties,” Drew gives a renewed look to Lachlan, “is this Lachlan Quinn I’m staring at or does the crazy prick I once knew in college have a twin?”

Lach steps forward. “Drew?” He holds his arms out in disbelief. “Jesus, man, where the hell have you been?” He looks Sophia’s neighbor over. “I thought you died at some senior frat party and wound up in the fourth dimension of Hell. Or New Jersey. Since they’re practically the same place.”

“It’s a long…story,” he stumbles over his words. “One I can tell you another time. But what are you doing here?”

Lachlan points. “Looking for my brother’s girlfriend, Sophia.”

“Wait?” Nancy pipes up. “You’re Sophia’s boyfriend now, Noah?”

Drew glances at Nancy. “You know this guy?”

I frown. “We’re getting way off topic here. Does anybody know where the hell Sophia is now?”

“Exactly.” Jase adds with some bite. “I’m getting married in three hours, so if we could hurry this up…”

And suddenly the hallway breaks out into a roar, everyone talking at once. Through the curses and call-outs, interruptions and over-talking, the sound of Lachlan yelling over it all finally gets everyone’s attention.

We stop as my youngest brother wanders into the center of this chaotic arc of Sophia’s friends, his hands held high as he hushes.

“Everybody, just a second. Calm down! We’re missing the most important problem here!”

The small crowd stands still. And Lachlan keeps speaking.

“Where the hell are we going to get food?! I’m starving.”

Jase glowers, his brown eyes burning bright. He crosses his arms. “That’s the most important problem here, Lachlan? Seriously?”

“No.” I join Lach in the middle of the partial circle. “Mr. Hole-in-his-Stomach has point. We should get something to eat.” I look at the eyes of the people around me, my thoughts start swirling. “In fact, I think I know exactly where we should go…”

Chapter 27

SOPHIA

Trying to drown your worries with tequila just isn’t as fun when you do it by yourself.

In the muted dark of The Alchemist’s bar, before the doors even open for Sunday ‘faux-brunch,’ I order another shot from Rick, who now plays bartender—something I’m not used to, and I recap the last two weeks hating myself for how weak I sound, unable to help it.

Rick dries a glass behind the countertop, setting it in front of me.

“So, what’s the deal with this guy? You going to see him again or what?”

I scoff, my elbows on the countertops as I twirl my latest tequila. I stare at the wooden slab beneath my palms. “Yeah, sure, because I’ve always dreamed of being part of a man’s Mormon-like, multiple-wife harem.”

Rick grins. “Doesn’t every woman?”

“Hardy-har-har. I’d laugh if I wasn’t seconds away from screaming.”

Rick finishes drying the glass. “So, scream. I won’t tell. Though, our neighbors might not be too happy.”

I cast The Alchemist’s general manager a pointed look. “I scream, and someone will probably think you’re murdering me in here.”

“Murdering you?” Rick picks up another glass, running a towel around the corners. His brown gaze starts to cloud as he walks. “Now why would I do a thing like that?”

“Oh come on.” My eyes follow him as he ambles. “You going to tell me you never thought about it?”

Rick stops and glances at me. “Thought about what?” He places the glass away, sliding it in its slot and I press him, the mezcal drink in front of me making me even bolder than before. My back straightens as I face him across the countertop.

“You haven’t thought about seriously harming me, Rick?”

He purses his lips. “Hadn’t really crossed my mind.”

“Oh come on. You’re an infamous prick, and you know it.” I point wobbly. “And I’m a hardheaded, stubborn bitch when I want to be. We were destined to be enemies.”

He spins, one blond brow reaching high as he rotates to look at me. “Is that what you think we were?”

“Well, we’re not exactly being cast as Harry and Sally in any ’80’s movie remakes any time soon.”

I laugh, but Rick doesn’t join in on the humor, his expression gone serious.

My phone rings out loudly, and just as I start to hit “Ignore” to avoid talking to people for the tenth time today, I realize that the strange number on my phone screen is familiar.

My heart squeezes.

It’s the gallery. Dweller.

The one that sold my princess self-portrait to Noah.

I step away from the bar, picking up before I can think twice, and the second I do, the soft voice of the gallery owner, Mr. Tweeney, sounds over the line, barely audible above the clamor of the rain outside.

I lean into the speaker, scarcely holding my breath. “Mr. Tweeney?”

“Miss Somerset, I’m glad I got a hold of you today,” he exclaims quietly. “I have some news for you. Is this a bad time?”

“No, of course not.”

It’s never a bad time to hear from the gallery you’d submit your work to. A gallery you’d slipped a second painting to on Thursday night, when you were still reeling from a certain Australian’s strange request.

I’d been working on that painting all Wednesday night.

After leaving that Scottish bar with Noah, the urge to rewind the last few days, to take out my paint brush and capture the mysterious man in all his nuanced glory, was as strong as ever as I sipped lavender tea in my living room late into the night.

I needed to get something on the canvas. But what?

I knew the urge the minute I felt it, knew it was as natural as breathing.

That Wednesday night, with a sip of my tea, I headed towards my little corner of the living room, reaching for the paints. My clothes were still stuck, still slicked to my skin from the earlier