The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

head, laughing. “I didn't give her one either.”

“Fuck,” he swears, carrying me to my feet. “Where are my NDAs when I need 'em? I've been misplacing them a lot.”

I frown as he stands, zipping up his pants. “Why do you need one?”

“Because,” he gazes over at me, blue eyes heated, “I'm going to need you and Lachlan to sign one. Because I'm about to commit sororicide.”

“Sororicide… You mean the act of murdering your…”

“Sister,” he finishes. “Oh, Sabrina!” He calls out, storming out of the bedroom, me at his back. “Let's have a little chat about sibling respect!”

Oh, great.

We’re never going to make it to the re-opening on time now.

Grabbing my forgotten towel from the tiled floor, I still can’t help but grin as I chase after him, running hard, my heart happier than it’s ever been.

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Head on over to Chicago where the sports scandals are hot and the baseball players are hotter in THE PLAY (A Chicago Nights novel) now on Kobo!

Sneak Peek of THE PLAY

EMILY

Friday Night - Midnight

Headphones in, Fiona Apple music on, I try not to stare—weary and dry-eyed—at the pile of laundry in the corner of my bedroom where, if everything had gone according to plan last night, Jason might have set up a bottle of wine.

The La Perla lingerie (the ones Jason once hinted he liked) sits lonely on top of the laundry pile, and I pretend I’m okay with China Taste being my date for the night.

That I’m okay with being rejected by another guy in an online world where even a man you’ve been dating for two months might ditch you for other options. That I’m okay with going back to wearing my bikini-cut panties with the cartoon characters on them instead of the high-priced, hoping-to-get-laid lingerie.

Fiona’s still singing to me, lovely lyrics that tell me I’m criminal as I sit on the edge of my bed in my Hey Arnold! cartoon undies, and with redemption on my mind, I finally get up, grabbing the dirty clothes from that sad little corner.

Slapping on a pair of sweats, I grab the overflowing hamper. Music at last on pause, I prepare to take the long elevator trek down to the fourteenth floor, dragging the dirty laundry behind me, checking my phone for the fortieth time.

Midnight.

On a Friday night. Alone with nothing but unclean drawers.

Pathetic.

Pressing the elevator button for the communal laundry room many levels below, I get in and pray that none of my neighbors see me.

Standing there. Makeupless in a t-shirt and sweats, mouthing the words to nineties music with Chinese “special sauce” decorating the corner of my lips.

But my prayer for a quick trip is wasted somewhere around the twenty-seventh floor as the empty elevator slows.

I wait for the doors to part.

And as soon as they do, a pair of green eyes peer out beyond the tiny elevator space, snatching the already-shallow breath from my body.

My heart kicks into high-gear, pulse pounding as the silver car opens to reveal my upstairs neighbor standing just outside of it.

The man living right above me. Mr. Makes-Too-Much-Noise.

Mr. Makes-The-Women-He’s-With-Scream-Bloody-Murder-in-Bed.

Sevin Smith is my client all right.

But not just that. Right now, Sevin Smith is in my elevator.

And he’s looking right at me.

My breath seizes in my throat, forgetting how to make it to my mouth.

Fuck.

Sevin Smith is in my elevator. Seven Smith is in my elevator.

My asshole neighbor is in my elevator.

Hell, we may have taken this elevator a million times together since he’s moved in. But I guess I’ve always been too busy, too buried in some new client brief to notice the serious-faced Adonis riding a few feet away from me.

Every day.

He says nothing as I shift on my feet, a strange glint playing in his irises as his hardened stare clashes with mine.

I can’t move. Or talk. Or think in those few seconds that pass between us.

In that moment he takes his first step towards me, I don’t know how…but I know that he knows. Knows that I’m the neighbor, the one who’s called the cops. Or even the one who’s taken him on a client.

But he doesn’t speak.

Not one word.

The gorgeous real-life version of the man from the magazine just stands there, a human statute in low-slung jeans.

And to make matters worse, as if to confirm he knows my little secret, he lifts his chiseled chin towards me, raises one eyebrow…and smiles.

Start reading THE PLAY (A Chicago Nights novel) now on Kobo!

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Also by Natalie Wrye

THE GAFANELLI MOB SERIES

The Bodyguard

The Investigator

The Imposter

The Enforcer

The Prisoner (Coming 2021)

THE HATING HIM SERIES

Hating The Boss

Hating The Best Man

Hating The Player

—

The Hating Him Box Set

THE MANHATTAN NIGHTS SERIES

The Vow

The Bet

The Deal

The Kiss

The Note

The Lie (Coming 2021)

—

Manhattan Nights (Novels 1-3) Box Set

THE CHICAGO NIGHTS SERIES

The Play

The Pact

The Dare (Coming 2021)

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About the Author

Natalie Wrye is a reader, writer and tequila lover best known for writing suspenseful big city romance