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

I roll my eyes all the way back to the bar where my boss and co-owner Nancy meets me, reaching over to slip the tray from my fingers. She groans.

“Christ, what have you done this time?”

I hand her the tray, knowing I’ve just screwed up every chance at making rent tonight, wondering if the snark was worth it.

It definitely feels like it.

In fact, the only part of tonight I regret is not talking more to Mr. Captain-Save-a-Waitress over there.

In the land of shitheads and suits, I think I just met the only man who might not be both. And I may have blown it by letting him walk away.

Chapter 3

NOAH

Walking away is necessary. But fuck, I wish I weren’t.

Not when my thoughts are still on that cute-arsed waitress.

My father’s watch was still on my mind as I wandered from my Midtown mess of an apartment to Manhattan’s dark streets, the taste of nicotine and scotch still on my lips.

A glass of my best dark liquor couldn’t erase the worry. Neither could the cigarette.

One hand in my dark slacks, the other tangled in my dark hair, I don’t even look up from the uneven pavement under my feet until I hear the sounds of sultry music on the street.

That’s when I glanced up to find a street sign reading The Alchemist overhead and decided I could do worse. I strolled in, new knots working into my shoulders as I slumped in a worn leather stool at the bar.

I just needed the liquor. I didn’t care what flavor.

Until I overhead the conversation several tables over.

The drunkards didn’t catch my attention. But she did.

A voice, velvety sweet and full, found my ears, and I glanced over to find the sort of figure you only saw in movies.

A mass of dark hair tumbled down tiny shoulders and over a stark white shirt situated just above a small black skirt. Stockings covered the shapely legs beneath, but did nothing to hide the gentle curve of each delicate calf. The top of taut thighs showing underneath the skirt hinted at the possibility of other tight things beneath, and I could no longer focus on ordering from the bartender.

I had to say something.

Especially when Tosser Number Two decided to chime in.

I was out of my seat in seconds, the anger that had simmered on the city sidewalks having followed me in.

I turned on the dickheads with a swiftness that scared everyone within earshot.

Including me.

But damn it felt good to give those wankers what they had coming. If only Cynthia wasn’t calling at that very moment.

The surface of my skin is still hot with ire when I walked away from the tables, ducking into the dimly lit back hall with the bathrooms. I pick up the call, a growl stuck in the back of my throat as I answer.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that I called the local ‘dog kettle.’” Cynthia scoffs. “You want to turn down that bark just a bit?”

“What’s up, Cyn?” I lean against the sturdy wooden wall tucked away from the rest of the bar. My voice lowers. “I really don’t have time for this.”

She sighs, and I can imagine her running her nails along her blonde hair pale under the fluorescent light of her tiny desk, her earthy eyes rolling. She continues talking anyway.

“I just wanted to apologize…to you.”

I snort. “To me?”

“Yeah, to you, ‘Cujo.’” She exhales a deep, long breath. “I didn’t have to snap at you like that earlier. It was uncalled for.”

“Right. And do you think you calling me by a vicious, fictional dog’s name is going to make this conversation go any better?”

“Says the man once nicknamed Sydney’s biggest ‘root rat.’”

My back stiffens. I switch my phone between hands. “Who told you that?”

Cyn laughs lightly. “From your reaction, I’m going to guess those rumors are true, then.” My shoulders straighten as I push away from the wall, my back bristling. “Stephen King might have made Cujo the most famous dog in Hollywood cinema. But you’re definitely the most famous dog in Australia. Congrats…on being a complete hound.”

“And on that note,” I mumble, my finger hovering over the ‘End Call’ button, “feel free to snap your fingers wherever you’d like, Cyn.” My tone lowers. “Preferably, in several places.”

Her laugh is back. But there’s nothing sardonic about it this time. “I don’t mean to snap at you, Noah. Really, I don’t. It’s just…habit.” She sucks her teeth, creating a “tsk” sound. “C’mon. Give me a break. I’ve barely seen you since you stepped back into the New York office two months ago. Barely caught a glimpse of you at all. I mean, Jase lives here at the office. I see him all the time. Lach is mostly between here and London.”

“But you? You’re like a ghost. Mr. Untouchable.” She inhales sharply, the sound an audible bite. “And I know you’re just getting adjusted to being back in the City. But it’s hard as hell to get a hold of a man in your position. Even harder to get your attention when you’re in one of these, you know…” She hesitates, stumbling over the words, unsure of herself for the first time I can remember in my twenty-eight year-old life. “These modes.”

I sniff, not giving Cyn an inch. “What modes?” I ask, knowing full well what she means.

I can’t help it sometimes. In ‘go’ mode, I’m a dickhead. And Cynthia knows it more than most. She doesn’t let me get away with it, though.

“The ‘fuck everything but what I’m working on’ mode, Noah. I’ve seen it plenty of it when we were fifteen. Not much has changed in the last thirteen years.”

Despite my irritation, her warm change in direction thaws some of my frost, and I close my eyes, controlling that fiery temper that once made me one of the best real estate developers in the world…and one of the most stubborn.

I release an unshaken breath. “You’re forgiven, Cyn. What kind of fucked-up best friend would