The Note

by Natalie Wrye

  “Don’t worry about that,” I rasp back. “Just pass me a towel through a crack in the door. And I’ll come out.”

  Even the sound of Noah’s footsteps heading towards the linen closet makes me nervous and when he returns, tapping on the shower door, I swing it open—just a crack. Our fingers brush as I practically rip the plush towel from his hands and I quiver in the corner, wrapping the towel tightly around my body.

  It’s only when I’m sure it’s secure that I cuff of the water stream, stepping out.

  The inside of the marble bathroom looks like a hard rock concert, full of mist and gloom. That is, until Noah steps into plain view, giving me a glimpse of him dressed down for the second time ever, clad in another pair of comfortable gray sweats, a white t-shirt clinging to his skin.

  His dark hair is tousled when he touches it, running his fingers through the dark brown strands. His blue eyes stare.

  “Sorry. You were in the shower for over a half an hour. Thought something might be wrong. I brought you a plate from the breakfast downstairs.”

  I struggle to meet his eye. “Thank you.”

  “There’s bacon out there. Eggs and potatoes. I got our butler to serve you the strongest espresso he could find, and I’ve tasted it. It’s strong enough to keep you up for, oh, the entire winter season or so, and hot enough to file a lawsuit against the estate if it happens to drip onto your bare skin.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Thank you, Noah. I’ll be sure to be careful not to spill a drop. Wouldn’t want to burn myself only on wedding weekend day two.”

  But it looks like I’ve already done that. I glance down to where Noah’s eyes are and find my skin ruddy. Angry red spots from where the scalding shower beat down decorate my skin, and just as I extend my towel to cover it, Noah reaches right over towards the medicine cabinet.

  Extracting a small bottle from inside, he places a clear gel over his palm, moving closer. His eyes are intent, serious as they scan my skin, and without another word, he inches closer, reaching right over, his cool palm landing against my shoulder.

  He starts to rub, his calloused palms moving gingerly. I stifle a moan as his fingers work, slowly, carefully—teasingly against my skin. His eyes remain focused.

  “It’s Aloe Vera gel,” he says, at last. “Looks like we spoke about the burning too late.”

  He presses on the bottle to push another dollop of gel onto his palms. It isn’t until he extends his hand again that he seems to realize what he’s doing, and alarm makes his dark cerulean gaze glow, almost flare. His gaze meets mine, finding the same alertness in my eyes and before I can say a word or make a sound, Noah’s nearly on top of me, his hard body pressing into mine.

  He hovers over me, inadvertently pushing my backside against the shower wall as he lowers his face and I capture his lips with a kiss, taking it before he can pull away.

  And the intensity is sudden. The connection is instant.

  From the second we touch lips. From the moment we touch.

  There’s nothing soft about this kiss, nothing gentle.

  Noah’s body is as if made of stone as he presses against me. My hands grab his shoulders immediately and with his palms against the glass wall, the gorgeous Australian opens himself up to my eagerness, accepting my greedy tongue.

  I sweep it inside of his mouth the moment our lips meet, needing his taste. He tastes of coffee and brown sugar and the flavor of both mix in my mouth as I explore his, loving the feel of him against my body, inhaling his scent.

  His kiss is insistent against mine, full of barely contained fever. He touches his tongue with mine, licking and sucking and stroking. But there’s a restraint inside his body, a tightly held control on a leash.

  His hands still don’t touch me, even as mine dig into his shoulders, and within seconds, Noah is pulling back, shutting his eyes tightly as if needing not to look at me.

  As if the very act will turn him into stone.

  He falters back a few feet, one hand flying to his brow. He wipes the furrows settling there, setting them straight, and I watch him inhale for a few seconds, his brick-like chest falling and rising hard. Heaving with the exertion of a man who’s run a marathon, he takes several steading breaths before opening his eyes.

  When he does, they’re full of liquid blue fire. Hot enough too scorch.

  His gaze carves an inferno across my skin.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he rasps, his voice grating, full of gravel. “I shouldn’t have touched you. It’s not what we’re here for.”

  I want to ask him exactly what are we here for, if not to act like we care about each other.

  But before I can say another, Noah turns without speaking and is gone.

  Chapter 20

  NOAH

  We’re avoiding each other again.

  Only this time, I haven’t started it.

  Sophia’s been dancing around me since she came back from eating breakfast, samba’ing just out of my reach.

  Dressed in a floor-length, floral winter dress and sweater, I have to fight to keep my eyes off her.

  A new worry has settled on her smooth forehead, and curiosity draws my stare to her small form.

  She walks around as if deflated, all the former life sucked out of her curvy figure. And just as day two of the weekend wraps up, I find my gaze wandering to her, though, as the estate buses with life.

  Her eyes are focused on nothing, seemingly dazed.

  And as an afternoon of pre-nuptial games and incoming guests and presents stretch on, I flash a peek over at her again when she finally emerges from whatever stretch of the estate she’s been sequestered on. My throat goes dry at the thought that I may have put the sucker-punched look on her face after our dalliance in the bathroom this morning.

  Guilt swirls in my gut, and just as I help Lachlan stow some more wedding presents away—to talk to her, to say something, maybe even to apologize, Nadia, one of our New York receptionists, steps in the doorway to the dining hall.

  I stop.

  “Hi Noah.” She smiles openly at me. “Hectic day, huh?”

  My eyebrows quirk. “Guess I wasn’t the only swamped, huh?”

  “Not at all.” The buxom brunette takes an uninvited step inside, and my stomach tightens. “The pace of people arriving picked up sometime around lunch and didn’t let up.”

  I glance over my shoulder out the huge windows. “Sounds like that rain didn’t either.”

  She nods, the red dress on her frame undulating. Or maybe it’s me?

  She seems to be swaying. And did she get closer or am I imagining things?

  She crosses arms underneath her full bosom, pressing them near to the ceiling. And my gaze flicks from the rain showers that have just picked up outside to her face and the smile that’s spreading on it.

  She takes a step closer.

  “Right?” She agrees with my rain comment. “It’s the kind of evening that makes you want to curl up with a glass of wine, doesn’t it?”

  I adjust the strap on my shoulder. “Mm.”

  “Which reminds me…” Okay, she’s definitely getting closer. She takes another high-heeled step towards me, and my body stiffens as the front desk receptionist licks her bright red lips. “I was wondering…if you’re not too busy, of course, if you’d like to have some tonight.” Her smile widens. “Wine, I mean. I know you guys have a great wine cellar on the property, and I have a feeling you would love the…taste.”

  She wraps her tongue around the last word, practically licking it. And my eyes stray towards the open door outside the lengthy dining hall finding Sophia now standing.

  Watching us.

  Her eyes bounce from the back of Nadia’s head to me, and the guilt I’d felt earlier solidifies like a weight in my solar plexus.

  Her golden-green gaze lands on me, never straying. I expect the anger I once found when I picked up her from The Alchemist but instead there’s only hurt. Only pain.

  I return my gaze from Nadia to S
ophia, setting the box in my hands to the table, wiping them quickly as Sophia turns on her heel, heading out of the dining room fast.

  My eyes can’t help but follow.

  “Thanks for the offer, Nadia. Really.” Her eyes start to brighten. “But I can’t. I’ve got, uh…something I need to do first.”

  The pretty receptionist’s face falls.

  I leave her there in the long room, her face just as long, discovering Sophia on the stairs, her dress swaying high as she hightails it to the second floor.

  I climb the stairs two at a time, moving fast.

  SOPHIA

  Packing a bag isn’t hard…when you don’t have much to pack.

  As many items decorate the inside of Noah’s and my assigned bedroom, very few of them are mine and I pile my remaining clothes, my threadbare dresses, shirts and winter wear into my weekend bag.

  The room is more grandiose than any item in my wardrobe, the carpet softer and I stomp over the damn thing as I head for the bathroom.

  Swiping my toothbrush from inside, I head back into the adjoining bedroom, head down only to find a surprised Noah in the doorway, his blue eyes wide as he shuts the door behind him, his movements steady.

  I drop the brush into my bag. “What are you doing here, Noah? Why are you following me? Is this another test? Another round of revenge I somehow haven’t recognized? Humiliate me by making me come here to eat brunch amongst people who could buy me twice over? Embarrass me at the gallery in front of my boss, in front of my friends? Made me do your bidding? What else?”

  I plant my hands on my hips, staring at the surreal-looking man in front of me.

  I look silly. I know I look silly.

  In my floral-patterned dress and sweater, attempting to look nice amongst the Chanel and Dior couture, I look like someone’s poor adopted sister.

  A charity case.

  The other guests might laugh at us, if they could just see us now.

  The lowly inner city girl trying to clean up, yelling at the blue blood man born in couture.

  And through my rage, Noah stands there, staring at me. Despite being rain-drenched from bringing in wedding presents from outside, he looks perfect, ever the dark prince—a deep contrast from me, a woman who once believed the Gap™ was couture.

  We were worlds apart.

  Noah Quinn was just a reminder of all that I wasn’t. As if I needed another.

  Drew was wrong; not that my dear friend had the habit of ever being perpetually right—or even on time.

  I was better off at The Alchemist. Waiting on bankers who would make my life a living hell.

  I couldn’t outrun who’d I’d been. And I couldn’t forget it.

  At least I wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

  Pretend that I wasn’t what I had been in the past. Pretend that I could be more. Pretend that I’d find my fairytale life of safety and security.

  The life that my parents could never provide.

  I hold my ground—and my hands up in the air, as I demand an answer. “What else do you want from me?

  I shake my head, my eyes filling with tears I refuse to let fall. “You’ve got what you wanted: Proof that I’m a poor liar. Nothing more than a criminal. A thief. You’ve shown that I’m shit, and you’re not. That I don’t have a pot to piss in and that yours is platinum. That you’re rich and wealthy and sophisticated and perfect, and that I will never be any of those things. You no longer need my help to find a watch. You can go to that Benny’s Pizza place by yourself and find it.” I blink fast, breathing deep. “Or am I not humbled enough for you?”

  The words are barely out of my mouth before he destroys the distance between us, traversing the living room space in just a few steps. He grabs my chin in one hand, his dark blue eyes ablaze—almost alit in the dimmed glow from my nearby lamps.

  The amber illumination highlights the many facets in his oceanic eyes, and my heart seizes, completely stopped as he stares down at me.

  “What else do you I want from you?” His eyes flitter from one eye to the next as his stare burns into mine. His dark brows lower. “I’m not going to lie: A piece of me wanted to see you at my feet. To bring you there. To debase you.” He blinks. Just once. “That part of me left about two hours ago.”

  He sighs, inhaling a breath so heavy that I feel it, too. His blue eyes glimmer. “I told you this already, Little Bear. But you don’t seem to get it yet. So let me refresh your memory… I want what I wanted from you the first night we met, the first time I tasted that awful tequila with you and listened to your absurdly loud laugh.”

  He lowers his chin. “I want to be with you. To feel your body beneath mine.” He breathes. “I want to fuck you so hard you forget your name. I want to fuck you so long you forget time. And I want to fuck you so good that both don’t matter.”

  I take a large gulp of air as Noah’s grip loosens, his large fingers trailing to my jaw. He strokes the skin there, no doubt feeling me swallow. I wet my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue.

  “And what do you want me to say to that?”

  “Say that I’m not a liar. That I’m not crazy to want you as much as I do. Say that I can believe you. That I can trust you.”

  I shake my head, the motion making Noah’s fingers lower to my neck. They play along the sensitive nerves there and I suck in a breath.

  “I can’t do that, Noah.”

  His eyes turn to midnight-deep diamonds. “Why not?”

  “Because I barely trust myself, Noah. I never have before. Until you showed me how to.” I exhale. “I need to believe. Believe in something. Believe in myself. God help me, Noah…” Teardrops start to decorate my lashes, and I close them. “I need you to help me believe in fairytales again.”

  And then he kisses me.

  Chapter 21

  NOAH

  Bedding Sophia Somerset goes against every better judgment my ass has ever had.

  But I don’t know how to stop.

  Her skin is still damp, still slightly cool to the touch when I grip the back of her neck, bringing her mouth onto mine.

  My frustration with my company, with her, with the world melts the second our lips connect, and I realize in that moment that maintaining my cool will be a helluva lot harder than I expected.

  But that’s just the thing…

  I never expected her.

  The expectation of perfection has followed me my entire life, the responsibility for upholding my flailing, father-less family sitting on my shoulders since I was four years old.

  My brothers’ father died when Lachlan was a baby; my own secret father was never around.

  In my world, a world of real estate and acquisitions, of pomp and pretending, my grandfather—and owner of the Quinn empire—made sure there was no room for the unexpected.

  So when my heavily medicated bipolar mother had an affair with his lawyer, when she cheated on the man who should have been her ‘forever,’ my grandfather made the secrets, the truth and everything surrounding it go away.

  The lawyer, Fitzergald Sparrow, retreated to the makings of his own empire. And his son lived on in ignorance.

  That is, until Grandfather Quinn thought it fit to confess to a twenty-year old me on his deathbed, revealing the God-awful truth to a young man who’d already felt different form his brothers.

  And now it seems that everywhere I turn, surprises are turning up around the corner.

  And for the first time in a long time, I welcome it with open arms.

  Crafting a carefully polished veneer had been part of my life since I cared to remember. Crafting the image of the perfect company. The perfect son. The perfect sibling under my grandfather’s beloved Quinn surname.

  “Snob,” my brothers called it. “Nothing was ever good enough,” they joked.

  Perfection.

  I’d scoff if I could.

  The concept of it was the purest of bullshit.

  And that bullshit was my savior. My safety raft in a world where I was quietly
drowning.

  The scared little daddy-less boy I’d been was still there. Beneath the suit. Hiding inside the penthouse apartment.

  Terrified.

  Perfection was a better disguise than most. Because once you had it, people rarely tried to peek beneath the surface.

  Which was just how I liked it. For so damned long.

  But what was perfection compared to having a father who was actually present? What was the illusion of immaculate living next to the belief that your mother—who’d long succumbed to the throes of illness and self-pity—actually gave a shit?

  I want to tell Sophia exactly that, but I can’t stop kissing her long enough, and I let my touch, my mouth, my hands say everything that my words can’t.

  I know what’s happening between her and I won’t mean anything; it can’t.

  But that doesn’t stop me from cupping the edge of Sophia’s soft and delectable ass, lifting her from her feet and separating myself for just a second so I can say the only word that matters right now.

  I mutter out “Bedroom.” And she points me down the hall.

  My little thief squeezed between my hands, her eyes clenched tight, I carry her just inside of the soft pink walls of her bedroom. Laying her down on the white sheets, I disconnect myself, letting myself stand.

  Her eyes follow my every move as I reach for the top button of my shirt, unfastening it slowly so she can watch.

  God knows I fucking love watching her.

  Her amber-green eyes go wide as I reveal each inch of skin.

  She smirks, her eyes hazy with lust. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  I smirk back. “At one point, I thought about it.”

  “If you move any slower, I’m going to explode on this bed without you.”

  I keep unbuttoning. “Well, spread your legs, so I can watch.” I finally unfasten the last one. “Or maybe, just spread them so I can do more than watch.”

  I shrug out of my collared shirt, sending it sailing across the room. I lower myself to the bed.

  Sophia’s eyes turn into round circles as I grab her ankles. Her elbows propped up so that she can watch from the bed, she freezes from where she lays, her knees sliding slowly apart just below the hem of her skirt.