by Natalie Wrye
“Man,” he comments softly as the scotch swirls inside his drink. “Never thought I’d be old enough to come in here.” He raises the glass when it’s full. “Who’d have thought, huh? Us? Old enough to be in Grandfather Quinn’s bat cave?”
“Bat cave?” I snort. “I used to call it the ‘Bruise Cave’. Every time he came out of here, he was sporting a new shiner.”
Lachlan laughs, those sandy brown strands of his curling over his brow. He swipes them aside. “That’s because he was always getting drunk in here and falling over. The man could never keep his balance once he started on the hard stuff.” Scoffing, he holds the glass high in the air, waving it. “Just imagine the headlines if they caught wind of those visuals: ‘The Scariest Old Wanker in Real Estate Trips over Armchair and Knocks Himself Out Cold’.”
“Good old Errol Quinn.” I drink from my still-hot coffee, elbows placed on the granite counters. I inhale the caffeine’s aroma. “Doing to himself what other brokers in the business would have paid members of the mafia to do.” I snort. “The man single-handedly kept the single malt scotch industry in business.”
My youngest brother raises his glass in a toast. “And I’m glad he did. The man damned sure had good taste.”
He starts to drink.
I watch him letting the elixir slide down his throat, his strong throat swallowing. The motion reminds me of summers we spent on the estate, how Grandfather Quinn used to disappear for hours.
When he died when I was at the age of twenty, those summers were all I thought about. But in the present, when Lachlan offers up a taste of one of grandfather’s bottles, the desire to take it is dull, tinged with dark memories.
The knowledge that, in the Quinn household, liquor had become a way of life doesn’t escape me, even now. And I tighten my grip on the Americano in my hand, staring back at my reflection in the bottle glass.
“No, I’m good,” I say too Lachlan. “But thanks for the offer.”
“It’s for your ears.” He nods. “That reverend out there is probably still talking. I’m hoping at this point drunkenness will drown him out. But who knows?” He lowers the bottle, setting it to the tabletop. A glimmer of something indiscernible passing in his brown eyes, but I dismiss it, focusing on my coffee.
But that doesn’t stop my annoying brother from pressing further.
“So, speaking of ‘drowning,’ I assume you were drowning in something else last night. Something pink and soft and warm. One of my favorite places in the world.” His dark eyebrows wag. “Want to tell me how you’re doing with that new girlfriend of yours?”
“Sophia, Lach. Her name is Sophia. And could you be any more crass?”
“I could, actually.” He shrugs. “Crassness aside, I am proud of you, man. Believe it or not,” he winks 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 you
r 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 too much for a message, and I called last night but your phone went straight to voicemail and your inbox was full.” He expels a long breath, taking a serious pause before inhaling another one. “You know it’s been hard for me and Mare over the past two months. Since the funeral of her father and all.”
I nod at nothing. Because I did know.
“I’m sure you know that cleaning up the affairs of a law mogul like Fitzgerald Sparrow after his passing isn’t easy, but we’re pulling through. I’d have called sooner, but there was so much going on. Guess I don’t really have a choice at this point.” He exhales soundly, and the sound is heavy, weighing down on me as I wait, the chatter of houseguests in the luxurious manor clamoring softly in the background. His sigh is soft. “Soph, we need to talk.”
My heart sinks at the familiar four words.
Four words no one on earth wants to hear. I perch against the powder room sink.
My foot won’t stop shaking, knocking back and forth as I stand, and the need to get out of this damn house has me gnawing on my bottom lip, anticipating the worst.
Like someone knocking.
Or Noah finding me.
And right now, my heart can’t comprehend anything worse. I want to leave. Right now.
“Can’t it wait, Jess?” I stare at the doorknob. “I have something I have to do first.”
“Sure,” Jesse shoots back in his classic lawyer-type tone. “That is, unless you want the crazy woman who stole your information to find you before I do. I’d prefer you not end up on the next episode of ‘Fatally Attracted Snapped’ but that’s just me.”
My ears fill with static. “What?” I’m not sure I heard him right. But he repeats it.
“I was using the counsel of an old Harvard friend to find out information about Chris Jackson’s money laundering businesses around the city, since she tipped me off to a fraudulent deal with a luxury condominium building named Millennium Gardens. Ever heard of it?”
“I’m sure it’s another Manhattan place I can’t afford, so no.”
“Well, in exchange, for details about that deal, I gave her information that I had. Professional information.” He stalls. “And personal information about…about…” He hesitates, his words gone soft, causing a lump to build in my throat that I can’t clear.
“About what, Jess?”
“About Dad.” I hear my brother sigh over the phone, his deep voice heavy. “I told her all about Dad, about his probation, about him working with Chris Jackson all those years. About the crimes.”
I swallow air. “So, this woman knows everything about us? About our family?”
“Pretty much. And she’s only recently gone off the grid…after I told her you were my sister. I don’t know what the hell is going on, except she seems to know you. Ever met a Cynthia Stratford?”
The name doesn’t ring a bell, and I tell Jesse so. But it doesn’t stop the fear that enters his deep voice, chilling me to the very bone. I hold the phone closer as he begins to whisper.
“Yeah? Well, she knows you, Soph. Or at least she wants to. She’s a blonde woman. About five-foot-seven. Has cheekbones that could crack mirrors. And she’s head legal counsel for Quinn Real Estate Group, Incorporated. Personal lawyer to Quinn Real Estate CEO, Noah Quinn, out of Australia.”
The room in front of me tilts immediately, shock sucking my mouth dry. The foot that’s been shaking stops, and I realize that nothing makes sense.
Not a single thing about the man I slept with last night.
Calling a cab to come out to the Quinn Estates isn’t easy, but that’s exactly what I do when I’m off the phone with Jesse.
The rain outside hits the huge house even harder than before, and by the time I slink out of the downstairs bathroom, a woman with a headset who could only be a wedding planner corrals servers, bartenders, tables and lots of wine bottles inside from the heavy showers, clapping her hands.
“Okay, everyone spread out! We’re going to have to change plans. If this rain doesn’t let up, we might have to have the wedding inside.”
I hide behind a corner as they bumrush in, taking over the entire foyer. Inside?
How big is this house, really? I tried to get an idea yesterday as I walked the grounds, but even I am unable to come to terms with how humongous Noah’s family’s estate might be.
Watching five hundred dollar bottles of the best champagne and diamond-studded decorations cross in front of my face almost feels surreal to a woman whose rent was rarely on time, who thought polyester was high fashion, who sometimes stole quarters from the tip jar at work.
If Jesse knew how much I’d struggled these days, he would kill me. I hadn’t let my brother in on my issues.
We Somersets were prideful; my father could tell you that.
By the age of seven, I’d learned to shoplift with the best of thieves thanks to dear old Dad, and by ten I could hot-wire a car faster than most people could start one.
I was eight when my father went away, and that was when the stories began. Aunt Roberta, kneeling beside me, whispering in my tiny ears tales of how my father was a hero. A prince. A legend.
Whispering that the men who’d hidden him away in prison were the wrong ones—the ‘bad guys.’”
And I’d believed it.
Believed it enough to start my own life of crime when he was gone and Jesse, just as lost as I was, resorted to a gang lifestyle to put food on Aunt Roberta’s table.
Being bussed to a juvenile detention center at seventeen was enough to turn Jesse’s life around, pushing him to eventually become one of the best trial lawyers in the country.
But that was where my fairytale started and ended.
College debt and a major most of Manhattan corporate didn’t give a shit about left me little options, and when I graduated from the local university in the Bronx, I’d been back to bussing tables by the end of the month.
But reminiscing about the tangled web that was my life leaves me vulnerable, and a woman in a tight dark dress stops as she walks past. She gazes closer at me.
“Are you lost? Can I help you?”
I hold my head high, steadying my chin. “Uh, no, actually.” I point in the direction of the incoming tables and chairs. “I’m with the waitstaff.” I motion to my shower-wet head. “We got caught in the rain.”
With a cursory glance of my wrinkled outfit, the brown-haired woman dismisses me quickly, heading over to talk to a nearby wedding guest who watches the busy affair in the lobby with amusement.
She smirks. “Looks like we won’t exactly be having a white wedding. More like ‘off-white’ with all this rain and smudge.”
The other woman nudges the brunette. “Well, it’s like you said before, the rain isn’t all bad. It’ll force a lot of indoor activity, and speaking of ‘indoor activities…’” she lingers. “Have you managed to get Noah Quinn in the sack yet?”
The brunette grins, one side of her smooth face pulling tight. “It’s only a matter of time, really. I mean, I didn’t get a good look at his date or anything, but I know Noah better than most. The man’s never been with any woman more than a night. He’ll be mine by the time Jase and Mindy say ‘I do.’”
Her comments leave me bristling, gripping my weekend bag in my hands hard enough to hurt.
As if anything could hurt worse than what I’ve been made to feel since the second Noah left my sight this morning.
I was so very wr
ong about what I wrote to this man in that damn note…
This rich, prince-like playboy who was only good at pretending to be a man.
It was that man that was “make-believe.”
He was the liar.
A liar who brought me into his circle of chaos, into his twisted harem. As his fiancée Ainsley was so kind enough to point out, it was true: I wasn’t the only woman to fall in love with Noah Quinn…but I could be the last.
Turns out my heart could comprehend worse matters after all.
As with my father before him, I’d fallen in love with a man I can never trust. I’d fallen for a fairytale that could never come true.
I squeeze my way through the drenched waitstaff in the grand foyer, heading to the front door without a backward glance.
Chapter 25
NOAH
Sophia isn’t in the room when I return. And my heart has never sunk so fast.
My heart is hammering when I head back to our bedroom, the espresso I drank earlier practically pumping in my veins.
My internet can’t pull up on my phone fast enough and I find myself searching, searching, searching.
Looking for the clues that may have been in front of my face the entire time.
Looking for information on the owner of Benny’s Pizza and the possible sell of the small pizza shop close to Sophia’s apartment…
Looking for a buyer with the last name Stratford.
Because Lachlan was right: Cynthia Stratford, NYU finance grad, Harvard Law alum came from a family that owned half of Manhattan.
And nothing can prepare me for his little truth bombs in Grandfather Quinn’s sequestered bar.
Combined with this new one, each explosion continues to implode inside my mind, clouding every thought, detonating as I pace the length of the bedroom.
Collar unbuttoned, breathing heavily, I try to put the pieces together, pieces I’d tried desperately not to see when I feel a touch across my chest from behind—gentle and familiar.
I turn, ready to grab Sophia and sink my nose right into her shoulder. To ground myself in something real.