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  The Note

  Natalie Wrye

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  Copyright © 2019 by Natalie Wrye

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  https://www.najlaqamberdesigns.com/

  About

  Whoever said "Revenge is sweet" is a liar.

  * * *

  There's nothing "sweet" about the vengeance I want against Sophia Somerset.

  * * *

  Because when this quick-tongued waitress with more curves than the real estate market makes off with my most prized possession—and the only item saving my company from collapse, payback is the only goal I have planned…at first.

  * * *

  My only saving grace?

  * * *

  The note she left behind. And my proof.

  * * *

  Problem is: I can’t stop thinking about the adorably haphazard thief.

  * * *

  Taking my revenge against Sophia may not be sweet. But it sure is sexy.

  * * *

  If only I can save my company—and my traitorous heart—before it’s too late…

  Prologue

  NOAH

  SIX WEEKS AGO

  Manhattan, New York City

  Friday afternoon

  There’s only one thing worse than coming home bloody drunk, and that’s being bloody drunk in an airport.

  New York just happens to have one of the worst.

  Hell, I’d love to blame the men at the bar paying for the many shots at the hotel but honestly? I’ve been scotch drunk for the past two days.

  Ever since I got that phone call.

  And I won’t even mention what the hell happened last night…

  Not that I remember much, anyway.

  As usual, drinks were everywhere and so were women.

  The drinks I shared with the blonde at the Fado Bar last night in Sydney are still swimming in my system as I shuffle off the plane, half-pissed, my eyes bleary, head beating as I walk out of the airport terminal, the latest Stephen King book in my clutch.

  I swear: I remember New York being noisy, but I sure as hell don’t remember it being deafening.

  It’s been months since I’ve touched this soil, and LaGuardia airport is busier than a blue-arsed fly, a practical hailstorm falling around my head the second I exit.

  My driver, clad in a dark suit and hat, shoves my heavy luggage into the trunk of a soaked black town car and we head out—or try to—on the freeway, just another set of four wheels amongst a million others.

  I check my watch.

  October back down under is warm, but in New York?

  The weather’s sliding into brutal. The autumn winds pick up as I settle in the backseat, and all I can think of as I stare out the window is I’m going to be late. Late for this “meeting.”

  Or at least that’s what I’ve told my employees when they asked why I wasn’t coming straight to the office.

  The smell of last night’s root—candy-sweet and lingering—is still on my skin as I bargain with God to slow down time. A battering ram of rain and burnt-orange leaves beats down on the asphalt outside my window, and once again, I have to remind myself that I’m here in this city, in this state, for a really good reason.

  As if I didn’t remind myself a million times on the plane.

  I only have to stick it out for six days. Six days and I’m back in Australia.

  Back where I belong.

  I beat this message in my head for the thousandth time, even as I stare back at that cheap watch that, I swear, whispers that I’m already late to my scheduled “meeting.”

  It’s my first night back in the city in six months. And if I’m not careful, it could be my last.

  The urge to fly back to Sydney was overwhelming from the second my plane hit the runway, but now?

  Now I can feel the nagging in my soul, the tug on my feet.

  Every part of me, every instinct, wants to leave this fucked up city.

  I’m grateful for the break on my brain when my cell phone rings, interrupting the sound of my whining thoughts.

  I smile when I see the name in the center of the screen.

  “Yes, Mother, I am alive and well. Yes, I’ve wiped front to back as a good boy should. And no, I have not run back to Sydney yet.” Though I’ve thought about it.

  My brother Jase laughs, his voice more scoff than sigh. He exhales in my ear.

  “Took you long enough to learn that ‘front to back’ bathroom trick. Noticed that you’re still alive, but I’ve never actually thought of you as ‘well’ to begin with. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to escape back to Sydney,” he shoots back on a tiny snort. “I think the New Yorkers have had enough of your ass, anyway. Or maybe that’s just me…”

  I grin. “Nothing like a cheeky welcome to make me feel at home again. My favorite part of the city besides the pizza.” I feel the smile spread on my face. “And I should have known that you would set a record, Jay. I haven’t even stepped into the office yet, and already you’ve busted both of my balls.”

  He gasps. “You have balls?”

  “Okay, I’m hanging up now…”

  He catches me before I can end the call.

  “Just being a bit of a prick, ya bastard.” I start to interrupt but he cuts me off. “You showed up here, didn’t you? I mean, you actually came. For a minute there, I thought I might never see you in New York again, you jet-setting dick.” He laughs. “The Luxe building? That’s the fourth Manhattan deal you’ve closed in, what, three years?”

  “The fifth,” I emphasize. “But who’s counting?”

  “Man, who knows where our company would be without you. Where I would be without you.” He inhales. “Truthfully? Nobody handles real estate like you, Noah, and fuck, man, I know that you’ve been handling the bulk of the deals these last few years since Mindy and I met, but I’m sure as hell glad you do. Quinn Real Estate Group couldn’t do half of what we do without you.”

  I sigh. “And luckily, you’ll never have to find out.” I try to ignore the sinking in my gut when I say it. I switch directions fast. “So, how’s Mindy? How many months now until the, uh…the thing?”

  My older brother’s voice reflects his smile. He breathes out hard. “Two months. And not a minute more.”

  He doesn’t mention what really prompted me to come back home. Doesn’t have to.

  The last weekend I’d spent on business in New York, my eldest brother had been smiling from ear to ear. Because he’d locked down the woman of his dreams.

  For good.

  His engagement party in the Plaza in two days was a testament to that. But to me?

  Being back in New York was proof that my past couldn’t stay where it belonged. And that my present was currently crumbling.

  My presence here only solidified that I didn’t belong inside Manhattan’s city limits anymore.

  Not when everything around me was going to shit. Personally and professionally.

  And Jase just doesn’t know it.

  Over the phone, the trusting bastard sighs, and I feel like complete shit. I bask in every compliment about my abilities as co-owner of Quinn Real Estate Group, Inc., hating myself.

  And hating him more for believing in me. I listen as he keeps talking.


  “I’m just glad you decided to come. I’m happy you’re here…” He trails off. “You know, as opposed to being somewhere in one of downtown Sydney’s famous gutters.”

  I snort. “Believe me: I was an ounce of scotch and one bad night away from being in one. It’s not every day that a man gets a firsthand preview of the city’s amazing sewage system. You’ve saved my arse from quite a few in the past.”

  “Just feel lucky I like your ass. Not in the physical sense, of course.”

  I smirk. “You wish, yer mug. You’ve never seen me do squats.”

  I check the time again, feeling obsessed with it, thinking of the million other tasks I need to do…aside from those damned squats.

  Impatience is getting the best of me on this long drive, the guilt starting to creep its way in. The thought of all I haven’t told Jase yet is eating away at me especially now in this back seat, and even amidst the jokes and laughs I share with him, I can’t help feeling like I’m going to regret this very moment.

  But I push that thought back for another day.

  Right now? Priority number one is keeping hold of my calm. Priority number two is making this “meeting.”

  A meeting I should tell Jase about. A meeting somewhere in the back of my mind I know I shouldn’t be taking.

  But I can’t stop myself.

  I take a deep breath into the phone, finding the will to lie. My throat feels tight.

  “Can’t say I don’t appreciate the overprotective call, Jase. But really, I’m alright.” I glance out the window. “Listen, I’m knackered as hell…” My throat grows tighter. “So, I might be out of commission if you happen to call later.”

  I can hear Jase nod. I swear I can. “No worries. I heard you had a wild night, Big Shot. And I know you’ve got to be tired from traveling. Jet lag is a bitch. Especially when you’ve spent the night before in the bottom of a bottle.” His voice simmers low. “Just call if anything changes, will ya? Otherwise, I’ll have to kick down your door New York-style. And nothing makes a real estate developer more aggro than fucking up property.”

  I chuckle. “I believe you. I’ll call you when I get settled.”

  The guilt subsides the second Jase is gone, and I instantly feel better.

  I’m damn near out of the clear when the sound of a blaring horn cuts through my consciousness, and the town car jerks, swerving around a driver careening down the opposite lane.

  Heading in the wrong direction.

  My life flashes before my eyes.

  In that second, so does the car’s headlights, and my uniformed driver slams on the brakes, the sound of rubber against cement more terrifying than any noise I’ve ever heard.

  And I thought LaGuardia was loud.

  This noise is obliterating.

  Like a nightmare in real-time, the world around slows to a reality-defying pace, and through it all, I can hear my heart beating, feel my pulse.

  My throat closes up. My muscles lock up.

  Every tooth in my mouth clenches, and before I can think twice, the car is sliding, skidding, drifting through the rain and slush, narrowly missing devastation as the two cars in front of us collide instead in a tangle of twisted metal and gray water.

  My heart knocks on the center of my chest.

  The town car comes to a halt, just a few short feet from the accident. It teeters on the edge of disaster, somehow missing, and past the symphony of secondary horns that kick up, we continue down the freeway no less than a minute later, the silence even louder than the crash.

  Until my driver speaks up.

  He spins in his seat. “Mr. Quinn?”

  I glance up at him. “Yeah?”

  “We’ve been here for two minutes already. Did you plan on leaving any time soon? Looks like the funeral’s begun.”

  The tint of the back window is dark. But I can still see out of it.

  The grass is unrealistically green, the cemetery lawn too perfect. But it’s the people who catch my eye most, the “shufflers” on it.

  In black, my father’s mourners pitter-patter their way through his ceremony, and it takes everything in me, all of my strength—every muscle in my too-sloshed body—to make myself reach for the door handle.

  By the time the driver opens the damned thing, I’m already lost in my thoughts, already numb to the world.

  I don’t even realize we’re blocking other cars entering our segment of the cemetery until my driver clears his throat, pulling me back from the dead. Slipping him a hundred, I head out, flowers in tow—the ones I requested when I ordered the car—just as the funeral procession begins.

  I shake an avalanche’s worth of rain off my suit, approaching the small gathering. With wet hands, I slick my dark hair back, doing my best to blend in.

  I join the rest of the mourners without another word. Mouth dry, my shoulders slumped, I stare everywhere but inside of the coffin.

  Everywhere but where my dad lays.

  It’s too much. And he’s too dead. But so is the future of my real estate company, unbeknownst to my brothers.

  And I stare back at the damn green grass, hating it.

  I wish I’d brought my Stephen King novel from the car instead of the flowers. Because fictional horror was better than this factual one any day.

  I made it to my “meeting” on time. But in the back of my mind, I know I’m still too late.

  The past I’ve tried to escape is like a stain; it settles on my skin like a tattoo. Staring at my father’s coffin makes sure of that.

  Coming back home bloody drunk wasn’t as hard as I thought; coming back home when it’s too late to say goodbye?

  That’s the worst part of all.

  Chapter 1

  NOAH

  PRESENT DAY

  Manhattan, New York City

  Friday evening

  I found out there are worse things than being a dead man walking. And that’s being a dead man walking with no money.

  I never thought I gave a shit; I really didn’t.

  But when the company you inherited was on the brink of collapse, and the life you’d known was slipping out of your hands, as a man? You only had two options to cope.

  And I was already knee-deep into choice number one.

  You could drink as much as you could take. Consider that choice checked.

  Or you could fuck the most beautiful woman you could find.

  And I thought I was close to doing that. But then the woman I’d found spoke.

  Becky Callahan clearly never learned the beauty of silence, and as she sprawls in my hotel bed’s thousand-count sheets, half-naked, it is all I can do not to carry her off.

  It’s still early evening, the sun barely set.

  As a chilled sleet settles over the city of New York, I sit in the seat opposite the bed, my hands wrapped around a scotch, tuning out the pixie’s pleas to the sounds of Frank Sinatra on the stereo. I sigh.

  “So, you’re, like, really rich, aren’t you?” The blonde sprite yabbers.

  I blink. “I do alright.”

  “The size of this hotel room tells me that you’re doing much more than alright. Just look at the size of that bathtub!” she exclaims, pointing a finger towards the tub. “You can fit three of me in there.”

  Not with the size of that mouth.

  I let Frank drown her out.

  Truth is? I didn’t need Becky for the night. Just for the next few hours while I wait.

  But that wait is over the second my cell phone rings, and I stroll over into the bathroom while Becky and Sinatra keep singing in the background.

  I close the door behind me.

  “Quinn here.”

  “You sound like shit.”

  I grunt. “G’day, Cynthia. Nice to hear from you, too. Please. Feel free to verbally kick my teeth. I may have some wounds that need salting, if you’re free tomorrow.”

  “You sound like sexy shit. Is that better?”

  “Much.” I sit on the edge of that gigantic tub, the room swaying
as the scotch works its seductive magic.

  I give into it, needing it more than my next breath. Needing it more than I need a Becky blowjob or anything else.

  I’ve been waiting for Cyn’s call all day, and I can’t wait any longer.

  My two months is almost over, and if we don’t have a partner to invest in our latest deal, it’s a certainty: The Luxe Manhattan co-op building will go belly up and bring our company with it.

  The scotch is still in my hand, settled on my knee. I sip from its dark edge, swallowing the bitter bite, still trying to calm down as I wait for my attorney to give me the news it took two months of negotiations to find.

  I already know the answer is not going to be good.

  I finally ask. “Have the Knudshorns called at all?”

  She sighs. The sound is loud in the empty bathroom and I shift on the edge of the tub, wishing I could stick my head inside of the scotch glass. Cynthia at last responds.

  “No. They’re like all the others. Disappeared. And trying to recover after Chris Jackson and Jackson Enterprises’ indictment for fraud and money laundering.” She scoffs. “As if we knew he was defrauding every damned company on the East Coast. Including us.” She pauses. “You’ve been asking about the Knudshorns a lot lately. Anything new going on with them?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Other than the fact that they backed out of partnering with us for the only deal I need to keep Quinn Real Estate afloat. Just before signing the contract.

  Without another investor to finance the debt we took to buy The Luxe’s building, we’re on our own. We’ll have to pay the debt ourselves.

  A subtle detail I don’t tell my company’s top lawyer.

  And Cynthia exhales, her raspy voice tight, taking on that same schoolmarm strict tone that I know so well. I batten down the hatches for the barrage of scolding to come.