The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,12

it with the best Brooklyn meal you can think of. Lunch tomorrow?

“Works for me. Doggie Chow at twelve o’clock?”

“You’re on. I’ll bring the chew toys.”

Cyn chuckles into the phone. “See you later…hound.”

I end the conversation, spinning on the heel of my shoe to head back into the general area of the bar when I see a walking miracle in front of me.

The waitress.

My entire night’s been a disaster. But suddenly, everything—including the area between my legs—is finally starting to look up.

SOPHIA

The second Nancy leaves behind the bar, I order myself a drink and make it a triple.

Ten minutes ago, Nancy found me after my second Act tango with the bankers, and in the midst of tucking back in my Bronx upbringing, I mentally pat myself on the back for a job well done. For pushing the days when I would have personally sprinkled rat poison in the drinks of jerks like that in my past. Days I’d like to think are behind me.

Until my boss catches me.

“What do you mean?” I shrug, shoving my crumpled tips into my grungy apron when Nancy, the co-owner of The Alchemist, questions me. “That hot coffee leapt into that guy’s lap last week, I swear…”

“Uh huh,” she raises a strawberry blonde brow. “Sure. And the anti-spicy food stock broker?”

I wince. “Still a mystery how the ghost pepper ended up in his sauce.”

“Right. And the handsy doctor?”

“At least he ended up at his own hospital.”

“Soph.” Nancy rounds the bar, her ginger-hued hair sweeping across her shoulders with her head bowed. The look in her eyes is serious this time, and when her green eyes finally rise to mine, I feel my heart beat harder, a thundering pulse picking up under my skin as she sweeps strands of her reddish bob behind her ear.

My heart sinks.

“You know how much you mean to this place, don’t you? You know how much you mean to me?”

I nod. “I think I do.”

“Good. Then I’ll take that as sign that the next time you have trouble with a patron you’ll come to me first, yeah?” She nudges my shoulder, her pink lips curving. “No more taking matters into your own hands?”

I nod again, a knot working its way in my throat as I croak the words. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

It’s a promise I don’t know if I can keep, and I hate myself immediately. But by minute eleven after she leaves, the alcohol in my system is erasing as many brain cells as it can find.

Downing the tequila, I try to burn the nerves away at how fast my life is unraveling—job and all.

Without lime, lemon or salt, I’m still inhaling the fiery liquid when I swallow my third shot and grimace.

I wince, leaning against the bar. Not from the burn of the hot ounce, but from the pit in the hole of my stomach that the alcohol still won’t fill.

I motion to Danny the bartender behind the oak slab.

“I’ll take another chilled shot of the silver.”

He tosses a quick nod my way, his greasy white tank nearly soaked through with sweat. I enjoy the silence that follows when he turns and wrestles with the large bottle of Don Julio.

I set my neon-red nails to twirling the edge of a nearly empty glass, their smooth edges tapping across the surface, and realize I’ve spoken too soon when a voice cuts through the quiet reverie of my alcohol-tainted thoughts…like a silken blade.

His words are soft, the voice strangely familiar. Each one sweeps across my skin.

“Ripper way to lose a liver.”

I glance over the edge of the bartop to find Danny still occupied. But the man beside me is anything but.

Removing his black suit jacket as I wait with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, he slides the sleeves of his crisp white button-down shirt up to his elbows, and my own gaze slides with it, finding muscular arms, broad shoulders, dark hair and a handsome face.

I double-take.

He’s not just “handsome,” actually. He’s effing gorgeous.

Dark lashes settle over a pair of sharp cheekbones as his gaze remains fixed on the bar’s mahogany surface, and I blink, almost believing I was mistaken.

Until he speaks again, his glare unmoving.

“I said ‘that’s a ripper way to lose a liver.’”

It’s the stranger. The one who snapped at the bankers.

I’m sure of it.

It’s the way he talks, some slight accent—British or Australian, and I straighten on my stool, as he sets his suit jacket aside, a dark drink in his large hand.