The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,16

my limbs, every muscle I’ve got to reach over and take the steaming mug from his seemingly manicured hands.

I grab the handle, holding it close.

“Careful,” he warns.

I glower. “I know how to drink coffee.”

“Really? Because you seem to be struggling with the concept of talking. I think drinking might be a little tough for you to handle right now.”

I sip slowly from the white edge of the mug, burning my tongue. I wince with a small whine and catch the small smile that decorates the lawyer’s lips, the edges of his mouth curled to reveal one singular dimple on his face.

He watches me intently.

“Are you going to do this all night?” I whine.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“I’m a big girl, you know.”

“With a low tequila tolerance. And the two don’t mix. I should have had you stick to the scotch.”

But the thought of any alcohol at all right now makes me want to hurl, and I resist a gag.

My eyes traverse the floor of Big Bad’s gigantic loft, landing on discarded ballet flats in the corner. They cross over the hardwood and towards the built-in bar, settling on the stolen bottle of tequila from The Alchemist on its surface, the smudges of my lipstick around the lip of the glass.

I twirl towards him, my dark hair flipping over my shoulder as I grow increasingly angry. My blurry vision narrows. “First things first…” I tap the edge of the mug with one finger. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Nor I with you. I didn’t realize you were this gone.”

“And it’s not because I’m drunk. It’s because you’re rich.”

He blinks, crossing his arms over the buttons of his pressed collared shirt. “Didn’t know ‘rich’ was a personality trait. And the label depends on your definition of rich.”

My head tilts. “You seem arrogant.”

He shrugs. “Every man is at least once in his life.”

“You’re kinda patronizing.”

“That’s a new one. Never been called that before,” he deadpans.

I raise my chin. “And you’re too good-looking.”

“Never knew that was a vice. I’ll try to tone it down.” He hangs his head, a small smile decorating his full lips. “Okay, so does that make you feel better then? Yelling at me for a while?” He shoves the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms, and I have to fight not to swallow. Hard.

“You can insult me all night. I don’t give a damn. But you will drink that coffee. And you will sleep, Little Bear…even though it’s not with me. Now, was that patronizing enough for you? Or do you need that little speech again? I’m happy to oblige.”

He plants his hand on the edge of the sofa, gazing at me from two feet away, his dark blue eyes heated under the low light.

His large fingers drum across the material there with a soft thump thump thump.

My heart follows suit.

“You’re different from the rest.” I find myself saying. “And I don’t know why. Because you look like just another asshole in a suit.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” he counters. “But I’m much more simple than you seem to think, Little Bear. And you’re much more drunk. Now, take another sip.”

I scoff, but find myself obeying, the dark coffee now cooler against my lips.

Minutes earlier, the Big Bad Wolf disappeared behind a door shortly after entering his apartment. My drunken brain can’t process half of what it’s seeing, but it notices that.

And I realize he must have disappeared into some back bathroom. I couldn’t see.

And speaking of…

I try to stand to my feet. “I have to pee. Or do you want to watch me do that, too?”

But Big Bad doesn’t balk. He stands to his feet, his scorching blue gaze blazing a line of fire along my skin, his dark hair ink-like under the dim light.

The sober parts of my brain notice that his black slacks hang perfectly on his tight hips and even beneath the expensive cotton, I can see the outline of his strong body, muscular and compact just below the surface.

At his full height, he’s several inches over six feet, possibly three or four, and when I rise to my feet, I reel inwardly at the height difference, the mere contrast in our statures.

I’ve already gotten to thinking of him as several names.

Mr. Aussie. Mr. Big Bad Wolf. Mr. Panty-Incinerator…

Mr. Perfect.

From the looks of his apartment and the wallet he pulled out in the cab, his life is, too.

And I fight the urge to tell him so, fight the urge to argue