The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,22

What business? Something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.” The lie luckily comes easily off my tongue. “Just want to look into a few things, that’s all. I just was wondering if you had any deals currently in the works?”

His brow creases even further. As if I’m speaking a foreign language. He stares at me. “Deals?”

“Yeah? Real estate deals? You know, for the company…?” I stare harder. “That our family runs?”

“Oh, that.” He shrugs as if the thought has slipped his mind. The lavender in the air sours just a bit more with my anger. I squeeze a fist. “I’ve got nothing else coming in this week, I think. Not since the last two fell through.”

As if I could forget. But then the woman who was doing Jase’s measurements meanders closer, a grin on her thin pink lips as she saunters in. Her blonde hair gleams under the store’s dim lights.

“And this must be the elusive brother Noah you’ve spoken so much about…” She nudges at Jase’s waist. “I was beginning to think he didn’t exist.”

Jase fidgets. “Well, as you can see, Seraphine, he does.” He gestures towards me. “Seraphine, this is Noah, my younger brother. Noah,” he looks over to the woman at his left, “this is Seraphine, my wedding tailor.”

“Your wedding tailor?” I nod, my gaze going to the smiley blonde woman. “A tailor only for a wedding? That sounds…like a lot for something that only lasts a day.”

“Well, who says it only lasts for a day?” The wide-mouthed woman grins, one perfect nail pointed in the air. “A wedding, my dear friend, lasts for a lifetime. Or at least the memories do.”

“Yeah,” I shrug, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets. “At least until the shiny exterior wears off. And then the divorce lasts forever. So does the heartbreak. The alimony. And the awful crystal stemware you never use in the first place. Not to mention those extra invitations that never make it to your wife’s cousin’s grandfather’s rabbi. Because somehow you got roped into inviting him too. Even though your would-be wife hasn’t seen him since she was thirteen.”

Jase glowers. “You’ll have to excuse my brother, Seraphine. Noah doesn’t really believe in marriage.”

The petite blonde tailor gasps at me—as if someone told her Santa wasn’t real.

I shake my head.

“I don’t think there’s anything to ‘believe in.’ Truth is, to me: Marriage isn’t something you believe in or not.” I shrug, turning my attention to the little tailor. “All that matters is whether or not the two people signing up for that type of bond have faith in it. And Jase and Mindy seem to.”

Jase hovers. “We ‘seem’ to, huh?”

But I’m not ready to have this fight. Not right now.

After showing up drunk to Jase’s engagement party the night of my father’s funeral, the itch to argue with my older brother is stronger than ever.

But without any leads on new deals to save Quinn Real Estate Group, I don’t have the patience to sit here and take his wrath. My nerves are already sitting on edge.

As always, making sure Grandfather Quinn’s legacy stays intact is a task sitting on my shoulders alone, and the thought of Chris Jackson— a man who once sat at our tables, broke bread at our dinners, shook hands in our offices—committing murder is enough to drive a man insane.

The biggest issue? That man was now me.

Fighting my hardheaded brother aside, it took a crazy, out-of-his-mind bastard to leave the beautiful woman I’d just left behind in bed alone. The sharp-tongued brunette I’d exited the bar with last night was still under my sheets, sleeping off a night of tequila. And I would be damned if I wasn’t there when she awoke.

But first things first.

I’ve got to tell Jase about Chris Jackson.

I open my mouth to do just that when my cell phone interrupts, cutting the rising tension in the air.

With a quick apology, I stroll several steps away, picking up the phone, expecting to hear my new PI’s voice, still active on the Chris Jackson case, when the sound of sniffling, soft and almost inaudible, reaches the inside of my ear.

I grip my phone closer as the feminine voice speaks, the mewling sounds slowly turning into words. My body stills, recognition making my formerly hot blood turn cold.

I lean into the speaker on my cell. “Maria? Is that you?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Quinn.” My cleaning lady sniffs quietly on the other end. “It’s me, sir. I’m here in your apartment for my morning clean-up. Like every