The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,38

with the knowledge that I can’t trust this girl, no matter what she says.

Sophia Somerset is only an asset at this point in my life.

With my brothers, with the night at the bar, and everything surrounding it, I now know that the last week or so in New York has only softened my hard-earned instincts.

Grandfather Quinn’s deathbed words ring truer than ever:

“Only trust yourself.”

And “myself” is telling me that I only need Sophia to return my father’s watch. My plans to return to Sydney haven’t changed. And after closing up the claim on my inheritance, that’s exactly what I plan to do.

I don’t need another reminder of all that I’ve lost here. Here in a city that’s loyal to no one.

I shake off those thoughts the moment the street signs announce my arrival.

Arriving to the Bronx address with not a minute to spare, the cab I ride in saddles up to the curb at exactly three o’clock, the rain having reduced down to a drizzle.

I stare at the front door of the building where I’ve been dropped off, red flags rising as I step over the soaked sidewalk, the light from the shop in front of me beckoning me in.

I resist. Until I see her face.

Sophia stands just inside on the tiled floor of the pizza shop now settled in front of me. Her makeup’s wiped clean, a smile on her face.

She laughs across the counter to an elderly man, her head thrown back, and without my permission, my eyes lock on her.

I watch her from the window.

Tight denim jeans over her hips, a Yankees jersey on her back, she looks younger than ever. Carefree. But her clean babyface is no match for the body beneath it.

Through the facade of angel-like innocence and all, that curvy, slim figure betrays her, showing the truth of her undeniable womanhood. Tapping her knuckles against the metal counter, she widens the smile on her pretty face, glancing over—right at me—her gaze clashing with mine in the window.

That smile she had for the older man slides off her face.

My throat threatens to close as I reach for the door. Throwing the wooden slab aside to the sound of an alerting bell overhead, I step inside the tiny pizza shop called Giani’s, as shown in the sign outside.

And I keep walking until I’m right in front of her, my attention entirely on her, my skin buzzing as she does nothing but blink back.

I speak up first.

“Fancy digs.”

She shrugs. “I was hungry. Figured this might be the best place to come.”

I could tell her all about “coming.” Or “late-night cravings.” Especially the ones I was just having.

But I turn instead to the man behind the counter, my eyes scanning the brick ovens behind him, smelling of my favorite item in the world. My mouth waters for an entirely different reason this time.

I glance down at the employee, the old man full of life.

“So, what’s good to eat here?”

“In a word?” He spouts, his Bronx accent thicker than oatmeal. “Everything.” He glances behind him at the ovens. “Just choose your poison.”

Suddenly Sophia, stepping around me, interjects.

“He’ll take the special. Same as me. With all the fixings.”

I start to refute her. But the smell of her lilac and vanilla scent envelope me, rendering me silent.

Taking my wallet out of my still-wet jeans, I slap my credit card on the table.

“I’ll pay for the lady’s meal. And mine.”

It’s the least I can do after the plans I have for Sophia.

I know, in my own way, that the little thief will pay me back.

With interest.

I motion towards a small table in the back and Sophia follows, slipping into a seat across from me, her hazel eyes bright, her teeth sunk into her pink bottom lip.

I concentration on ignoring both.

“Seems you recovered those tequila-lost brain cells fast,” I accuse. “So…?”

She cocks a brow. “So…”

“You do have the watch, then.”

“Not in my possession right now. But like I told you earlier, I know where it is. Or at least the place holding it.”

I shrug, acting more casual than I feel. “It’s a start. So when can you get it to me?”

“First…” she starts off, shifting in her seat. The nerves are apparent by the blush in her cheeks. She bows her head. “I’d just like to apologize.” The jersey on her small shoulders slides just a bit as she wriggles on the lightly worn leather of her seat, showing a hint of her bare collar. She swallows thickly, and I stop myself from