The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,6
to be found again. And our general manager Rick is out at the front of the restaurant-pub.
For the fortieth time.
The wanna-be pretty boy who, rumor has it, came from pizza-slinging roots never misses an excuse to show his cleanly-shaven face and the second I walk through the front door, the mask he normally shows to our customers is completely off.
Openly sneering at my appearance, his green eyes travel the length of my body. His blond hair almost looks sandy against his pale skin and his gaze combs over my toes, my hips, my breasts, and finally to my face at last. He crosses his impossibly thin arms.
“You’re late,” he scoffs in my direction.
“And you’re not the host of this restaurant, though you keep acting like one. So I guess we’re both off our game today.” I turn to walk away. “If you need me in the next few minutes, I’ll be in the back.”
“I want you out here in five minutes, Sophia. Not fifteen. Not ten,” he hisses at my back as I pass the hosting table. “If Nancy were here, she wouldn’t put up with this shit.”
I pivot. “If Nancy were here, you wouldn’t be parading your peacock ass all around the restaurant, dying for someone to notice your new aftershave. But Nancy isn’t here. And you are.” I step backwards, keeping my eyes on his face. “Just give me a second to get my stuff together, and I’ll be right out…” I mutter under my breath. “Dickhead.”
“Maybe if you worried a little more about your job and a little less about pretending to be the next Picasso,” Rick continues, “you might actually be able to show up on time for work.” He tilts his head. “I’ll see you in five.”
The world’s worst manager walks away, leaving me fuming.
How the fucker knew about my paints was beyond me. I was willing to bet another waitress told him.
Reason number fifty-five to get out of here.
As if I needed another.
I had a Bachelor’s Degree in Russian Literature, for Chrissake. And yet, it seemed like my life was turning into a Russian fairytale.
Which might seem great…
If Russian tales weren’t grim.
I didn’t know which fairytale I was now most: “The Princess Who Never Smiled” or “The Armless Maiden” considering how sore my biceps were from lifting trays all night.
I sigh, thinking how simple it would be if a fortune—just a shitload of money—just fell into my hands all of sudden. Or maybe even a prince.
Someone who knew his scotch and his way around a woman’s skin.
I fix the knot of hair on my head, straightening my shoulders as butterflies take hold of my stomach. I’m down to two minutes to show up on the restaurant floor before Rick really loses his shit, and before I lose my last chance at making tips. Tips needed to keep a roof over my head.
I plaster on a smile, praying for patience…and, most of all, rent money.
Chapter 2
NOAH
It’s only irony that the interior of my apartment now looks like the inside of one of my favorite novels.
The Shining only wished that it witnessed this type of bloodshed.
The luxury loft I keep in Midtown like the site of a massacre, and I rip through the wreckage like a tornado with a purpose.
Magazines and papers are strewn at the foot of my black Grand Piano, a slew of pages crumbled across the hardwood. The plush Ottomans are knocked aside and anything that isn’t affixed to the ground is upended, as I flip, rustle and rummage through the entire apartment in search of that damned watch.
Where the hell did I put it?
Where the hell would any sane person put a half a million dollar watch?
Fuck, if I only were sane…
My eyes scan the expanse of both levels in search of the gaudy timepiece, the glittering diamonds.
The damn thing is the only possession I have from the fucker that sired me, the only item connecting him to me or the Quinn family at all.
The funny part?
I remember hating that bloody watch at some point. Even considered breaking it a time or two.
Good thing twenty-year old me had sense because this twenty-eight-year-old one? This bastard is a stone-cold idiot.
One who should have tucked the expensive heirloom somewhere he could find it. Where he wouldn’t be fighting with couch cushions to locate the only belonging that would stake a claim to his dead father’s fortune.
The fortune that was owed.
It’s crazy, actually, to consider all that I know about the man. And all that