The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,60

I’ve decided to take notes from the best.”

“I wouldn’t talk about ‘notes’ while we’re at it. Seeing as how you were the one who was blackmailing me with one.”

“The one who’s still blackmailing you with one, if you haven’t forgotten.”

Sophia stammers beside me, her confusion tangible. She turns, her gold cocktail dress shimmering under the dull city lights, and I look away. I have to.

“But-but I thought that since we’ve been working together…”

“Our terms haven’t changed, Miss Somerset,” I retort. “I still don’t have my watch.” I glance down at my phone. “By the way, I looked over the tapes after work today. Found the guy who bought it in a uniform. A Benny’s Pizza uniform, it said on the front.”

Sophia gapes. “Benny’s Pizza? I just had a slice from that place a few blocks away from my house for the first time.”

I keep my gaze out the window. “And how was it?”

“Not worth the paper plate it was served on, let alone half of a million dollars.”

She crosses her eyes at the same time crossing her arms, and all I can think of is how beautiful she looks when she’s annoyed as hell.

Applying pressure underneath her full bosom, her wrists push her barely-contained breasts sky-high, and my gaze inadvertently flicks from them to her face, my eyes attempting to keep from straying to the curvy figure underneath the sultry outfit that makes Hell weather look mild.

I finally manage it. “You know, you could have gotten dressed at the estate. You didn’t need to change here in New York.”

“I wanted to be prepared,” she says. “I don’t know what we’re in for.”

Her pink lips pull straight, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the look of displeasure sitting there.

I’d much rather see another expression, one marked with a hell of a lot pleasure and pushing past the boundary towards ecstasy. I shake off the image.

“Not a fan of Connecticut, I’m assuming.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a fan of any place where your wallet matters more than your morals.”

“You do know that turning down my favor was always an option for you,” I retort.

She scoffs. “Yeah. If I want to clip a burly woman named Mama Break-Bones’ toenails in prison. I say ‘no thank you.’” Her tiny arms tighten even further, shoving against her chest. “And hey, if you want to lie to your family members about me, albeit for me to stop you.”

“A round-about-way of calling me a liar then, Miss Somerset?” I lean back on the leather seat. “I can read between the lines of your sarcasm, in case you thought I couldn’t. Besides, I never said I wasn’t a liar; you said that. I distinctly remembering confirming that I wasn’t a serial killer. Confusing one honest moment with perpetual honest moments was your mistake.”

“At least I don’t lie to my family members. You’ve got me beat.”

“I’ve had some practice at it, if you’ll believe that…” I linger. “But I’m not the pro here, if you haven’t forgotten, Miss Somerset. You are.”

I watch Sophia bristle at my renewed formality with her. I drive the point home. “I apologize if I’ve given you the wrong impression.”

“That we were friends?” she emphasizes.

“Yes.” Because it’s not possible.

She doesn’t trust me. I don’t trust her. And I know it.

I know that leaving my guard up isn’t exactly the answer; Cyn was sure enough to drive that point home in the office.

But letting it down with Sophia might have been a mistake I shouldn’t have made.

Not that it matters anymore. Not when there’s nothing but suspicion between us.

The suspicion is visible in her amber eyes as she twists towards me, her bare legs glistening below the knee, touchable and just out of my reach.

“You do realize we’ll never be friends if we don’t exactly trust each other?” She questions.

“Trust is something that must be earned, Miss Somerset.”

“Really? Because you seem to use it as a weapon. Withholding it or giving it away at your will.”

I glare at her, hating myself for liking it. Hating myself for wanting to lick the luscious curve of her pink-painted lips as she gawks at me, her mascara-lined eyes wide.

I set down my coffee. “I don’t make the rules, Miss Somerset; I just follow them. Just like I didn’t make the real world; I only live in it. And honestly? ‘Everything's a lot tougher when it's for real. That's when you choke. When it's for real.’ Stephen King’s It.”

“Well, according to another American creative, ‘Excuses are shit. Reality is