The Note (Manhattan Nights #5) - Natalie Wrye Page 0,72

about which Bible verses to include in our groomsmen speeches. I stifle a groan.

“Well, since we’re on our way there anyway.” I glance over my shoulder towards the doorway leading to the bar. “How’s about we get that drink?”

Lach grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

We excuse ourselves for a little “brother time” from the rest of the groomsmen and the reverend keeps rambling. We head for the door.

Bypassing the expansive eggshell-colored walls of the newly renovated kitchen, we find our footsteps in the dark-bordered wooden walls of Grandfather Quinn’s infamous play room and bar, the air inside chilled.

Grandfather Quinn’s favorite place in the manor was preserved, scarily the same—as if frozen in time. The glass-front cabinets showcase the finest scotch, aged many years. Gray countertops and stone-tiled backsplashes give the space a feel of rustic secrecy and for the first time in years, I take a seat behind the granite tabletops, settling in. Lachlan, on the other hand, ambles behind the bar, his hands opening and closing cabinets with practiced quickness.

He peers over his shoulder at me. “Can I get you anything?”

I raise my coffee and he turns, grabbing a glass and the Macallan Ten liter of dark scotch. Shaking his head, he pours himself a shot, his sandy hair falling over his eyes, and he sighs, his collared shirt slumping over his shoulders.

“Man,” he comments softly as the scotch swirls inside his drink. “Never thought I’d be old enough to come in here.” He raises the glass when it’s full. “Who’d have thought, huh? Us? Old enough to be in Grandfather Quinn’s bat cave?”

“Bat cave?” I snort. “I used to call it the ‘Bruise Cave’. Every time he came out of here, he was sporting a new shiner.”

Lachlan laughs, those sandy brown strands of his curling over his brow. He swipes them aside. “That’s because he was always getting drunk in here and falling over. The man could never keep his balance once he started on the hard stuff.” Scoffing, he holds the glass high in the air, waving it. “Just imagine the headlines if they caught wind of those visuals: ‘The Scariest Old Wanker in Real Estate Trips over Armchair and Knocks Himself Out Cold’.”

“Good old Errol Quinn.” I drink from my still-hot coffee, elbows placed on the granite counters. I inhale the caffeine’s aroma. “Doing to himself what other brokers in the business would have paid members of the mafia to do.” I snort. “The man single-handedly kept the single malt scotch industry in business.”

My youngest brother raises his glass in a toast. “And I’m glad he did. The man damned sure had good taste.”

He starts to drink.

I watch him letting the elixir slide down his throat, his strong throat swallowing. The motion reminds me of summers we spent on the estate, how Grandfather Quinn used to disappear for hours.

When he died when I was at the age of twenty, those summers were all I thought about. But in the present, when Lachlan offers up a taste of one of grandfather’s bottles, the desire to take it is dull, tinged with dark memories.

The knowledge that, in the Quinn household, liquor had become a way of life doesn’t escape me, even now. And I tighten my grip on the Americano in my hand, staring back at my reflection in the bottle glass.

“No, I’m good,” I say too Lachlan. “But thanks for the offer.”

“It’s for your ears.” He nods. “That reverend out there is probably still talking. I’m hoping at this point drunkenness will drown him out. But who knows?” He lowers the bottle, setting it to the tabletop. A glimmer of something indiscernible passing in his brown eyes, but I dismiss it, focusing on my coffee.

But that doesn’t stop my annoying brother from pressing further.

“So, speaking of ‘drowning,’ I assume you were drowning in something else last night. Something pink and soft and warm. One of my favorite places in the world.” His dark eyebrows wag. “Want to tell me how you’re doing with that new girlfriend of yours?”

“Sophia, Lach. Her name is Sophia. And could you be any more crass?”

“I could, actually.” He shrugs. “Crassness aside, I am proud of you, man. Believe it or not,” he winks over the gray granite, “we had a running bet in the office that your next girlfriend might be Cynthia. I shuddered at the thought of that one.”

I take another sip of my coffee, almost burning my damn tongue as I take it in. I didn’t see that one coming. I