The Note by Natalie Wrye

Author:Natalie Wrye [Wrye, Natalie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781677434619
Google: W1uUzAEACAAJ
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: 2019-12-18T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

SOPHIA

Wednesday afternoon

I thought we were dead.

For a full three seconds as our car lurched towards a wave of crossing traffic, I just knew that our car would be obliterated, smashed to pieces by the slew of cars coming in the other direction.

I didn’t think; I just acted.

My arms braced for impact, yes. But more importantly, they braced for impact against him.

Noah.

My fingers found him in the relative dark of the town car’s backseat, and I wrapped my hand around his, squeezing tight as I waited for the car to slow, and my heart with it.

We skid to a halt, hitting the sidewalk, just before coming into contact with horizontal traffic, and a strangled breath left my lips as we slumped against the gray cement of the New York sidewalk, the heavy rain mimicking the sound of my panicked pulse.

The city continued moving around us amidst the hammering showers, and when I finally unclenched, well…everything, I had a chance to disentangle myself from the suited man who sat beside me, my insides humming from the sheer proximity of his larger-than-life presence.

The driver Caesar curses under his breath, heading out into the rain to check on the tires as Noah and I focus on re-learning how to breathe. I’m still practicing the art of inhaling when Noah looks down at me.

“I think we blew a tire.” He glances outside briefly. “Or two.”

“Better a tire than a blood vessel.” My finger brushes over my temple. “I think I almost had a heart attack.”

Noah’s fingers close over mine. “You know what the cure for almost-heart attack is, don’t you?”

I have to admit: I don’t. But I know the cure for forgetting about an ‘almost-heart attack.’ And it’s having a gorgeous Australian man touching you.

Twenty minutes later, soaked to the skin, Noah shows me the cure to ‘almost-heart attacks’…

Scotch.

At the nearest bar, we decide to wait for a tow company while Caesar idles inside the broken down town car.

The temperature drops, dumping a deluge of white snow down on the city as the Wednesday afternoon fades into evening. Rush hour traffic still rages like a contained chaos outside the Scottish pub’s dark doors, and while the sirens blare in the distance, horns honking under the quickening snowfall, Noah orders me the second taste of scotch I’ve ever had in my life.

The first taste I’ve ever had was with him. Five minutes ago.

I’m still reeling from his instructions as I hold taste number two—otherwise known as a dram, an eighth of an ounce—over the bar top.

Noah stares at me. “Now do you remember the rules?”

I nod. “It starts with the right glass. And the right ice.” I eye the large icefall currently in my Cobita glass.”

Noah grins. “For most first-timers, they need something to lessen the harshness, ease the burn. But if you want to be a Big Bear, instead of a little one,” His grin grows wider, “you won’t need the watering down.”

I groan. “In this case I think I’d rather be a Little Bear.

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