Page 2 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
I try the archives of theNew York Timesand theWashington Post.
Still nothing. He’s a ghost.
According to Angela, the day manager, it's not usually too difficult to find the information we need—occupation, income bracket, societal connections, influencer status—easily with a few searches.
Angela has never had to research Andrew Stone.
Finally, I try the untamed reservoir of internet intelligence: Google. I’m rewarded with one link.One link. And even then, there’s absolutely no mention of an ‘Andrew Stone’ on the web pages, so Google must have found it via the metadata.
I scan the site. It’s a placeholder for some sort of technology company. The language is mind-bogglingly technical so I don’t waste time trying to understand it. Instead, I look for the Terms and Conditions. There, Ifind a registered address for the company. Boston, Massachusetts.
I release a satisfied breath. Finally, something I can work with.
I pick up the phone and call the kitchen, requesting they put New England Clam Chowder, Lobster Mac and Cheese, and Boston Cream Pie on the Specials menu.
Then I have an idea. I open up the reservation system and search for his payment. Maybe that will tell me more about him. To my surprise, the suite wasn’t booked through a corporation or travel service—sometimes, dropping the name ‘Harbor’s Edge’ can aid in getting access to guest details. But this reservation was made directly, with an encrypted email domain I don’t recognize.
I lift my gaze to the sound of footsteps approaching. “Hey, Angela? Do you know who Andrew Stone is? He’s due to check in to the Meadow Lane Suite today but I can’t find any information about him online.”
Her brow knits. “Have you tried the archives?”
“Everything.” I shrug. “And there’s this.” I point to the screen. “He reserved the room using an encrypted email address and the payment came from…” I click on a second screen. “Switzerland. Wire transfer.”
“That’s strange. It sounds like someone who’s gone to quite some lengths to keep his identity hidden.”
“Maybe he’s a celebrity using an alias,” I suggest.
“Yeah. Most likely. Although they often make reservations through an agent or assistant.” She taps the deskwith long, perfect fingernails. “I guess we’ll find out soon. I’m going to get coffee. Want some?”
“No thanks, I’m good,” I reply absently, my eyes glued to the screen. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something.
People who can afford the Meadow Lane Suite don’t exist without a digital trail. They have publicists. Press photos. Scandals. Girlfriends who sell stories to the papers. Notnothing.
Unless they really want it that way.
Almost the second I navigate off the browser, a man walks into the lobby and without lifting my lids, I know it’shim.
It’s the click of leather brogues on marble that makes my head snap up.
Then I forget to breathe.
The man has his head bent, talking to someone on a cell phone, but even though his face is shielded from view, his presence ismagnetic. It’s not just my eyes that are glued to his movements—every other person in the lobby is watching him. Womenandmen.
We are all watching his smooth strides eat up the marble floor, his immaculately tailored suit hugging every limb and muscle.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee alerts me to Angela’s return. “Oh my…” she sighs, following my gaze.
Then the realization he’s heading straight for Natalia’s freshly washed floor jolts me back to life. “Oh, sir…” I call out. “Excuse me, sir…”
His full attention is on his phone so he doesn’t hear my weak warning. Without thinking, I jump from behind the desk and bolt toward him, my palms outstretched.
“Wait—” My judgement of where the dry floor ends and the wet floor begins must be off because I manage to lose my footing and slide with considerable speed toward the man.
“Sera!” Angela calls after me, helplessly.
He looks up just as my legs slide toward him and my torso flies backward. I clench my eyes closed in anticipation of the hard crack of my sit bone on marble and a tsunami of blood rushing to my cheeks, but none of it comes. Instead, a large, brutally muscular arm threads beneath me and scoops me up.
I feel like the woman in that famous photograph taken at the end of the war. The one where she’s bent backwards, a soldier leaning over her, his lips pressed passionately to her mouth. My legs hang beneath me like jelly, my arms are wrapped around the man’s neck and he’s hovering above me with a hard muscle in his jaw and soft glimmer in his eye. The lobby has disappeared into thin air. A kiss really is the only thing missing right now.
