Page 3 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“The floor’s wet,” he says, with an amused lilt.
I don’t mind that he’s just stated the obvious though, because his voice is so…smooth. It sounds like the vocal equivalent of expensive cigar smoke floating over a well-aged bourbon. His eyes are deep, the shape of his mouth mesmerizing. I can’t tear my eyes away even ashe pulls me back to standing and slowly releases his arm.
“Th—thank you,” I stutter. “I’m so sorry.”
His dark eyes narrow for a second or two, as if he’s assessing me. Then they slide languidly over my body drawing a flush of heat to my cheeks.
I’m a curvy girl and always have been. My sisters are all effortlessly slim, taking after our mama, whereas I have inherited genes from prior generations that like to cling to a calorie like it’s their dying breath.
Sure, I’ve tried all kinds of things to slim down and elongate my silhouette—dieting, fasting, extreme exercise regimes—but nothing is sustainable and nothing seems to work. I am what I am.
Trilby says I have an enviable waist to hip ratio, so I suppose I have that going for me. But how this Greek God of a man managed to catch me with just one arm is anyone’s guess.
I glance meekly at the biceps bulging out of his suit and silently thank God it hadn’t been someone else who’d caught me, as both of us would probably have ended up on the floor.
His gaze lands briefly on my name badge, before crawling back up to my face where they widen a touch, but only for a fraction of a moment.
Somehow, I remember who I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Welcome to the Harbor’s Edge,” I say with a smile. “You must be Mr. Stone.”
His gaze narrows again. “I am.” Then he gives myhand a short, firm shake while I try to ignore the sudden eruption of heat crawling toward my armpit.
“Let’s check you in and get you settled,” I say, relieved to turn away from his heat and lead him back to my desk.
My legs shake, my entire body acutely aware of his eyes resting on my curves as I walk in front of him. I have to hold onto the edge of the desk for stability as I move behind it. Angela turns her head ever so slightly so she’s peering over my shoulder and her lips are hidden from view.
“Well,” she whispers right into my ear. “I underestimated you, Serafina Castellano. I couldn’t have orchestrated that better if I’d tried.”
My eyes round and my cheeks flood as I force a smile at our newest guest.
His lids are slightly lowered, his charcoal lashes casting shadows across his cheeks, and he chews on his bottom lip, curbing a grin.
It’s almost as if he heard every word.
Serafina
It’s been two days since I checked Mr. Andrew Stone into the Meadow Lane Suite.
I haven’t seen him since in any form other than my imagination which, incidentally, has been running rampant with those deep set eyes and chiseled jawbone, not to mention the titanium arm he caught me with.
According to security, he left the hotel by five a.m. the first morning and didn’t return until after eleven p.m. It makes me wonder why someone would blow six thousand dollars a night on the best suite in the hotel to then spend hardly any time in it.
Normally, I do the daytime shifts, but we’re short-staffed this evening, so I’m helping Seb behind the lounge bar. By ten p.m. thediners have emerged from the restaurant, the workaholics have shut their laptops for the day, and the vacationers are just getting started.
“Can I get two Grey Goose on the rocks, a Cosmopolitan and a cranberry juice for table eight?” Seb says, placing a tray at the back of the bar. “I just need to clear the booths for the Sandersons. They’re on their way now.”
I smile and reach for the Grey Goose. “Coming right up.”
I pour two measures of vodka into tumblers, drop in some cubes of ice and a twist of lemon, then reach for the cocktail shaker. First, I fill it with ice, then add the vodka, Cointreau and cranberry juice. I give it a good shake then strain the liquid into a martini glass before shaving a curl of orange peel into the cocktail. Finally, I pour more cranberry juice into a chilled tall glass and place the drinks on the tray.
Lifting it carefully, I turn to walk out into the lounge, but something at the end of the bar catches my eye. Turning my head carefully, my eyes snag on the same figure I’ve been unable to get out of my head since he caught me from slipping. Andrew Stone is sitting on a bar stool just a few feet away. And now the air around me feels tight and in short supply.
I swallow and hope my vocal cords haven’t gone AWOL along with the oxygen in my lungs. “I—I’ll be right with you, sir.”
It takes considerable concentration to hold the tray steady and place one foot in front of the other, but I make it all the way to table nine and place the drinks onthe table. It’s only when I stand and smile that I see confused looks on the faces of three retirees nursing cups of tea.
“Oh, um, I’m so sorry. I’ve got the wrong table.”
