Page 13 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
I turn back to the screen and strike a pose, hand on hip, eyebrow arched. “You owe me so many pastries for this.”
“Done,” she says, beaming. “Now, go try it with the heels. I need to know if you can walk without taking down a centerpiece.”
I end the FaceTime call then toss my phone onto the bed and step out of the offending dress. My skin still tingles from the caress of satin and insecurity. I pad toward the closet, half-ready to disappear into an oldsweatshirt and reclaim my dignity, when there’s a knock at the door—three slow, deliberate raps.
Pulling on a robe, I open the door a crack, then all the way. I’m surprised to see Andrew Stone on the other side. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that shadowy presence that makes him appear just shy of dangerous—which, if I’m completely honest, is half the appeal, despite my aversion to actual dangerous people, a.k.a.mafiamen.
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften when he sees me, sweeping over my hair, my flushed face, and the satin robe clutched tight around me.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m half-dressed and only wearing one slipper.
He holds up a bouquet—wildflowers. Not the kind you buy out of obligation, but the kind you actuallychoose. Muted violets and yellow sprigs tucked between eucalyptus.
“These are for you,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while.
I blink. “For me?”
He hands me the flowers. “For calculating my birth chart,” he says. “It was uncannily accurate.”
The words land heavy and I search his face, looking for sarcasm, amusement—something I can make light of. But he’s serious and watchful, as if my reaction matters.
I look down at the flowers, touched. “Thank you. I—this is really sweet.”
He nods again. His mouth curves, barely, like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite know how. “You’re welcome.”
I toy with the ribbon around the stems. I know he’s going to be checking out of the hotel in a few days.
“So... do you think you’ll be coming back here again soon?”
His eyes are steady but unreadable. He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Disappointment uncurls in my chest. What was I thinking? He’s just doing a nice thing, thanking me for the chart I did for him. I’m stupid to think this would be anything more. He’s just a hotel guest at the end of the day. Okay, so he looks at me like he’s reading my soul, he’s the only human ever to have held me in his arms without spraining something, and he’s also the only person to entertain a conversation with me about astrology. But, I shouldn’t allow myself to read into it. “Oh. Okay.”
He hesitates, then takes a step toward me. His voice drops even lower.
“But I’d like to see you again before I leave.”
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. I just watch the way his expression softens around the edges, his dark eyes holding mine like they’re waiting for permission.
I smile, trying not to betray the fact butterflies are having an actual rave inside my stomach. “Yeah. I’d like that too.”
His lips twitch as though he’s fighting a smile of his own, then he turns to leave. I don’t move for severalminutes after he’s turned the corridor and left the building. The only thing convincing me the whole interaction actually happened is the bunch of flowers I’m clutching to my chest.
Serafina
I feel lighter than I have in a while as I check in for my morning shift. I spent the rest of the previous day staring at the flowers I’d arranged in plastic bottles of varying sizes, and replaying the words Andrew Stone had said to me. Most notably, “I’d like to see you again.”
I can’t believe a man like that would be interested inme. He’s impossibly handsome, quietly charismatic and obviously successful. I’ve noted the expensive cut of his suits, the high specification of his car and the gold Breitling wrapped around his wrist.
A small part of me wonders if he’s playing a very convincing game—that he really is just a closet gangster and he’s using me to get to my brother-in-law. But he’s shown no interest in that part of my life, and onlyinterest in me. It takes a lot of self-talk to entertain the possibility that his interest is genuine.
“Morning Angela,” I chirp, as I reach the front desk.
“Itisa good morning,” she replies in a conspiratorial tone. “Especially for you.”
She slides a folded note across the desk and gives me an exaggerated wink.
“What’s this?” I unfold it and take in the neat handwriting and brief request.
