Page 2 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

Present

The hotel lobby is a hive of activity already and it’s still only eight a.m.

“Morning Sera!”

“Oh hey Natalia,” I say, straightening the name badge on my freshly laundered shirt.

I know it’s Natalia without following the sound of her voice—her thick Spanish accent is as recognizable as sangria, her feisty, no-nonsense personality equally as polarizing as the drink. “What time do you finish today?”

She follows me to the check-in desk, mop in hand.

“I’m almost finished, senorita. I just need to let the floor dr—WATCH YOUR STEP, senor!” she shrieks at one of the kitchen hands.

“Holy Mother of Mary,” she mutters, turning back to me. “That boy has a death wish, running in here.”

I shake my head, smiling, as I log into the computer. “Do you have plans for the day?”

Her face glows with pride. “It’s my granddaughter’s graduation this afternoon. A very special day. Lots of things to prepare this morning—food, decorations… it’s going to be busy.”

I pull up the guest list to see who we have checking in today. “I’m sure it will go perfectly, Natalia. You must take some photographs to show me.”

The lines in her forehead deepen. “Oh heavens, that reminds me. My daughter has ordered a… what do you call it? Um, a wall with flowers…”

“A floral backdrop?” I suggest. “They will make the photos look amazing. I’ve seen a bunch of those on Instagram—no pun intended.”

She’s about to reply when a poor unsuspecting gardener walks into the lobby.

“OUT!” she yells.

His eyes pop wide and he quickly backs out to the exit.

“No dirty boots in the hotel!” she shouts after him, then turns back to me, grumbling. “These people have been raised in barns.”

“Why don’t you head off now, Natalia? The floor will be dry soon. ”

Her face lights up. “Really? Are you sure? My shift isn’t supposed to end for another half hour.”

I make a note of two guests checking in today—a regular who vacations here every couple of months, and a gentleman called Andrew Stone.

We usually have notes attached to each guest profile so it’s easier to identify people and make them feel welcome, so I check Mr. Stone’s profile, but there are no notes attached to his yet.

I make a mental note to research him before he arrives.

I look up. “Yes, absolutely. I’m going to be here for the next few hours. I can make sure people don’t run or slip or drag dirt through on their shoes.”

“Thank you Sera, that is so kind. But, watch out. That floor is a death trap when it’s wet.”

I reassure her everything will be fine and gently shoo her off to the staff rooms, then I turn back to the screen.

Guest-profiling is the official term for our research, although that’s really just a fancy name for snooping.

We do it so we can tailor our offering to each guest’s stay and make them feel special.

Then we elevate our services if they qualify for the Platinum Pool.

Guests that fall into this category get more than simply a beautiful room or suite.

They get our best linens, curated playlists, pillow scents and our undivided attention.

I scan Andrew Stone’s reservation and swallow.

He’s booked Room 38, the Meadow Lane Suite, for four— Wait, what ?

Four teen nights. And he’s paid in full.

That’s one of the longer stays we’ve had here in my experience, and is usually accompanied by a long menu of preferences for wake-up calls, newspapers, dietary stipulations, assistants, cars, you name it. Here, there’s nothing.

I open up the browser and start my search.

According to our customer data, this is Mr. Stone’s first stay, so we’re starting his profile with a clean slate.

I try LinkedIn next. Six Andrew Stones pop up, none of whom look to be—no offense to any of them—big hitters or high earners, which this man must be if he can pay for the Meadow Lane Suite for two weeks.

Next, I try Facebook, Instagram and X.

Nothing.

I try the archives of the New York Times and the Washington 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, I find 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 desk with 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. Not nothing .

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’s him .

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 is magnetic . It’s not just my eyes that are glued to his movements—every other person in the lobby is watching him. Women and men.

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.

“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 as he 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 my hand 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.