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

S erafina

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. the diners 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 on the 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.”

I lower the tray, re-load the drinks and deliver them to their rightful home on table eight, all the while kicking myself for losing focus so damn easily.

This job means everything to me. It’s my ticket to freedom, my one opportunity to carve out a life of my own. Where I can heal and distance myself from the criminal underworld that my family is now firmly entrenched in.

Even though it was my future brother-in-law—the don of New York’s Di Santo Mafia family—who got me this internship, I want to keep it on my own merit. I don’t want to be beholden to the Di Santo’s any longer than I have to be. So it’s important I do everything without fault.

I have to be impeccable.

I have to be perfect.

I have to deliver the right drinks to the right table.

Trying to look at anything other than Andrew Stone as I return to the bar is difficult.

His presence feels like a magnetic field—one I don’t have the physical strength to pull away from.

I dart a peek at him in the corner of my eye and thankfully he’s looking at the drinks menu.

He’s perusing it with the intent of someone who could be purchasing a house… or an island.

I drop the tray onto a pile and swallow dryly before facing him. “How can I help you, sir? ”

His eyes don’t lift from the menu but his jaw ticks. “I’d like a drink, please,” he grits out. “And for you to stop calling me ‘sir.’”

My heart bolts back and forth from a combination of embarrassment and annoyance. We’ve been trained to address all our guests as ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ and I would have expected that to be normal in the hospitality world. Why wouldn’t he want me calling him ‘sir’?

“Of course, Mr. Stone . What would you like to drink?”

His chin lifts and his gaze slowly roams my face. It sends a shiver down the length of my spine.

“Give me something amber and neat.”

I cock my head slightly as if I’ve misheard. He has the entire sixteen-page drinks menu in front of him—he’s been studying it—and his only preference is color?

Part of me wonders if this is a challenge. Maybe he wants to test the theory that Harbor’s Edge staff know their guests better than any other hotel. Maybe he just wants me to guess his favorite drink?

Something tells me his request isn’t for either of those reasons. He wants to know what I think he should have. It’s a loaded request if ever I heard one, and now I feel immensely under pressure to choose something I think he’ll like.

I nod and gaze up at the whiskeys and bourbons on display. We have probably the most extensive whisky collection in the Hamptons. The challenge isn’t finding an amber drink—the challenge is finding the right amber drink .

I let my gaze sweep over the popular single malts—something tells me he’d be insulted by their lack of complexity. Japanese is always a good bet for someone who doesn’t want to follow the pack, but would he enjoy the lightness compared to the peaty depths of an Islay Scotch?

Lifting my gaze to the very top shelf—the shelf where we keep the rarest of our liquors, the ones commanding double the cost of a night in Andrew Stone’s suite—I settle on a tall, narrow bottle. I know instantly, that’s the one.

The pop of the cork alone sounds like luxury, and I take my time meticulously pouring a measure into a cut crystal glass. When I pick it up, I can’t help but lift it to my nose just to see what ten thousand dollars smells like. My nostrils are hit with the scent of sandalwood and sea salt.

When I blink my eyes open, Andrew Stone is watching me with a strange look on his face. I quickly place a napkin on the bar in front of him and rest the whiskey on it. Then I step back just as quickly, to allow some much-welcome air to flow between us.

He drops his gaze and curls a large hand around the glass, warming it the way seasoned whiskey-drinkers do. “What did you decide on?” he asks, lifting his focus back to me.

I swallow again. “Glenglassaugh’s The Serpentine.”

“Ah.” He nods thoughtfully. “Blended with a rare whiskey unearthed from a coastal warehouse. ”

I stiffen. Most guests like to think they know their whiskeys, but it seems this man really does.

“How old?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. Testing me.

“Fifty-one years.” Only thirty years older than me .

“And why did you choose this particular one?”

His question stuns me and I fall silent as I try to figure out why I can’t answer it.

My response would feel too personal, that’s why. The Serpentine is earthy and deep, symbolic of ancient mysteries and wayward morals. It matured beside a turbulent sea, a northern ocean untamed and wild.

I don’t know Andrew Stone. I know nothing about him, exactly as he intended.

But everything I know of the whiskey is echoed in the shape and swell of the man at the end of the bar.

He too seems deep and untamed, and definitely mysterious.

I can’t speak for his morals but I can speak for his darkness.

It is overpowering and enticing, all at the same time.

But I can’t say any of that. So I settle for something less revealing, yet not untruthful.

“It’s expensive .”

He holds my gaze for longer than is comfortable, then lifts the glass to his mouth. He takes a slow sip then licks his lips as though they’re laced with honey.

I wait for him to lower the glass, then I allow a small breath to squeeze its way out of my lungs.

“It tastes expensive.” His focus doesn’t waver but there’s an edge to his tone, like he doesn’t buy that as being the only reason I chose that whiskey.

“It’s on the house,” I say, wondering where on earth those words came from. Andrew Stone is not short of money.

His jaw hardens for a second, then he cracks a knuckle, making me jump.

When the intensity of his stare becomes too much, too hot , I turn away and busy myself by wiping down the already immaculate bar. I feel nervous about talking to him, but he’s a guest—a very important guest—so I have to.

“How are you enjoying your stay, Mr. Stone?”

A few beats of silence pass before he answers. “It’s surprisingly pleasant,” he replies. “And please, call me Andrew.”

I can’t help but smile. “It’s surprisingly pleasant? Were you not expecting to enjoy it?” I sneak a glance at him then quickly look away. How can two mere eyeballs be terrifying and alluring at once?

“I was. I just wasn’t expecting it to be quite so enjoyable.” His words carry a strange kind of weight but I’m keen to keep the conversation as light as I can.

“You haven’t spent much time in the hotel so far. Are you here for a convention?”

I feel his frown from several feet away so I distract myself by polishing the glassware.

“Why would I be at a convention?”

I focus on trying to draw more sparkle from an already glittering champagne flute. “You work in technology, right? Isn’t that what you technology types do?”

In the corner of my eye he rests his forearms on the bar, his gaze feeling even heavier .

“I suppose we do.”

Well, that’s not exactly an answer to my question but I can work with it.

“What kind of technology do you specialize in?”

More knuckles crack.

“I work on the sales and negotiation side of things.” He places his words carefully and lifts his glass again, taking a long sip.

“So what brings you here from Boston?”