Page 4 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

His glass lands a little too heavily on the polished wood, drawing my gaze.

When I lift my lashes, he’s still looking directly at me as though he’s trying to tunnel beneath my skin.

I’ve heard of men who can strip a woman with their eyes, but I’ve never met one in person.

Guess I can strike that goal off my list now.

“Business, and…” He runs his tongue along his top teeth as if he’s tasting the words. “…my brother.”

“Fun!” I say cheerily. “It’s good to have that kind of balance, you know? To have family and not just be working the whole time.” I’m conscious I’m rambling but that’s preferable to the brooding, sparce conversation I’ve managed to entice out of him so far.

“I have three sisters,” I say with an eye roll. “ Three . Can you imagine? And we’re all pretty close in age too. I came out here to get some space really, but I do miss them all, deeply. Do you see your brother often?”

His silence is filled with so many unspoken words. It’s only when I dart my gaze his way that he actually answers. “I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

Oh. That’s awkward .

“Uh huh. Right.” My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for another flute. “Well, what a reunion that’ll be.”

His voice dips so low I can barely make out the words. “Yes. Yes, it will.”

I inhale some deep breaths—it feels as though my lungs have closed in too much. I busy myself with ridiculously pointless tasks until he speaks again.

“So, these sisters…”

That draws a smile from my lips and warmth from my belly, and I arch a brow. “Yeess?”

“Where do they live? What do they do?”

“Um…” I want to talk about them, I do. But I still haven’t mastered talking about my family while avoiding any suggestion it might be connected to the New York Mafia. “Well, we grew up on Long Island and they all still live there. My eldest sister, Trilby, lives with her fiancé. She’s an artist.”

“What kind of artist?”

“She paints.” I smile tightly and I hope he doesn’t probe further.

“What’s her style?”

I stop my forehead dipping into a frown and remind myself he’s just a hotel guest passing time, making conversation.

“Contemporary. She, um… she has her own gallery now, in Williamsburg. It was a gift from her fiancé.”

As soon as I say those words I worry I’ve gone too far and said too much. That’s something I will always hate about this new world we live in. There’s so much secrecy at play that I don’t know what I can and can’t tell people where Cristiano is involved.

He arches a brow. “That’s generous. Is he in the business?”

I swallow hard. “Wh— what do you mean?”

“The art business. Is he in the art business?”

“Um, no…” Oh God. My palms are sweating and I know I’ve turned the same color as my hair. Why did I bring up my sisters?

He doesn’t press any further but watches me thoughtfully. I hate the silence, so I go back to his earlier question.

“Anyway, my younger sisters, Tess and Bambi, they live at home. Tess is a dancer and Bambi’s still in high school.”

I’ve moved all the way along the bar, so the only glasses left to polish are right beside the man I feel might set me on fire if I step too close. I brave it and reach for the glasses closest to him.

His jaw softens in my periphery but his eyes continue to burrow into me. “Your mom must have had her hands full raising four girls.”

For a moment, I feel it. A surge of sadness so deep and so visceral, I can’t breathe, let alone form a sentence. But just as quickly, it’s gone.

“She did, yes,” I say quietly. “But she passed away seven years ago.”

I place the polished glass on the shelf and turn to reach for another but his hand falls on top of mine, dragging a breath from my lips .

His touch burns , drawing my gaze to where our hands are connected. A flush of blood rises from my collarbone to my cheeks and I shyly lift my lashes to peer back at him.

His voice is rough and soft in a way no man’s voice should have permission to be. “I’m sorry.”

I swallow three times and croak, “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand, instead demanding I sink myself into these few long seconds where no one in the world exists but him and me.

When he eventually slips his hand away, I find myself craving it again, but I lock that thought away at the back of my mind and throw away the key, because no good can come of me lusting after a mysterious man when I have a past life to forget and a new life to build.

“It sounds like having a balance is important to you,” he says. “What do you do when you’re not working?”

While I like the change in topic, I’m unsure about how honest to be.

Most of my spare time is spent consulting the Tarot or drawing up birth charts and projections.

But a lot of people think that’s strange, like it’s the occult or something.

And, even though Andrew Stone is only a guest, due to leave in two weeks, I don’t want him to think of me as some flakey stargazer who believes the whole world needs to hide away until Mercury comes out of retrograde.

But that is what I’m interested in. That is how I spend my time.

And this is my new life. I should at least give myself the honor of being honest about it.

“I do, um… I like to practice astrology.” I sneak a glance at him and am surprised to see his eyes widen a touch.

“I like the science behind it, the theories about mythology and the history of the practice. I find it fascinating. I don’t think it’s a tool for forecasting the future, but I do think it can suggest moments in life that present opportunities.

There’s an element of action required though.

The opportunities are there but if we don’t act to take advantage of them, we won’t see the results. ”

He’s still looking at me with a new lightness which unnerves me. “So, anyway, that’s what I do in my spare time. Oh, and watch re-runs of Friends . I do a lot of that too.”

It feels like a whole hour passes before he replies.

“Astrology, huh?”

And oh my goodness. Those two words—or, well, one word and one utterance—rumbled in a low, broken timbre, have me melting like a puddle of gelato behind the bar. I nod timidly.

Just as his gaze becomes too much, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a notepad and pen.

When he’s finished writing, he hands me the note. On it is written a date and a location in New York.

I glance up at him, questioningly. “You’d like me to do your birth chart?”

“Yes, I would.”

I look down at the note again, slightly lost for words. He’s not freaked out by my slightly unconventional hobby.

“Sure,” I say, breathless. “I’ll get right on it.”

“There’s no hurry.” He takes one more sip of the whisky, then pushes the glass toward me. “Have you tried this?”

I shake my head, nervously.

“Go on,” he nods.

I curl my fingers around the glass. It’s warm from where his hand has been nursing it, and it may as well be his hand covering mine again with all the heat crawling up my forearm.

I glance up at him then lift the glass. Slowly, I close the edge of my mouth over the rim and tip the liquid back.

It feels too intimate, placing my lips on the same glass, in the exact spot his lips have been.

My cheeks heat unbearably. I take a small, timid sip and move the liquor around my mouth.

The taste is incredible. It’s hot and overpowering, and between those sensations is the hint of blackberry, balsamic and treacle. The flavors are so complex they shouldn’t make sense, but they do.

His gaze drops to my mouth, then to my tongue as I can’t help but dart it out to lick the spirit from my lips. He seems lost for a moment, then snaps back suddenly.

“Well? What do you think?”

I lower the glass to the bar, then push it back toward him and stroke a finger over my lips.

“I think…” I muse over the few words that could truly describe the taste of a fifty-one-year-old rare Sc otch. “I think it tastes like history in a glass and time well spent. Priceless in every way.”

His eyes flare .

The reaction startles me and I look around to see if something other than my verdict caused it, but my eyes catch on Seb returning to the bar.

“You can head off now, Sera. Thanks for all your help though. You’re amazing.”

I wipe my hands on a cloth and try to look relieved.

Part of me wants to stay and continue talking to Andrew Stone, but another part of me knows better.

It knows that lingering here, watching the way his fingers cradle the glass I just touched, or feeling his eyes follow me when my back is turned, is dangerous.

It could allow for silly ideas to fill my head.

Ideas like maybe he sees more in me than a friendly host with an eye for a good scotch.

Subconsciously, I smooth my hands over my wide hips and thighs. I can’t allow myself to entertain silly thoughts like that. My heart has been split down the middle once before. Time has stitched it back together but it’s been forever changed. It’s flawed. As flawed as me.

Andrew Stone is articulate, astute, disarmingly handsome and with a body built to protect . He might even be perfect. But I don’t deserve perfection if all I can offer is an imperfect heart.

I blink up at Seb. “No problem. Did the Sandersons get everything they need?”

“Of course. They hadn’t eaten so I had the kitchen rustle up a light supper. They’re over in the booths now having a nightcap. Has it been busy here?”

“No, not at all. And I had some surprisingly pleasant company,” I said, pleased with my reference to Andrew’s earlier summation of his stay so far.

“Oh really? Who?”

When I turn sideways to point out the obvious, Andrew Stone has gone.

My gaze falls to the half-full glass and a folded piece of paper beside it. As Seb heads off to collect up some empty glasses I pick up the note.

Just three words, with a million lines between them.

“Time well spent.”