Page 7 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
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 ismy 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 ofFriends. 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 forwords. 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 Scotch. “I think it tastes like history in a glass and time well spent. Priceless in every way.”
His eyesflare.
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 toprotect. 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?”
