Page 9 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“Cappuccino would be great.”
She smiles again. “Of course.”
When she spins away I grab her wrist, and she turns toward me with eyes wide and lips parted. I absently wonder if her reaction is caused by how inappropriate it may be for a guest to touch a staff member in this way, or if it’s caused by the same crack of lightning that I feel when my skin touches hers.
“And what wouldyoulike?” I murmur in a low voice.
“Um, sorry?” Her eyes widen a fraction further.
“I’m buying you coffee. What would you like?”
Her breaths shorten, making the pulse beneath my fingers thump harder, faster. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t stop right now. We’re short-staffed, and?—”
“I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking what coffee you’d like.”
She wets her lips and I momentarily forget what I’ve asked her.
“Well, okay. A hazelnut latte?”
“Great.” I release her wrist. “Go get yourself one.”
“O-okay. Thank you.”
I have to divert my gaze to the fucking wall so it doesn’t snag on her ass as she walks away. That ass is going to kill me slowly over the next two weeks.
She returns a few minutes later and sets my cappuccino down on the table. “I haven’t had a chance to start your birth chart yet, but I have some time this evening…”
I rest my gaze on her, a large part of me enjoying how flustered she is. This happens a lot with women, but the novelty wore off a long time ago, or so I thought.
“Take your time,” I reply, allowing a slight smile to curl my mouth. “Did you get yourself a coffee?”
“I did.”
“Go drink it.” I wave her away good-naturedly and don’t miss the little exasperated shake of her head. Not only do I catch it, but I smile. Surprise makes my spine straighten and my chest fill with a strange liquid heat. People rarely make me smile these days, and I’d forgotten how much I like it.
Serafina
It’s Day Seven of Andrew Stone’s stay at the Harbor’s Edge and a) I’m slightly mortified that I’m actually keeping count, and b) I can’t believe that with each day that inches closer to his departure, something deep inside me tightens.
Day One was the morning he caught me in the lobby and the day I discovered I have a serious thing for men with dark eyes and muscular arms.
Day Two, he was gone at his convention or whatever (I still haven’t managed to wrest out of him exactly what he does or why he’s here.)
Day Three was the evening he came to the bar and the first time I experienced being made to feel hot and prickly by another human being just for choosing a drink.
Day Four, he bought me coffee and insisted I take a minute to actually drink it.
Day Five, he was nowhere to be seen but from somewhere in the world he arranged for another hazelnut latte to be delivered to my desk.
Day Six, he spent two hours in the restaurant talking on several different cell phones and occasionally glancing sideways at me. At one point, midway through a conversation, he gestured pointedly at the coffee machine and only removed his intense stare once I’d made myself a latte and sipped it right in front of him.
I’m beginning to feel almost… special, somehow? He isn’t ordering coffee for anyone else. In fact, I haven’t really seen himlookat anyone else. The thought makes everything below my waist flutter.
I’ve found myself spending a little longer in the shower each morning, curling my hair, applying a little lip gloss, choosing blouses that hug my breasts a little tighter. But it doesn’t mean anything. I know deep down a man like Andrew Stone would never be interested in someone like me.
He’s like a Greek God. Impossibly tall, thickly built, with muscles that swell beneath his crisp white shirts. His jawline is cut to perfection, his eyes deep set and cavernous. He wears stubble like designer cologne—tasteful, understated, wildly magnetic.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he checked into the hotel. And it’s not just the mystery he surrounds himself with that lures me in—it’s his thoughtfulness and his questioning. Unlike all our othermale guests who only want to talk to my breasts, Andrew asks me questions and actuallylistensto the answers. He asks me my opinion and genuinely wants to hear it. He hasn’t dismissed my fondness for—okay, obsession with—astrology. Instead, he wants me to share it with him.
