Page 11 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

Sky High Hotel might look better in the daylight. That’s the most charitable thought I can muster. It slumps against the rock face, four stories tall, and even in the evening gloom, it looks dilapidated.

Several windows are boarded over. The cheery white paint has peeled. There’s an ancient hotel sign, hanging from rusty chains and creaking in the breeze, but the letters are faded so it reads: Sk igh ote

There’s no warm welcome in these mountains. Not here, anyway. Not anymore.

“Watch your step,” Mr Grangemoor says as he shuts the truck engine off. It ticks quietly, cooling in the thin evening air, and I gather my courage, wrapping it around my shoulders like a shawl before I follow him out there. Stars are scattered across the sky.

His cane clacks against the rocky driveway. Mr Grangemoor grabs my duffel before I can offer, swinging it easily onto one broad shoulder before he limps to the front door.

Two electric lanterns offer feeble light on either side of the hotel entrance. And that’s good, because I half expected my grumpy boss to turn to me and declare that we have no electricity or running water.

We’re isolated. In the middle of nowhere.

“It’s so quiet,” I whisper, forgetting the no-speaking rule for a moment.

No reply.

Floorboards creak under our weight as Mr Grangemoor leads me into the hotel lobby, with no rugs to muffle our steps. The door swings shut behind me, and the boom makes me jump. Like a prison cell banging closed.

My boss flicks on the lights. Wall sconces give off a yellow glow, casting a sickly hue over the pinstriped green wallpaper. It doesn’t help.

“Nothing down here except the kitchen,” he says, each word gruff. He barely looks at me before limping toward the staircase. It used to be grand, clearly—the steps are still covered with a faded purple runner—but as we climb, we kick up so much dust that my nose itches.

“Do you have a cleaner?” I ask, scrubbing at my tickly nose with the back of my wrist. There’s no way he could keep up with this big, dusty hotel all alone. Not if he ever wants to paint as well.

There’s a brief pause. “Not exactly.” And I open my mouth to ask what that means, conversation ban be damned, but Mr Grangemoor goes on without prompting.

“Sometimes a few women from the outpost come here to clean, when they need the money badly enough. But they don’t like spending too much time here.

Haven’t been for months. They think I’m… ”

He trails off. Steps groan as we climb, my hand whispering along the polished banister. They think he’s what? Rude as hell? A secret murderer? What ?

“There’s a bathroom on this floor that works,” he says, jerking his chin at the second floor hallway. We keep climbing. “And a library that you can use so long as you put everything back where you found it.”

Duh. I’m not an animal.

I glare at my boss’s broad back as we climb, watching his shoulder blades shift beneath his faded gray shirt, and it’s my turn to be silent. His cane leaves little divots in the purple runner.

At the third floor, we come to a sudden halt. I wobble on the top step, then edge away from the stairs.

“Your quarters are on this floor. There’s a bedroom and a bathroom, and a small sitting room that can be yours too. Is that enough?”

My boss scowls at me, like he expects a diva tantrum over these arrangements.

Three whole rooms to myself and no rent?

In this faded but once-grand hotel? Is he crazy?

Sure, the wallpaper is ugly and the whole place needs a wipe with a damp cloth, but I’m not an idiot.

Back in the city, most of my bartending money went on renting a shitty studio with a foldaway bed.

“Of course.” I take a faltering step down the corridor. “Will you show me…?”

A large hand waves, dismissing my question, then we’re back on the staircase, slogging all the way to the top floor. He’s still carrying my duffel bag, and it shifts against his shoulder with each lurching step. I get the bizarre urge to reach out and spread a hand over his back.

Not to steady him. To feel him. Bet his skin is warm under that shirt; bet his muscles feel good as they flex.

“You’ll figure it out. It’s not rocket science. But you need to see the top floor for your work tomorrow.”

Right. Work. As an artist’s assistant. This artist’s assistant.

What are the chances he’s more patient when his paintings are on the line?

“Supplies are in here, mostly.” Mr Grangemoor raps on the first door frame we come to. “You’ll need to keep them well stocked. Make sure you order supplies weeks in advance, because deliveries are slow in the mountains.”

I nod quickly.

“I draw in here sometimes.” A door swings open under his palm, but the room is too dim to see properly. My employer limps further down the corridor. “And I work in here sometimes… or in here… the light is best in here in the afternoons…”

Apparently every room on the top floor is some kind of studio. I stumble after my new boss in a daze, groggy with tiredness after my long day. The air is clogged with dust, even up here. Job number one for tomorrow? Find a cleaning service—or failing that, a vacuum cleaner.

“This,” Mr Grangemoor says, spreading a scarred hand over the final door in the corridor, “leads to my private quarters. Never, ever go in here. If I’m in these rooms, I’m not to be disturbed. Do you understand?”

I bite my tongue and nod. Like he said, it’s not rocket science. Besides, what does he think I’m gonna do? Run into his bedroom on a Sunday morning and bounce on the bed to wake him up? Demand a walk like a puppy?

My duffel is pushed into my arms. I blink up at my new boss, and he glowers back down at me.

With clear reluctance, he says, “I’m glad you’re here, Miss…”

“Turner. Helen Turner.”

And he’s a big ol’ liar. Those words might as well have been forced out of him at knife point.

But hey, he’s the one who put the advert in the paper; he’s the one who needs an assistant.

Me, I just want space and time to draw without worrying about making rent, and this job is perfect for that.

Cranky employer or not, this is the dream.

“Okay. Night, boss.”

Rufus Grangemoor grimaces as I spin on one heel, heading back along the creaky corridor.

His eyes follow me all the way out of view. The weight of them makes the back of my neck tingle.