Page 21 of The Haunted Hotel
“It’s no trouble at all.” He practically skips across the room to let himself out, closing the door quietly behind himself.
Taking a moment to breathe, I begin to wonder why I got on the damn plane at all.
6
Islump back against the wall outside Morgan’s room and resist the urge to fan my warm face. But before I can mentally replay the incredibly tempting image of a naked Morgan Ashton-Drake, I hear a quiet, childish laugh.
Glancing down the corridor, I see a small boy about ten years old. He has a sweet, mischievous face and a naughty smile, and is dressed in rather old-fashioned clothing: grey knee-length shorts, a white shirt, a pullover, and a jacket.
His name is Arthur. I haven’t interacted with him much, but I know for a fact that—like most nine-year-old boys—Arthur, having rattled around the house for the past eight or nine decades, gets bored easily. I have this on good authority from my new friend, Tristan, who was a guest here during the murder mystery and just so happens to be a medium… kind of. Anyway, he told me that Arthur has a habit of moving the furniture around when the guests aren’t looking to alleviate said boredom. He’s also a nightmare for hiding things.
He died in 1942 from what I’ve been told by Bertie, who’s a fountain of knowledge regarding the house, its history, and, more importantly, its entire list of resident spectres and spirits.Arthur had been evacuated to the house during the war but died of diphtheria before it was safe for him to return to London.
I smile and give him a small wave. He grins in return and disappears straight into one of the walls. It doesn’t give me so much as a jolt, and I wonder why that is. Instead, I find it… well, thrilling, but I also get a strange sort of comfort knowing that death isn’t the end. That life goes on, just in a different form.
Morgan’s door opens and I straighten as he strides out. He’s put on a perfectly tailored suit and I can’t stop the appreciative slide of my gaze as I take in his long legs, firm-looking thighs, tapered waist, and broad shoulders. As my eyes reach his chiselled jaw and firm lips, I resist the urge to sigh. It’s like someone just plucked him straight out of my most private fantasies.
His dark hair is combed neatly, a couple of streaks of silver at his temples. Heat rushes across my skin as I meet his dark eyes, and he quirks one of those thick brows.
Oops.
I’m going to have to get this crush of mine under control. I can’t keep eye-fucking him every time I see him looking scrummy and delicious. Which, to be fair, is every time I see him. I want to climb him like a tree, possibly licking every inch of him while I’m at it.
Maybe Rosie’s right, maybe I do need to get out. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex, but then again, the hotel takes up nearly all of my time and energy. The last guy I even attempted to date got tired of me never being available to pander to his needs twenty-four seven. The one before wasn’t much better, and neither was the one before that.
Hmm, maybe I just have really bad taste in men. I always ended up with confident, emotionally unavailable, selfish, bossy types with narcissistic tendencies. They seemed to think that just because I have blonde hair, blue eyes, and leak sunshine fromevery pore—as one guy put it—that I must be brainless as well. Every one of them expected me to cater to their needs, to change my life to suit their schedules. Hang off their arms, laugh at their jokes, and present my arse whenever the mood struckthem.
As a result, I’ve stuck to hookups only for the past few years, just enough to scratch an itch, and even that hasn’t happened very often. There’s just not that much of an active social life in a mostly empty hotel skirting the Yorkshire moors.
I stare at Morgan and feel my heart start to dance a fandango, complete with castanets and everything. He’s so bloody tempting. I’d suggest a hookup while he’s here but that’d be wrong; he’s Mr Ashton-Drake’s grandson, after all. It’d be too messy. I love Mr Ashton-Drake like he’s my own family, and there’s no way I’m going to complicate his relationship with his grandson, especially after years of the older man not seeing him.
“You look very smart.” I smile easily at Morgan and take a small, self-preserving step back. If I have to inhale any more of his gorgeous aftershave, I may just bury my face in his neck and sniff him like a horny puppy. In fact, I may not be able to draw the line at humping his leg either.
Shit. I really do need to get out and get laid.
Morgan grunts quietly, his brows drawing down as he smooths the front of his jacket. It’s a little formal for meeting family, but then again, I don’t really know him. Maybe he’s just not a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy.
I tilt my head slightly and consider him. He looks a little nervous. Mum always said I was good at reading people. It comes from being a total people pleaser, often to my own detriment. To almost anyone else, Morgan Ashton-Drake would appear a confident, sexy man. He has a commanding presence that I noticed straightaway, but I imagine he’s someone who gets his own way more often than not. He’s fascinating to watch, emotions flitting across his face in a fleeting kaleidoscope beforesettling into a scowl. It looks like he’s having some kind of internal argument with himself, but as I examine closer, I realise there’s something else going on too—a tiny hint of vulnerability that makes me want to wrap him up in my arms and comfort him.
Judging from the glower he’s now sporting, he’s probably not a hugger.
Giving him my best customer service smile, I resist the ridiculous urge to reach out and squeeze his hand in support.
“Well,” I say cheerily, “let’s not keep your grandfather waiting. He’s very excited to see you.”
Morgan’s scowl deepens. “He is?”
I nod emphatically. “So, how are you enjoying England so far?” I ask as we begin walking. “Have you been before?”
“Technically, I was born here,” he says gruffly. “But no, I don’t visit often. If I do, it’s only to deal with one of our hotels in either Edinburgh or London.”
“Hotels?” I reply as my stomach jolts in excitement. “You run hotels?”
“My family does,” he replies. “My stepfather built an entire brand of luxury hotels, which my brother and I now run.”
“Has your stepfather retired?”
Morgan’s lips tighten. “He passed away. Last year.”