Page 31 of The Haunted Hotel

I think both Morgan and Mr Ashton-Drake need to have a conversation. I won’t push them though. I’m not one for interfering, not like Rosie, bless her, who can’t help meddling in people’s private affairs. With all the best intentions, of course.

Knowing Mr Ashton-Drake the way I do, I know he needs to warm up to Morgan in his own time. The funny thing is,Morgan’s expressions and adorable grumpiness are almost an exact mirror of his grandfather.

The apple really didn’t fall very far from the tree. I chuckle out loud, then sigh. I get the feeling Morgan has a lot more going on under that frown than most people realise, but if he turns out to be as stubborn as Mr Ashton-Drake, nothing will get resolved.

I mean, the man’s gorgeous and, as much as I’d love to slip into his bed with him and offer him a more personalised service, I also wonder if maybe he could use a friend.

Shaking the thoughts of Mr Ashton-Drake’s sexy grandson from my mind, I shove my overeager libido back into the cupboard it’s been hiding in for the past several months and head towards the kitchen to see if Aggie needs any help.

9

Ireally have no intention of going down to the dining room and eating stew and dumplings with a bunch of strangers. Not that there’ll be many strangers; this place is almost empty except for the one guest and a few members of staff.

My stomach tries to have some input, growling loudly at the thought of a meal, but I’m not in the mood. I’m still pissed I’m even here in the first place, unhappy with the way my grandfather acted like I was dragged in on the bottom of Ellis’ shoe, frustrated at the snow and lack of anything remotely resembling a contingency plan for adverse weather conditions, and annoyed that I’m going to be stuck here in this old British relic which is falling apart at the seams and is probably in imminent danger of closure.

There’s only been one tiny spark of brightness, and that would be the cute blonde with an ass I’d like to feast on for days. Too bad he’s off-limits. I get the feeling he’d be an immensely satisfying way to pass the time while snowed in. But given his sweet disposition and his obvious friendship with my grandfather, it would be a bad,badidea to hook up with him. I’m not even going to think about how much younger than me he is.

No, I’m going to sit in this room until the snow melts enough for me to get on the next flight out of this miserable country. No snow ploughs. Seriously? What country doesn’t account for snow in the winter, particularly in the northern parts? I mean, do they not have forecasts? It’s not difficult to plan accordingly.

My stomach growls loudly once more.

I am not going downstairs. I do not want to see Ellis again and have him smile at me. I keep telling myself that even as I leave my room, pocketing the old-fashioned room key.

I’ve always been a bit of a moody bastard, or at least that’s what Warren takes great delight in telling me. My brother is charming and boyishly good-looking, and has most people eating out of the palm of his hand within twenty minutes of meeting him. I’ve always found it much harder. It’s not that I have a chip on my shoulder per se, but I was always uncomfortably aware of trying to find where I fit in. Making friends doesn’t come easily for me.

It doesn’t help that I’m a bit of a perfectionist, especially when it comes to my professional life. I don’t like to form attachments and have never really had the urge for a committed relationship. I’m too busy, too set in my ways. When I have an itch that needs scratching, I hit up Grindr, not that I can do that here, and I’m not going to lie, an orgasm or two would go a long way towards easing the tension currently making my shoulders ache in its iron-like grip. However, the distinct lack of options means a little self-relief is probably in my cards somewhere.

My thoughts drift back to Ellis again, and I immediately shut them down.No. I am not going to start down that slippery path. Off-limits, I tell myself firmly. Even if he is prettier than anyone I’ve ever seen, with those big blue eyes, cherubic blonde curls, and soft, pillowy lips.

I’m only fixating on him because of the limited options. Probably. Maybe. Okay, it’s because he’s the only person who’spiqued my interest in god knows how long. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea, and he’s most likely not going to be interested in someone as prickly and hard to please as me anyway.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Shaking my head, I follow the staircase down past the various empty floors, but just as I reach the short flight of stairs that leads to the foyer, I stop and jolt in shock. There’s a body sprawled out at an unnatural angle on the floor at the foot of the steps.

What the fuck? Is this place murder central? And is it so common now that they just leave dead bodies lying about the place for guests to trip over? I hurry down the steps and kneel beside the man. He doesn’t have any obvious injuries, so mostly likely internal. I reach out to press my fingers to his neck in order to search for a pulse, but as my fingertips skim his skin, his eyes open and he gives a loud cry of surprise, jerking up into a sitting position.

I topple back and fall on my ass, my eyes wide and my heart pounding, having not expected an animated corpse.

What the hell is it with this place?

“Oh, so sorry,” the man says, his tone polite. “You startled me.”

“I startled you?” I snap. “What on earth were you doing? Taking a nap at the foot of the stairs?”

“What?” He looks confused for a moment. “Oh, no.” He scrambles to his feet and reaches out a hand to help me up. “I wasn’t taking a nap.”

I ignore his hand and push myself up, scowling at him. “What the hell were you doing, then?”

“Pretending I was dead.” He says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I can see that,” I say dryly. “Why?”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” He gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m Alfred Pennington.” He stares at meexpectantly, as if the introduction alone should explain why he was lying at the foot of the main staircase in the foyer, imitating a corpse.

Seriously, what is it with this place?

“Morgan,” I reply out of politeness as I give his offered hand a brief shake. I omit my surname, not really wanting random and possibly crazy strangers to know about my connection to this place.

We stare at each other in silence for several uncomfortable moments, then the smile slowly falls from his face, to be replaced with a confused frown.