Page 40 of The Haunted Hotel
Looking around the dimmed lobby, I smile happily to myself. I really do love this place with my whole heart and can’t imagine having to live anywhere else. Shaking my head, I remind myself not to dwell on negative thoughts. We’re going to find a way to save this place, I just know we will.
Picking up the tray I turn towards the stairs. I’ve barely set one foot on the bottom step when Bertie and Roger appear next to me, startling me so much I jostle the tray and only just manage to right myself and prevent hot chocolate from sloshing over the side of Mr Ashton-Drake’s favourite mug.
“Oh, my goodness,” I gasp with a small laugh. “Don’t you two sleep?”
Roger grins. “Oh, honey, we don’t need to.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I begin to climb the stair flanked by my two oddball ghosts. “If this is about saving the hotel, I still haven’t come up with a plan yet. You’ll have to be a bit more patient.”
“No, lad,” Bertie booms heartily, the sound shocking in the stillness of the sleepy hotel. “We just thought we’d check in on our favourite fleshie.”
“As nice as it is to be anyone’s favourite anything, would you mind terribly not referring to me as a fleshie? It makes me sound like a sex toy.”
“Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Roger winks cheekily, and I blush all the way to the root of my hair.
“Have you been snooping around in my room?”
“Not exactly.” He raises one brow and I burn even redder if that’s possible.
“Oh my god, you weren’t watching me, were you?” I gasp in utter mortification.
“Relax, sweet boy.” Roger lights a cigarette and waves his hand airily as he blows out a thin trail of ghostly smoke. “I’m very respectful of your privacy. I was just floating around when I happened to see you perusing your… collection.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, knowing I could probably toast marshmallows on my cheeks right now. “I don’t get out much.”
“Oh, hush now, darling,” Roger purrs. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m a little jealous, to be honest. They barelyhad anything to choose from when I was alive. Honestly, you’d have never got me out of my room if I’d had a variety like that.”
“Yes, well, as enlightening as this discussion is,” Bertie cuts in, “you do know you’ve got the real thing on the fourth floor.”
“What?”
“My great-great-nephew.” Bertie wiggles her brows. “I have it on good authority he’s into chaps.” On the last word, she gives a final wiggle of her brows for emphasis.
“Have you been listening in on people’s private conversations again?” I sigh. “That’s really quite rude.”
“Tosh,” she sniffs. “Couldn’t help it if the lad talks loudly.”
“If he’s in the privacy of his room, you most certainly can help it,” I admonish her gently. “Please stay out of the guests’ rooms.”
Bertie huffs. “Still, your dinner date seemed to go well.”
“It wasn’t a date.” I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips at the thought of him though.
“Sure, it wasn’t.” Roger snorts. “I could practically see you making heart eyes at each other.”
“That is absolutely not true,” I protest. “He was just being kind, and it’s not like he had many other options for company. Mr Pennington has barricaded himself in the study to write his next novel. Rosie was in the office watching, ironically, re-runs ofThe Office, and Aggie never leaves the kitchen. Plus, I don’t think she’d be good company for Morgan unless he wanted an in-depth discussion on how she sharpens her knives.”
“You two looked like you were enjoying yourselves though?” Bertie nudges. “Eh?”
I frown slightly, not really sure what she’s getting at. “Yes, I did enjoy his company. It’s nice to have someone new to talk to. After all, I haven’t left the hotel in weeks, and even then, it was just to pop down to the village for Mrs Braithwaite’s homemade preserves for Aggie.”
“Oh, I do remember those.” Bertie beams. “She uses the same recipe as her mother, Vera, did. I used to have Vera’s preserves on my toast every morning when I was alive. Vera was a fine-looking woman, used to pop in for tea and scones every now and then.” She winks salaciously at me. “If you get my drift.”
I pause abruptly and turn to look at Bertie. “You and Mrs Braithwaite’s mother?”
“What?” Bertie says innocently. “Her husband couldn’t have found his way around a woman’s lower portions with a map and a compass.” She grins at me. “And I have always excelled at orienteering.”
“Is that what you call it?” I laugh and begin climbing again.