Page 48 of The Haunted Hotel
“Ellis was telling me about his idea to host a macabre writers’ retreat. Fantastic idea! I will, of course, spread the word in my literary community. Anything to help, after all.”
My belly does this weird little jump at the mention of Ellis’s name. I shake my head and tune out his rambling. Glancing over his shoulder, I see that the front desk is still empty.
“Hey, Pennington?” I interrupt. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen that John guy around?”
“John the Maid?” he asks, and I nod.
“He was in my room earlier changing the bedding while I was showering, and I don’t appreciate the intrusion.”
“Oh.” His brows draw down as if he’s trying to figure something out. “What time was this?”
“About eight thirty.”
“I don’t think it was John the Maid then. He’s been outside shovelling out the snow from the main entrance since seven. Although I really don’t know why he’s bothering. It’s forecast for heavy snow again later today and into late this evening.”
“Are you sure?” I reply, and he nods.
“The Met office seemed very certain.”
“I meant about John.”
“The Maid,” he supplies helpfully. “And yes, one hundred percent. I’m an early riser myself, so I saw him on his way out.I’m surprised they changed your bedding though. Especially as you only arrived yesterday. Did you request it?”
“No.”
“I’ve been here a few weeks now, and they usually only change the sheets once a week unless you request an extra set.” he shrugs. “Oh well, I’m sure there’s an explanation. You can always use one of theDo Not Disturbsigns.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Have you seen Ellis?”
I don’t want to tell him that Ellis is supposed to take me on a tour of the house. It may sound crazy, but I don’t want anyone else tagging along. Mostly because I don’t want to have to make the effort of small talk, not because I want his attention all for myself.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
“Ellis is in the dining room with Rosie. I’ve just come from there.”
Giving a brief nod of thanks, I head out in search of the quirky little blonde. I’ve just stepped through the door into the dining room when I’m hit with the mouthwatering scent of bacon. My stomach gives a loud growl that surprises me, especially after the hearty serving of dinner I had late last night. I’m not usually one for breakfast. Usually it’s a large black coffee on my way to whatever meeting I have first.
My feet are moving before I’m even consciously aware of it. Drawn to the heavenly scent. I enter the room and head towards a long rectangular table covered with a pristine white cloth. As I approach, I see an array of warming dishes filled with fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon slices, thick sausages, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, mushrooms, and… what the hell is that? Looks like beans in some kind of grim-looking, orange-coloured juice.
I grab a warm plate from the stack at the end of the buffet and start piling it high with a little of everything—with theexception of the suspect beans. Settling at a nearby table, I pour myself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher in the middle of it and unwrap the sparkling silverware from an immaculate cloth napkin.
I cut into the sausage and raise a piece to my mouth, humming in pleasure as the flavours of the meat and herbs burst over my tongue. I glance around the empty dining room as I devour the contents of my plate. It’s delicious, cooked to perfection and exactly the right temperature for a buffet-style breakfast, which sometimes have a tendency to get cold quickly.
It’s a shame they can’t seem to attract guests. The place may be a little shabby and short-staffed, but I can’t fault them for their cleanliness or hospitality. It’s a great location, private, whimsical, perfect for couples. Even Ellis’ idea of hosting a writers’ retreat is great. I can’t help but wonder why this place is failing. It’s certainly not due to neglect.
There must be a reason.
“Good morning, Morgan.”
My stomach gives another one of those stupid little jolts, and I choose to blame it on the fact that I’ve overindulged and my belly’s too full rather than that I may be developing a ridiculous fixation on the younger man.
Jesus, is this the beginning of a midlife crisis?
“Good morning, Ellis.” I pick up my napkin and wipe my mouth.
“Did you enjoy your breakfast?” He smiles at me and I blink, my heart picking up a quick, hot step.
“It was g-great. Did you enjoy it? I mean your breakfast, not mine. If you’ve had breakfast, that is. I mean, you’re working, of course, but you should make sure you eat.” I almost sigh out loud. And now I’m stumbling over my words and acting like a complete moron.