2. Emerson

Ihadn't even had my morning cup of coffee yet, and already my heart was racing.

Walking along the sidewalk at a clip, my shoes, polished to a high gleam, beat a quick rhythm in the predawn stillness. The city was just beginning to stir, but there would be no sleeping in for me. In fact, there never was, not even on Sundays. The Scarlet Hotel was my life. I had poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this place for over a decade, since I graduated with my business degree and my father handed the managing role over to me. He had patted me on the shoulder in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, and he'd said, "I'm entrusting you with my hotel—my father's legacy. Don't fuck it up."

And so far, I had done everything I could to make my father proud, or at the very least, minimally angry. Time and time again, the hotel had inched its way toward closure, between structural issues and near financial ruin, but in each case, I had done whatever it took to come out on top. Budget cuts, working extra hours, maneuvering deals. I had no social life to speak of. No friends, no family other than my father, and certainly no man to warm my bed.

I told myself it was worth it. It had to be. Otherwise, I would be lost. I would have given up everything… for nothing.

Glancing at my watch, I saw the hotel's night shift was almost over, and I picked up the pace. I was later than I thought. The sun had not yet risen, and already it was too warm, the scent of another impending summer scorcher in the air, like sunburnt leaves and baked pavement. We desperately needed rain, but it looked like it wouldn't be today. Pressure was building in the atmosphere. We were due for a storm.

As I approached the hotel, a figure in a crisp red coat stepped forward. "Morning, sir," Gerald said with a tip of his hat. The doorman was by far our oldest employee, though he showed no interest in retiring. In fact, he had more energy than some of our other young pups. Gerald pulled the door open ahead of me.

"Thank you, Gerald," I said out of reflex, but my attention was elsewhere. My gaze went straight across the lobby to the front desk, and my chest tightened.

Every morning I felt this sharp anticipation, even when I told myself it was hopeless. Nothing would ever change. I must've been some kind of masochist to keep torturing myself, but no amount of pain could stop my eyes from searching for him.

For Roland.

Like every morning, I found Roland staring back, as though he'd been waiting for this moment as much as I had. His dark eyes held a smoldering intensity that was nearly strong enough to knock down every wall I'd built around my heart. Instead of rushing, now I slowed my pace, allowing myself to savor this moment. It was the most luxurious misery, to be so close and yet so far from the one thing I wanted more than anything.

Roland was younger than I was by nearly ten years, but it wasn't the age difference that made me pause. He was also my employee, and while a relationship with a staff member would be inappropriate, breaking at least one rule in the employee handbook, it still wasn't the real reason I kept my distance. It was that Roland deserved better than what I had to offer.

That didn't mean I couldn't admire from afar, though.

"Good morning, Roland," I said softly as I stopped in front of the desk.

His Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow, and he reached up and tugged at his collar, as if his tie were suddenly too tight. "Morning, sir," he replied in a whisper that felt far too intimate for the public setting. His tongue darted out and seemed to drag slowly along his bottom lip, and I watched the motion, wondering what he tasted like. "Did you sleep well?"

It would absolutely be inappropriate to tell him I would've slept much better with him tucked in beside me, so instead I murmured something indistinct. "Quiet night for you here, I hope." I was delaying going to my office. I didn't really care whether his shift was quiet or not; if something noteworthy had happened, I would have been notified. I just couldn't bring myself to walk away just yet.

"Mm," he hummed, his eyes trailing lower. I wondered if he was aware of how he looked at me, with unguarded hunger. Oh, how I wished I could tell what he was thinking. Some days I hoped he would quit his job and put me out of my misery, while other days, the thought of him not being nearby was impossible to imagine.

I opened my mouth to say something else—not sure what, as if it even mattered since it was all just a stall tactic anyway—but I caught sight of movement over Roland's shoulder, and my jaw snapped shut. My cheeks warmed. Why did I feel guilty, like I'd been caught doing something wrong?

Emily, the front supervisor, came up, ready to take over the desk from Roland. "Morning, sir," she said, her eyes missing nothing as they flicked back and forth between us. She smirked and raised a brow at me, as if to say I'm on to you.

"Yes. Morning, Miss Matthews. If you'll both excuse me, I have a lot of work to do. Have a good day, both of you, and… sleep well, Mr. Stohl."

Roland seemed to flinch when I used his last name in an attempt to put some distance between us. It hadn't come naturally to me, which was part of the problem. When I had first hired Roland, I'd brushed what I felt off as merely physical attraction, assuming it would fade. I couldn't have been more wrong. In fact, the longer we worked together, the harder it was to stay apart. It was clear he felt something for me too. Lingering glances, the brush of a hand on the way by, and just once he'd invited me for dinner. I'd had to turn him down, obviously.

Feeling cold and sick, I turned away from the desk and made my way to my office, feeling Roland's eyes on me until I closed the door behind me. His shift was now over. That brief glimpse of him would have to hold me over until I left late this evening when his next shift began.

I sat heavily in my chair and rolled closer to the desk, booting up the computer. For the next hour, I caught up with emails, made sure all the proper supply orders had been submitted, looked for necessary maintenance orders, checked staff schedules—obviously not so I knew when Roland would be working. That would be unprofessional. It was only because I needed to know everything about the hotel, to ensure nothing fell through the cracks, as had happened too many times in the past.

At some point, Cherie, the hotel's chef, popped in to drop off my first cup of coffee. An hour later, Diya, our sous chef, dropped off the second.

I was just about ready to shut down my computer and walk the hotel to visually inspect how everything was running, when the phone on my desk rang. My body instinctively tensed. The phone never rang to give me good news. Picking up the receiver, I braced myself for the worst. "Hello?"

"Hey, Emerson, it's Anna." Anna Abrams was our accountant. My stomach sank straight down to my toes. I heard her take a deep, slow breath. "I'm afraid we need to talk."

When I was just a child, the class bully had stolen my crayon, sneered, and called me a virgin. I was a virgin, obviously, but neither of us even knew what the word meant at that age. He was simply repeating something he'd heard, but he'd said it like an insult, so I'd yelled "I am not!" I had then proceeded to punch him square in the nose, knocking the kid on his ass. I was escorted to the office and my father was called. That night when I got home from school, my father sat me down, and we had a long chat. First, he'd explained what a virgin was (I was both curious and horrified). Then, he congratulated me on standing up for myself. Lastly, he'd lectured me on the benefits of using words instead of fists. He'd said one should never act out of anger. That it was important to pause first, think things over, before deciding on a course of action. Yes, sometimes we might need to use our fists, but usually, there was a more logical, less violent option.

It was good advice, and it had served me well over the years.

I tried my best to follow that advice today, I swore I did. My blood pressure skyrocketed, my pulse throbbing in my temples, as I clenched my fists in my lap. I wanted nothing more than to punch someone—my father.

I paused…

I thought things over…

Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

My father picked up on the fourth ring. "What have you done this time?"

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to remain calm. "Well, Father, I'm afraid that's the question I must ask you. I just got off the phone with Anna Abrams, and she informed me that we're behind in paying property taxes. Not only that, but the money that I had set aside to pay it seems to have been transferred to an outside account—by you. Care to explain? What have you done with my money?"

"It's not your money," he growled, not even attempting to deny it. "Just as the hotel is not yours. It's mine. You can have it when I'm dead and gone."

"Not at this rate, I won't!" I snapped, pushing out of my chair to pace around the office. "I have worked my ass off to keep this business afloat, while you keep pissing away any profit right out from under—"

"Watch your mouth!" he shouted, and I instinctively shut up. I had always been a respectful son, a dutiful and obedient son, but my father had truly pushed me to the limit these last years. I felt like I was fighting a losing battle. No matter what I did, I was losing ground. My father's voice got low and dangerous. "You don't know what you're talking about, trust me. If you only knew the half of what I've had to do."

A memory fluttered to the surface, of a woman in a crisp business suit, telling me she would be in touch with my father, that it would be "business as usual," whatever that meant. I didn't want to ask, but I needed to know. "Does this have anything to do with the mayor?"

There was silence on the other end of the line, and I found myself dropping back into my chair, holding my breath.

Finally, he sighed. "Maybe it's time you hear the whole story. Can we discuss this over dinner?"

"I'm working." Because I was always working, always fighting to keep the hotel running.

"After dinner then. We'll have a drink." He sounded resigned, and I knew from experience that he wouldn't budge once he'd made up his mind.

No matter how much I didn't want to hear what he had to say, it was time to uncover buried secrets.

"Fine. Be here at ten." I didn't even bother saying goodbye before I disconnected the call and dropped my cell onto my desk, leaning back in my chair and pinching my nose against an impending headache. I honestly wasn't sure why I even bothered anymore.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already late afternoon. I hadn't eaten lunch yet, but I wasn't even hungry. I'd lost my appetite—for everything but Roland. Roland would make me feel better, he always did, with his shy, lopsided smile. He would probably be waking up soon, to get ready for tonight's shift. I wished I could be in bed beside him, curled around him, burying my nose against his neck and breathing in his warm scent. The mere thought of him calmed my frayed nerves, and my erratic pulse evened out to a steady thump-thump.