Chapter 11

11

I try not to trip as I cross the dining room, weaving around empty tables and chairs while I carry the tray with Morgan's meal balanced on it.

He's so handsome, bathed in soft lamplight as he sits quietly looking out of the window, watching the snowfall.

He must be exhausted after travelling— not just the travelling, I think to myself. He has shadows under his gorgeous dark eyes and there's a constant tension in his shoulders. This is a man who doesn't slow down and rest, I'm certain of it. Maybe being snowed in here will do him some good, and I don't mean because of the opportunity to get to know his grandfather. Just the chance to stop and breathe. He looks like he needs it.

"Here we go." I set the silver tray on the table and lift the deep dish filled with fragrant stew topped with fluffy golden dumplings, then place it down in front of him.

He breathes in deeply and his stomach lets loose another loud growl.

"I guess I should really stop missing meals," he says self-deprecatingly, and I smile.

"Dilys will bring you over a bottle of wine and a glass," I tell him as I fill his water glass and pick up the empty tray. "I'd have brought it myself, but Dilys doesn't like other people doing her job for her. She's been here a long time and she's very set in her ways."

"She's the bartender, right?" he replies, and I nod. "So let me get this straight." He cocks his head a fraction as he studies me. "Dilys is the bartender, Aggie is the cook, John?—"

"The Maid," I add, and a small smile tugs at his mouth.

"John the Maid is the… maid. Rosie is office staff and you…" His lips purse thoughtfully as he continues to watch me. "You are the receptionist, you carry luggage, and you're the waiter too?"

"I also organise events, mow the lawns, and look cute in a French maid's outfit." I give a laugh of amusement.

His eyes flare with interest and I mentally admonish myself for flirting. I need to be professional for goodness' sake. "I'm sure you do," he murmurs.

"I don't even remember what my official job title is." I shrug. "I just do whatever I'm needed to. It was different when we had more staff, but then again, we had more guests too. Now it's quiet more often than not. During these periods, I help John the Maid with the cleaning."

"I see." His eyes slide over me slowly, and I fight the urge to squirm under that intense gaze. It's making me restless in the most inconvenient way, which means I should probably leave him to his meal before I do something thoroughly unprofessional like climb into his lap and rub myself all over him. Those dark eyes and that sexy accent… All I want to do is have him whisper dirty, dirty things into my ear while his soft-looking lips skim over my skin. My very naked skin.

"Sorry?" I blink, realising he's speaking to me once again. Definitely need to do something about this dry spell soon.

"I said have you eaten yet?"

I shake my head. "No. I'll just grab something in the kitchen."

"Why don't you join me?" he offers.

"Oh." My stomach jolts in surprise and warmth spreads through my chest and colours my cheeks. "No, I couldn't. I should be working."

He glances around the deserted dining room and then back to me, raising one brow pointedly. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Um." My mouth twitches and I shrug.

"Please," he says softly. "Maybe you can tell me more about the hotel. I spent the first few years of my life here, but I don't have any memory of it, and my mother… well, she didn't like to talk about her time here."

I suddenly feel myself shoved forward into the chair opposite Morgan and my seat scooted in by an unseen force, tucking me against the table like I'm a small child. Looking around suspiciously, my gaze lands on Bertie and Roger—or rather, their heads. They're about two rows over and ducked down behind one of the tables. All I can see are their grinning faces and hair.

I frown, wondering why they're bothering to hide. After all, I already know about the house ghosts, and I'm pretty sure Morgan can't see them if they choose not to show themselves to him.

"I'll take that as a yes." Morgan smiles and it's a real smile, even if it's a small one. I'm so enamoured of that smile I almost miss him pushing his untouched plate in front of me. "You have this. I'll go to the kitchen and ask for another one."

"Oh no," I say in horror. "You don't have to do that. That's my job."

"Not tonight, it's not," Morgan says decisively and stands. "I'm guessing the kitchen is through those doors?"

"No need," a familiar voice rings out before I can respond, and when I turn, I see Rosie making her way to the table with a second serving. "Here we go."

"How did..." I trail off as Morgan takes his seat once more and Rosie sets another dish of stew on the table.

"Bertie said…" she trails off and shoots Morgan a look. "You know what, never mind."

"Who's Bertie?" Morgan asks as he picks up his fork. "Is he a member of staff? Another guest?"

" She , uh, well, you know, she's just part of the hotel, been around forever," Rosie hedges. "Anyway, I need to get back to the kitchen to help Aggie. Enjoy your meals. Dilys is just bringing the wine."

She heads back to the kitchen before either of us can say anything.

"Is she always like that?"

"Not always." I sigh. "It's been a strange few weeks. Everyone's adjusting."

"After that guy's death?" Morgan scoops up his mouthful of stew and groans obscenely, making my dick take notice.

"I, uh." It takes my brain an alarmingly long time to focus on the question he asked because I'm too busy staring at those beautiful lips of his and wondering what he tastes like. "Oh, you mean Professor Plume. Well actually, that wasn't his name. He was an actor. His name was actually Bartholomew Briggs. I think he was from Croydon." I shake my head and pick up my own spoon, humming in happiness as I taste Aggie's stew. "He said he was a method actor and insisted on remaining in character the whole time he was here, so I suppose we just got used to calling him Professor Plume."

Morgan takes another mouthful and hums in pleasure, looking around the dining room thoughtfully as he swallows. "I have to admit, I don't really know what to think about this place. The papers have certainly dragged it through the mud lately. I thought the parts that reached me in the States were bad enough, but I've been online and I've seen what the British press have been saying. It wasn't exactly complimentary."

I sigh. "They have been a bit overzealous, especially since the murder mystery weekend, but I can't control what they print, so I choose to ignore it and concentrate on what's really important."

"That's disgustingly well-adjusted of you." His eyes glitter with amusement, which makes me grin at him.

"The hotel has always been kind of infamous, even before it was a hotel. There have been countless deaths and accidents here over the centuries." I continue eating, smiling as Morgan pours me a glass of water.

"Anyone would think the place is cursed or something."

"Definitely or something ," I mutter. "It's just unlucky."

"I guess that's one word for it."

"Tell me about your life in New York," I say eagerly. "I've never left the UK. New York has always seemed so exciting. I was obsessed with that old TV show, Fame , when I was a kid."

"Old?" He gives an indignant reply, and I chuckle.

"I used to cartwheel down the corridors here wearing sweatbands, a leotard, and leg warmers. Although I was asked to confine my enthusiasm to the ballroom when I accidentally took out a hundred-year-old Royal Doulton Shepherdess figurine with my very impressive high kick."

Morgan snorts as he raises the spoon to his mouth and quickly picks up his napkin to wipe his mouth.

"After that, I holed up in the ballroom and practised the audition scene from Flashdance ," I grin. "Never did quite get the hang of the breakdancing part. I almost ended up with a concussion."

"How old were you?" Morgan's mouth twitches.

"Fifteen." He shakes his head and chuckles. "What were you doing at fifteen?"

"Well, I wasn't doing high kicks in the hallways or pirouettes in the ballroom, but I was working in my stepfather's hotels," he says. "Although we had a house in the Hamptons, most of the time we lived in the penthouse suite in his flagship hotel in Manhattan. Both Warren and I had to work our way from the ground up. That meant bussing tables in the hotel restaurants, cleaning bathrooms, and changing bed linen."

"Warren?"

"My brother." He frowns. "Half-brother, technically, but I've never thought of him that way. He's just… my brother, as annoying as he is sometimes."

"I wish I'd had a sibling," I muse and pick up my water to take a sip. "But back then, the hotel was a lot busier, so there was always someone to talk to or other kids to play with."

"My stepdad, Royce, always intended for Warren and me to take over the hotel chain so he could enjoy his retirement."

"Is that what he's doing now?"

"He…" Morgan hesitates for a moment. "He passed away. Last year."

"I'm sorry," I sympathise. "Were you close?"

"We were, actually," Morgan admits. "He was a good man. He never treated me any different from how he treated Warren, his biological child. He was warm and affectionate, but he instilled a solid work ethic in the pair of us. There was no free ride. If we wanted to take over from him, then we had to earn it."

"Cleaning toilets and clearing tables." I smile softly.

"Yeah." He huffs a small laugh. "Neither Warren nor I were very happy about it at the time, but he was right. As teenagers, we started off with those kinds of jobs, but by the time I left high school and then college, there wasn't a single role I hadn't tried my hand at, from front desk to concierge to night manager. It gave me a fuller understanding of what it takes to run a successful hotel, and I understand better than most owners that every staff member counts."

Warmth spreads throughout my chest as I listen to him speak so passionately about the hotels he grew up in.

"I guess that…" He trails off as he looks over and sees Dilys approach the table at a snail's pace.

Dilys is a tiny little thing, with delicate bird-like bones and no meat on her at all. She walks with a stoop and looks as if she's a hundred at least. Her porcelain skin is pale and her short, curled hair is so white it's almost colourless. Her customary floral dress is neatly pressed and covered with a pale pink cardigan. Shuffling towards us in her carpet slippers makes the tray in her gnarled hands rattle and shake, the two wineglasses atop it quietly chinking as they knock together.

Morgan stands abruptly as if to help her, but she looks up and glares, which has him pausing.

"She's fine," I tell him. "I told you, Dilys is very territorial about her job. She doesn't like people trying to take over even if they mean to be helpful."

He sits back down, not looking convinced, and it's kind of sweet, his manners. It shows he's been raised well, but Dilys is very stubborn.

It's almost painful to watch her super slow approach, the wine bottle teetering precariously as her bony hands tremble, but I'm used to it. I know Morgan is itching to rise and take the tray from her, but heeding my words, he waits patiently.

Finally, she lifts the trembling tray and slots it onto the table, then pushes it towards us. She's so small her fluffy white hair barely rises above the table's edge. I remove the bottle and two glasses, and she takes the tray back.

Morgan watches in fascination as she reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and retrieves a card, which she then slides onto the table. It's a small white business card with the Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel and logo printed on one side. On the other in gold lettering are the words:

Thank you for your custom. Please have a nice day.

"Thank you," Morgan says awkwardly to Dilys, who is staring at him.

She nods her head in acknowledgement and then turns and shuffles back across the room, her slippers making a muted rasping sound against the floor.

"Does she talk?" he asks incredulously.

"Hmm." I think hard. "You know, I'm not sure. I've never heard her speak, and I've been here years."

"How old is she?" He frowns. "Surely she should have retired by now?"

"I don't know how old she is, and it's not polite to ask."

"Not polite?" He shakes his head. "Isn't her age listed in her employment records?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure if she has employment records. She's just always been here. Come to think of it, I don't think any of us have actual employment contracts. I know I don't."

"You don't have—" He breaks off and shakes his head. "This place is crazy." He lifts the wine and opens it, making a small, inquisitive gesture with the bottle. I nod and he picks up my glass, filling it.

I take the glass from him and hum in pleasure. I don't usually drink other than the odd glass while I'm soaking in one of the guest room bathtubs or when I'm out at the Blue Banana in Leeds and it's two-for-one on cocktails.

"This place may seem a little odd, and I'll admit it's got its quirks, but I love it." I sigh. "We all do. I just hope we can figure out a way to save it."

"Save it?" He picks up his own glass and sips, his brows drawing down. "I can see how empty this place is. Just how bad is it?"

I shrug and offer him a smile that I don't quite feel. "We'll make it work."

"Ellis," he says, and I suppress a shiver at the sound of my name in that low, gravelly tone. "Sometimes hotels just come to the end of their lifespan, and there's no bringing them back. Without some serious investment in this place, I'm not sure it can be saved. Not when you have no guests, no staff, and the place needs thoroughly modernising."

"We'll make it work," I say with more conviction. "We have to."

"Do you? There's no shame in just moving on. With your years of experience here, I doubt you'd have trouble finding a position somewhere else. Any of you… except maybe Dilys, who really should be retiring."

"You don't understand. This is more than just a hotel. For those of us still here, it's our home, and Mr Ashton-Drake needs us."

He's quiet for several long moments as he toys with the stem of his wineglass. "Speaking of my grandfather, will he be coming down to dinner?"

"No," I say softly. "He never leaves his rooms."

"What… ever?" His frown deepens, and I shake my head. "He's agoraphobic?"

I ponder this for a minute. "I'm not sure if he just doesn't want to leave his rooms or whether he can't leave. All I know is he's never so much as stepped foot outside the doorway in all the years I've been here. From what I understand from Aggie, he hasn't left them since 1990."

"1990?" His eyes widen.

I nod, watching him curiously. "Why? Does that mean something to you?"

"No, I—" He stares down at his glass. "That was the year my mother took me to New York to live permanently."

"That's a strange coincidence."

"Hmm." He picks up his glass and takes a slow sip.

"So you lived here for the first few years of your life?" I ask, the curiosity burning inside me. I want to know everything about this complicated man.

"Like I said before, I don't really remember it."

"How old were you when you moved to the States?"

"Six."

"Six?" I blink in surprise. I have memories of my own that go back to when I was at least two or three years old. "You really don't remember anything about your time here?

He shakes his head and goes quiet again and I let the subject drop. After all, if he left for New York soon after his biological father's death, maybe the trauma of that would have blocked his memories. He suddenly looks exhausted and not just physically. It's like he carries this huge invisible weight around with him, and I find myself wishing I could help him somehow.

"Tell me what you love about this place, Ellis," he says as he drinks his wine.

"So many things," I say happily, feeling my chest glow with love for my home. "There's something so wonderfully eclectic about this place. Every time you turn a corner, you find another little piece of history waiting. So many lives lived here, so many stories."

"I suppose."

"Why don't you let me show you?" I offer.

"Excuse me?"

"Tomorrow. We're most likely going to be trapped in the house for the next several days. Why don't you let me show you around the house and tell you all of its secrets?" I'm excited at the thought as it gathers momentum in my brain. "After all, most of it is your family history, and you said yourself you don't really remember when you lived here. Maybe this time you can go home with good memories."

He studies me thoughtfully for several long moments.

"Actually, I think I'd like that," he says finally. He looks down at his watch and sighs. "But first, I think the jet lag's catching up with me, so I better call it a night." I rise when he does. "Thank you for your company this evening, and please give my compliments to the chef."

"You liked the stew, then?"

"That, and after seeing Aggie strolling leisurely through the lobby brandishing a meat cleaver and a cloth sack containing I don't know what, I'm a little afraid to get on her bad side in case I've inadvertently walked into the hotel version of Sweeney Todd."

I let out a warm, amused laugh. "I can assure you, that's not the reason we don't have any guests, but thank you for inviting me to join you for dinner. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a meal and conversation with someone who wasn't a permanent fixture in this hotel."

"I'll see you in the morning, then, for the tour," Morgan says.

"In the morning," I repeat softly. "After breakfast. It's served between eight and ten a.m."

"I'll meet you down here, then." He continues to watch me. "Goodnight, Ellis."

"Goodnight, Morgan," I reply, but my voice is breathier than I intended.

We stare a moment longer and then he heads out of the dining room. I resist the urge to sigh like a lovesick teenager.

Off-limits , I remind myself as I start stacking up the empty dishes to haul them back to the kitchen. My arms finally full of dirty plates, I turn around and pause when I see Bertie and Roger on the other side of the dining room. They both give me identical grins and four very enthusiastic thumbs up before disappearing.

I shake my head. I have no idea what's got into those two lately, but knowing them, I have no doubt they'll let me know sooner or later. I push that thought to the back of my mind and if my brain happens to linger instead on the gorgeous grumpy American… well, that's no one's business but mine.