Chapter 15

15

" E llis, do you realise what this could mean?" Morgan says as we walk back into the lobby. We're headed in the direction of the library, which is my next destination in this whistle-stop tour of Morgan's childhood home.

He may not have any memories of it, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate how cool it is as an adult. He's so lucky to have that tie to this place. It's seriously awesome here, and I can't wait to share it all with him.

"What what means?" I reply absently, waving to Mr Pennington as he ducks back into the study to work. His intent and slightly distracted expression is one I've come to learn means I've just had a crazy good idea and must write it down before I forget . I accidentally disturbed his muse once before and let's just say I wouldn't want to do it again.

"Everything in this house. You said yourself that some of the items go back centuries. It must be worth a small fortune."

I shrug. "I imagine it is."

"Don't you see where I'm going with this?" he says, a bit exasperated.

I pause at the door of the library with my hand on the doorknob as I look up at him. "With what?"

"You keep saying you need to save this place. Now, I don't know what kind of state the books are in, but even I can see the hotel is badly in need of renovation, the kind that is sympathetic to historical buildings, which this would definitely come under."

"Oh, it does." I nod. "We're a Grade Two listed building."

"Really?" He pauses. I nod again and he shakes his head. "Anyway, my point is that even I can tell a hotel that's a listed building in need of modernisation and repairs plus no guests equals financial difficulty. Given the value of these antiques and historical items stashed in cupboards and corners, my grandfather could probably afford to revamp the building, get a modest marketing budget in place, and start bringing in paying guests. It might be enough to keep this place from going under."

"Really?" I reply brightly.

"All you have to do is sell some of it."

"Oh no, we can't do that," I answer with a smile.

"What?"

"We can't sell any of it," I reiterate.

"Why the hell not? If it's the difference between keeping this place open or losing it?"

"It'd be like selling organs on the black market." He stares at me for several long moments and I wonder if he's fallen asleep with his eyes open. "Morgan?"

"Sorry. I'm trying to figure out what you mean."

"Well, a person who needed money to survive could keep selling their organs, but sooner or later they'd die. If we sell all the treasures inside the house, eventually it will just be a husk. There'd be nothing left to save."

He hesitates. "That shouldn't make any sense, but I kinda see where you're going with this."

"Morgan," I say softly, my fingers itching to reach up and smooth the wrinkle between his brows and ease the serious look on his handsome face. "This house isn't just bricks and mortar. It isn't the age or the architecture that makes it special. It's the memories it holds, the stories of the people who have passed through its doors and the little pieces of themselves they left behind. It's the massive chip in the edge of the stone steps that lead down from the back turret. That's from when a friar fell down the entire staircase drunk and carrying a casket of wine. Instead of even trying to put his hands out, he chose to save the wine and smashed his skull open."

"What a charming and heartwarming tale," he says dryly.

"Or the ballroom where Leona died in the makeshift studio at the birth of the film industry. How do you think she'd feel if we sold all her dresses and costumes?"

"She's dead," he replies in bewilderment. "I don't think she'd notice."

"You're wrong about that." A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I recall seeing Leona hiding behind one of the movie cameras and watching us when we'd been in the ballroom. "My point is, the vase that was a gift from King Ferdinand, the goblet that Queen Elizabeth drank from, the bed that Oscar Wilde shared with a young lover?—"

"Oscar Wilde? Really?" His mouth falls open.

"Apparently," I reply. "But all of these things are part of what makes this place what it is. If we start breaking it up and selling off chunks of it, it loses its magic."

"I can understand that, genuinely I can," Morgan says. "But if my grandfather is going to ultimately end up losing the house, it's a moot point. I mean, how bad is it? Really?"

I hesitate for a second. Even though Morgan is Mr Asht— Cedric , I correct myself, still feeling the warmth of him allowing me to use his first name. Even though Morgan is his family, he's still a stranger, and I don't want to reveal sensitive information that Cedric might not want him to know.

"It's… it's not good," I finally say. "We're running out of time, but I have to believe we'll find a way. One that doesn't involve cannibalising everything that makes this house special."

He shrugs. "I guess it's not really any of my business anyway."

"Thank you for caring anyway."

"I don't though." He pauses. "I'm not saying that to be an asshole. It's just that, whether this place stays open or not, it isn't my business. I don't have any ties to it. What my grandfather chooses to do is up to him, but it…" He hesitates. "It bothers you." He shrugs again and looks away, not meeting my eyes.

"Like I said." I reach out and tug the sleeve of his jacket so he'll turn that smouldering dark gaze back in my direction. "Thank you."

I reach out and twist the doorknob. We both step into the room, only to be brought up short when a brightly coloured explosion of confetti hits us straight in the face. Pink and red tissue paper hearts float down around us. I try to blink away the hearts that have caught on my eyelashes, and twisting to look at Morgan, I catch him with his mouth open. He's trying to spit out several hearts, which appear to be stuck to his tongue.

"What the hell?" he growls, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine. Not from fear, but one of the sexy variety.

Tearing my gaze away from the tempting grumpy man beside me, I look across the room in time to see Bertie and Roger giggling like children as they disappear into one of the bookcases. I drop my gaze to the circle of hearts around us and sigh. I had been saving those confetti cannons for Valentine's Day, hoping that we'd have more guests by then. I had a very tentative idea in my head for a mini Valentine's party in the ballroom or something.

"Sorry about the cannon malfunction." I turn back to Morgan and reach up to dust a few paper hearts from his shoulders and chest and try not to grope him during the process—which, to be honest, is what I'd really like to do. "So, this is the library. There're actually quite a few first editions in here and a lot of interesting reading, your great-great-grandfather had quite eclectic reading tastes, but one of the things that's really cool is this."

I cross the room and search for the right book, then give it a tug. It releases a concealed mechanism and a door opens, revealing a hidden cupboard.

"This is where poor Professor Plume's body was stashed during the murder mystery weekend."

"Christ, this whole place is like a massive whodunnit. Are you sure Agatha Christie didn't stay here?" Morgan plucks a stray heart from his ear.

"Actually, she did. I believe she wrote one of her books here, but I'm not sure which. I must remember to ask," I muse, sure that Bertie or one of the other ghosts would probably know the answer.

"Seriously? The Agatha Christie?" he replies and I nod. He leans further into the cupboard, an odd expression on his face that I can't quite put a name to. "I wonder what the purpose of this cupboard is. Other than to hide bodies in, that is."

Suddenly, I feel a hand at my back shove me forward, and unable to keep my balance, I crash into Morgan. We both fall into the cupboard as the door slams shut, plunging us into darkness.

"Ouch, sorry." I wince as Morgan accidentally elbows me in the ribs and I manage to tread all over his toes.

"No, it's okay… just let me… ow ."

We stumble again, tangled up in each other, and hit the side wall of the cupboard.

"Maybe if I just—" I feel the breath knocked from me as I'm pinned.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm just going to—" I hear a loud thump, and Morgan groans. "Ouch, that's gonna leave a mark."

"Okay, stop moving," I pant, and he stills.

For several long seconds we freeze, our heavy breathing the only sound in the blackness of the small, confined space. My heartbeat picks up and my dick stiffens as I feel the heat of his body and smell the wonderful scent of him. Something slightly spicy mixed with a citrus, orange maybe. I've never been particularly good at identifying individual scents, but there's something almost Christmassy about his. It's like all my favourite things, and I want to press up against him, burying my face in his neck and dragging my lips against his throat as I breathe him in.

Okay. Not helping the dick situation.

"What happened?"

"We're stuck in the cupboard," I reply, trying not to sound as aroused as I feel, but my voice is still a breathy gasp, and I swear he presses into me a little closer.

"I guessed that." His voice is a delicious growl in my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

I'm so tempted to turn my head a fraction closer to that voice so I can find his lips with mine, but instead I swallow hard, trying to focus.

"Please tell me this cupboard opens from the inside," Morgan says.

"Yes, um." I clear my throat and reach out, patting across the surface beside me in my search for the door handle. After waiting for a few moments while I don't find it, Morgan shifts.

"Here, try this." He fumbles around in the dark.

I have a brief, wonderful fantasy of him reaching for my trousers and unzipping them so he can slip his hand inside, then realise he's actually reached into his own pocket. A moment later, the dim glow of his phone's flashlight shines in the cramped space.

The light skims over the walls and when it falls on the door handle, I reach for it. Nothing happens. I frown and jiggle the handle again. Morgan shifts away and I put my shoulder against the door to give it a shove.

Still nothing… except for an amused giggle on the other side. An amused giggle I recognise.

"Roger!" I yell through the door. "I know it's you, which means you've most likely got Bertie with you. Open the door this instant and let us out!"

The giggle comes again, accompanied by Bertie's hissed, "Sssh, they'll hear us."

"I can already hear you," I shout. "Open the door! This isn't funny. The confetti cannons were bad enough. I was saving those for Valentine's Day, and you know they're totally going to clog up the hoover. John the Maid will not be happy."

Silence on the other side.

"BERTIE! ROGER!"

"Who're Bertie and Roger?" Morgan scowls. "And why did they lock us in a closet?"

I sigh and look over my shoulder at him. "They're ghosts."

He stares at me long and hard, as if trying to gauge whether I'm serious or have some kind of head injury.

"Ghosts?" he repeats slowly.

"Yes."

"Uh, Ellis, I get the whole leaning into the haunted hotel angle to try and get guests in, but you do know ghosts aren't real."

"Actually, they are," I say conversationally as I bang my shoulder against the door again and twist the handle. "There are"— bang —"quite a lot"— bang —"of them here"— bang —"actually." Bang bang bang . My shoulder is now throbbing and my palm is starting to get a friction burn from twisting a handle that refuses to budge.

When I get my hands on Bertie and Roger, I'm going to have a few choice words for them. This is not what I agreed to when I said I'd be their liaison to the living.

"Here, hold this." Morgan hands me his phone. "It's not ghosts. It's just an old door, with rusted hinges and a temperamental lock."

I fumble with the phone, my hand still smarting from gripping the handle so tightly, and end up dropping it to the floor with a clang. I grimace apologetically, even though he probably can't see me properly in the low light, especially as the flashlight on the phone now seems to be highlighting our shoes.

"Hang on, I'll get it." I try to lower myself to the floor of the tiny space and at the same time valiantly try to ignore the fact that his groin is centimetres from my face.

Frankly, I think I deserve a medal for my self-control. Picking up the phone shifts the beam of light, and something low on the wall catches my eye. Curious, I kneel even further down and hunch over.

"Oh," I gasp out in surprise. "Morgan, you should see this."

I try to sink to my knees, but it's a tight fit. Ellis shuffles to the side, still staring at whatever it is he's found. I hunker down beside him and his body ends up flush with mine. The heat of his skin warms my side, distracting me. I lean in next to him, which is even worse because we're almost cheek to cheek. A fraction closer and I could taste those pouty lips of his.

"Look," he whispers excitedly, and I drag my gaze away from his mouth and down to the patch of wall he's pointing the flashlight at.

My eyes narrow when I see two words carved into the wooden panelling of the closet wall. No, not just words, I realise. Names. The first one hacked into the wood in a childish scrawl is the name Artie, and just beneath it…

I suck in a breath.

Morgan.

Promise me, Morgan, promise we'll always be friends…

I close my eyes as the fragment of a memory teases at the edge of my mind, but when I try to reach for it, it disappears. I know this closet. I used to play in here when I was a kid. I carved those two names into the wall with the little penknife my granddad gave me. The penknife had my initials engraved into its red handle. M.A.D. I remember laughing at the word my initials made and my granddad whispering in my ear.

We're all mad here, Morgan, just like Wonderland.

I trace my fingertips over the grooves in the wood.

Promise we'll always be friends…

"I did this," I whisper, although I don't know if it's to myself or Ellis. "I carved this."

"Who's Artie?" Ellis asks.

"I don't know," I reply, not able to shake loose any more memories. "But…" I murmur slowly as I trace my fingers along the edge of the wooden panel, feeling for a familiar groove, a slight change in texture.

When I find it, my stomach tightens with a mixture of shock and excitement. I push it in, and we hear a click. The whole back panel of the closet opens, swinging outward on slightly groaning hinges and revealing a secret passageway.

There's a blast of cold, frigid air that makes our breath turn to mist.

"Oh!" Ellis says excitedly. "Another passageway. Where does it lead?"

"Come on." I awkwardly push myself to my feet and hold out my hand for him. "I'll show you."

His small, warm hand slips into mine, and I feel a jolt of static electricity ripple up my arm, but I don't let go. For a second, we stand there staring at each other in the dim light. Then he shivers as another gust of cold air whistles down the secret passage. He's only wearing his white uniform shirt and black button-up vest, his name badge and a tiny rainbow pin attached just above his heart.

Slipping off my suit jacket, I wrap it around his shoulders and take the phone from him so he can slip his arms into the sleeves. I watch as he presses his face into the lapel and inhales, a small, sweet smile playing on his lips.

"Thank you." He looks up at me and even in the low light, his blue eyes still enchant me. There's something about his gaze that I can't look away from. "We should go, or we're both going to catch cold," he teases.

I reach down without thinking and take his hand again. His eyes widen in surprise and then a shy blush steals over his pretty cheeks. I feel his fingers entwine with mine and, lifting my phone with my other hand to light the way, I lead him into the passageway.

There's a slight slope downwards, then rough stone walls cocooning us in and a thick, rough-hewn wooden floor beneath our feet. It's freezing, but I know we won't be down here long. Hurrying along the narrow corridor, we reach a set of steps at the other end and climb them. At the top of them is a wall with an old metal catch above a matching metal handle, the kind you might find on a garden gate. I flick it up confidently and press the handle down. The wall splits and a doorway appears, suddenly flooding the passage with bright light.

We both blink until our eyes adjust, then step through into the room beyond and find Aggie in front of us with her arms folding across her chest.

"So this is how you always managed to sneak into the kitchen to steal cookies," Aggie says loudly as she stares at me. "I always wondered about that."

"Oh, it opens out into the kitchen!" Ellis exclaims in delight, turning to look as the concealed doorway closes behind us. It's covered by the same tiles as the rest of the kitchen wall and once it closes, it's almost completely undetectable… unless you know where to look.

The small Scottish cook stares at me a moment longer, and just when I begin to wonder if she's planning on chopping me into tiny pieces with the meat cleaver she's so fond of, she reaches up and grabs an old-fashioned tin from the shelf. She lifts the lid and holds the container out to me so I can see the contents.

"Go on," she says. "You've gone to all this trouble, might as well claim your reward."

I reach into the tin, wondering if this is a trap of some sort. Instead, I retrieve a large golden brown perfectly baked cookie with what looks like toffee or fudge chunks in it. I can smell the delicious scent before I've even raised it to my lips.

Taking a generous bite, I begin to chew as it melts over my tongue. Sugar and sweet, gooey goodness, and with every taste comes a flood of memories. I look down at the cookie in my hand and swallow.

"I remember these," I whisper, my gaze sweeping back up to Aggie's face. "I remember you."

Her stern mouth tilts up at the corner. "Welcome home, Morgan," she mutters in her rhotic accent. "Now, get out of my kitchen before I chase the pair of you out with my broom," she snaps.

Ellis laughs delightedly, snatches a cookie from the tin, and grabs my hand like we're Bonnie and Clyde. The next thing I know, we're running towards the door. We crash into the dining room, weaving our way through the empty, pristinely set tables, and don't stop until we're through the doorway and landing in the small vestibule on the other side.

He turns to face me, his merry blue eyes bright and his cheeks flushed pink. There's a spider web in his hair and a smear of dirt on his cheek. My jacket, which is two sizes too big, practically swamps him as he clutches his stolen cookie in one hand.

He studies my face intently, and it's only then that I realise I'm laughing, my mouth stretched in an unfamiliar but wide smile.

"You look so much lighter when you smile," he says, and I'm so enchanted by him.

He drops my hand and I mourn the loss of his palm against mine, but he reaches up and runs his fingers through my hair.

"Cobwebs," he whispers as I step closer.

Still holding onto my half-eaten cookie with one hand, I reach for him with my other and entwine my fingers with his again. He looks shyly pleased and my heart beats faster. I'm beginning to think he's right.

There is something about this hotel that's magical.

"I want to see it all," I say impulsively. "Show me everything."