Chapter 4

4

I dart down the corridor and around the corner before I let myself collapse back against the wall. With a shaky laugh, I lift my hand to my chest and feel my heart hammering against my rib cage.

Oh my goodness, Morgan Ashton-Drake is so handsome and so strong. He caught me in his arms like I weighed nothing… and those dark dreamy eyes of his. I had to fight to remain professional when all I wanted to do was cling onto him like a koala.

I wonder how old he is. There's grey at his temples, highlighting his dark hair like a personal accent. There's a few lines on his face too, especially between his eyebrows, which makes me wonder if he always looks so serious, if he ever smiles. I'd love to see his smile. I'll bet it's gorgeous, that it would light up his whole face.

I have to tell Rosie everything immediately. I dart down the stairs, taking them almost two at a time all the way down to the ground floor, but my heel slips on the last few steps and I stumble, flailing my arms to keep my balance.

My hand catches Brad and a painful jolt shoots up my arm. A loud clattering sound fills the air as the suit of armour collapses and the metal parts are sent skittering across the floor.

"Dost thou mind?" an indignant voice snaps, and I turn my head to find Sir Devron Penhalen, a spirit who once dined at King Arthur's Round Table (or so he says). His short dark hair is cropped closely to his head and he has a neatly trimmed beard. A deep blue velvet surcoat covers his gleaming chain mail.

"Sorry, Br—Sir Devron." I wince as I look at the pieces of armour on the floor. "I didn't mean to. I lost my balance."

"Thou shouldst conduct thyself with a little more decorum, young Sparks. Why, in my day, squires were seen and not heard."

I don't know why he insists on referring to me by my surname, but I kind of like it. It may just be a habit of the time period he's from, but it makes me feel… I don't know, included? Like the spirits of the house don't see me as an outsider but instead as someone who loves this place as much as they do, even if I wasn't born into the Ashton-Drake bloodline like so many of them were. Also, unlike them, I still have a pulse. I feel this strange sense of camaraderie with the ghosts of the house, even though I've only been able to actually see them for the past few weeks. It's all still a bit new to me.

I've worked here since I was sixteen and I've always believed that the place was haunted, even when I was mocked by former friends and acquaintances. There was just something about this house, something very special. I'm so happy that they've finally decided to reveal themselves. I'm still learning all of their names and stories, but every day is now an exciting new adventure.

"Er, yes, sorry, Sir Devron." I nod, backing away from the intimidating ghost in chain mail and carrying an enormous broadsword strapped to his back. Honestly, I don't know how he ever lifted the thing when he was alive—it's bloody huge.

Not that I'm afraid of him, I'm not. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding his archaic speech and idiosyncrasies, and he's also a little surly, but he tells the best stories. I don't know how true or overly embellished they actually are, but they are fascinating.

"Very well then, boy, go on about your duties." He waves his hand toward me absently and walks back towards his plinth. As he climbs up onto it, the scattered pieces of metal slide back across the floor. They reassemble themselves back into a full suit of armour and Sir Devron disappears inside them.

Grinning to myself happily, I turn and dash across the lobby, around the front desk, and towards the office behind.

"Rosie!" I yell as I burst through the door. My best friend jolts in shock, spilling her coffee down her pristine white blouse. "Oops." I wince.

She simply rolls her eyes and plucks a tissue out of the box on her desk, then dabs at the wet patch with a sigh.

"What's got you all excited this time?" she says absently as she licks the tissue and scrubs it over the spreading stain a little more viciously. "Has Aggie been baking her toffee cookies again?"

"No," I grin, although now I'm thinking about those cookies. Maybe I can get Aggie to–

"You look like you've drifted off on a tangent again." Rosie gives up on the stain and tosses the wrecked tissue in the bin. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live inside your head. I imagine it's a cross between Willy Wonka's chocolate factory and The Labyrinth ."

"Is David Bowie at the centre with his skintight pants?"

Rosie snorts. "Knowing you, probably."

"In all honesty, when I was six, I did want one of those big white floofy dresses that Jennifer Connelly wears." I murmur.

"Didn't we all," Rosie mumbles.

I nod. "To be fair, I also really wanted to dance with David Bowie."

"Was there a reason to this conversation? Because the Christmas decorations still need to be taken down and put away."

"Yes there is! You will never guess what just happened!" I say excitedly.

"You knocked over Brad again?" she says, shrugging when I stare at her. "I heard the clatter but honestly, we've all done it so many times now, it's hardly exciting news. Plus, now we know about the ghosts, we have the added bonus of Brad being able to put himself back together."

"Sir Devron," I correct. "You know he hates to be called Brad."

"Fine, Sir Devon."

"Devron."

"Whatever." She shakes her head.

"Anyway." I wave my hand and change the subject. "No, that wasn't what I came to tell you. We have a new guest."

"We do?" She blinks. "A paying guest?"

"Well, no. Maybe?" I frown. "I'm not actually sure."

"Ellis." She sighs. "You can't just let people stay here for free. It's fine if you want to upgrade them, but not charging them isn't going to keep the creditors from shutting this place down."

"I know that, but this isn't any old guest." I practically dance on the spot. "His name is Morgan and he's really dreamy, and older than me, although I don't know how old, but he's bloody gorgeous and really strong. He didn't even break a sweat when he caught me."

"Caught you? Bloody hell, Ellis, what have you been up to now?"

"I fell off the Christmas tree."

She stares at me.

"Okay, not the actual Christmas tree, the ladder. Then he caught me, then he put me down, and then I tripped over the lights and he picked me up off the floor."

"So let me get this straight. A gorgeous older man caught you when you fell off the ladder, then picked you up off the floor when you tripped over the lights, so you decided to give him a free room for the night?" she asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I don't know how long he's staying, but he's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson!"

"What?" Rosie's frown becomes more pronounced. "How do you know he's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson?"

"Well, he said so," I answer. "And his name is Morgan Ashton-Drake."

"Didn't you ask to see some ID or other proof? How do we even know he's telling the truth? It could be a scam. Especially after everything that's happened recently. He could be an undercover reporter, out to expose the hotel and us."

"Expose us for what exactly? Have you been watching Netflix documentaries again?" I ask suspiciously.

"That's not the point." She shakes her head. "These are valid concerns. You're too sweet and trusting for your own good, Ellis," she says, her eyes filled with affection and her voice laced with exasperation.

"And you're too mistrustful. And a little prickly."

"That's why we're best friends. We balance each other out." Rosie smiles. "But my point still stands. Don't you think it's a little suspicious that we've both worked here for over a decade and there's been no mention of a grandson at all? How do we know he is who he says he is?"

"It's not like we can demand a DNA test." I roll my eyes. "And I'm not surprised Mr Ashton-Drake doesn't talk about his family. We both know how hard his son's death was for him. Besides, he has lots of photos in his room."

"That means nothing." Rosie sighs. "I'm just saying I don't want someone coming along and upsetting Mr Ashton-Drake. He's been through enough. I don't know who this stranger is or what he wants. Why's he here? And why now?"

I shrug. "He just said he was here to visit his grandfather."

"I don't like it." She scowls and it's adorable, like a grumpy little chipmunk.

It's one of Rosie's most endearing qualities, and I don't mean making expressions like little furry animals. I mean the way she's so protective of the people she cares about. There may not be much staff left here at the hotel, but those of us who are still around have been here for years. We're a family, and as a family, we're very fond of Mr Ashton-Drake, who may be a bit eccentric but is really sweet.

"Have you told Mr Ashton-Drake yet?"

"No. I went up earlier to take him his morning tea, but he's having a nap. You know how impossible he gets when he's tired. I'll pop up and see him in an hour. That should be enough time."

"Fine," Rosie huffs. "Come on, I'll help you take down the rest of the decorations. Can't have you falling off any more ladders and into the arms of handsome potential con artists." She pushes her chair back and stands. "Wait, was he handsome?"

I say dreamily, "Absolutely gorgeous."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Rosie shakes her head, a small affectionate smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I'm going to have to tie a piece of string to you or you'll be floating up to the ceiling like a balloon."

"What?" I blink. "It's not like I'm going to do anything. He's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson, after all."

"So he says," Rosie mutters.

"It's just that I've barely left the hotel in months." I shrug. "It's not often tall, sexy, American strangers come to stay. Can you blame me for appreciating a stunning silver fox when I see one?"

"Silver fox? Jesus, that's like your kryptonite. Are you sure you don't have some latent Daddy issues?"

"Don't we all?"

"Fair point." Rosie purses her lips and nods. "Wait, did you say he's American?"

"Mm-hmm," I hum. "That accent."

"Oh my god, are you in heat? Any moment now, I'm going to have to fetch the garden hose and spray you down before you combust."

"What?" I pout. "I'm allowed to look. It's not like I'm going to be touching. He wouldn't be interested in me anyway."

"And why not?" She fists her hand on her hip and fixes me with a fierce look. "What's wrong with you? You're the kindest, sweetest, most loyal man I've ever known, and despite you absolutely not being my type and being my bestest friend in the whole world, even I can see you're bloody gorgeous."

I smile at her affectionately, and a warm feeling pools in my stomach. "I know, but I can't imagine he'd be staying. Besides, I get the feeling he's used to suave, sophisticated men, not hot blonde messes who trip over their own shoelaces half the time."

"You listen to me, Ellis Sparks," she says in a firm tone that reminds me of my mum. "You're amazing and one day, the right man is going to come along and sweep you off your feet."

"I hope so." I sigh. "But right now I'd settle for someone who can give me a decent orgasm… in fact, at this point, I'd take even a half-decent one."

"The bar seems to be set extremely low." Rosie shakes her head again. "We've been so caught up in trying to save the hotel we've forgotten we need to have lives too. Maybe once the snow melts, we should have a night out in Leeds or something."

"We can't afford that," I remind her. "Or have you forgotten that the hotel isn't making enough right now to pay our wages? Besides, I have a feeling it will be awhile before the snow thaws out. They're forecasting another heavy snowfall later today."

She shrugs. "We'll figure something out." She turns towards the door and lets out an abrupt shriek, stumbling back and grasping her chest as she breathes heavily, her eyes wide.

Standing in front of us both is a woman who is everything you would expect a ghost to be. Unlike Bertie and Roger, who appear in colour and almost so solid you'd think you could reach out and touch them, this woman is in shades of grey, like an old black-and-white film. Which makes perfect sense seeing as I recognise this particular deceased member of the household. Although I've only seen her once before, I know her name is Leona Falberg-Black and she was a silent film star back in the thirties.

Well, a wannabe film star; she didn't exactly make it very far. Her lover, one of the Ashton-Drakes, almost bankrupted himself setting up a makeshift studio in the ballroom. He intended to launch his very own film studio with Leona as the star despite the fact she couldn't act to save her life (pun intended), according to Bertie. However, that particular Ashton-Drake not only cut costs but also corners, especially with safety, and Leona was crushed to death when a stage light fell on her while filming the first scene of her first film.

"Oh my god, they just keep popping out of the woodwork, don't they?" Rosie says, her eyes wide as she stares at the dead woman. "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to it."

"It's only been a few weeks. Give it some time," I tell her soothingly.

"I can't believe how okay you are with the fact that the hotel is now flooded with spirits."

"Are you kidding?" I grin. "This is epic!"

We turn back to Leona. She's wearing a short black-fringed dress, and a long string of pearls is looped around her neck. Her dark glossy hair is cut short and sculpted against her skull in perfect waves. In fact, she looks like the human version of Betty Boop.

She makes a dramatic series of gestures as Rosie and I watch her, utterly bemused.

"What's she doing?" Rosie whispers.

"Uh, I don't think she talks," I reply as Leona makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, then mimes writing something, followed by a strange, almost militant march, and finally finishes up with a throwing motion.

"It's like a really messed-up game of charades," Rosie mutters. "Did you understand any of that?"

"No." I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're trying to say," I tell Leona in a loud tone as if she can't hear me.

She scowls at me and stomps her foot in temper before disappearing as quickly as she arrived.

"I cannot believe how weird our lives are right now." Rosie sulks. "Ignoring the fact that she's a ghost, which is just crazy to begin with, why can't she just talk to us like the rest of them do? I mean, what's with all the hand-waving and over-the-top facial expressions? And by the way, just how thin are her pencilled-on eyebrows?"

"I think it's a throwback to when she was alive," I guess. "The gestures I mean, not the eyebrows. She was a silent movie star. Back then, they didn't have real scripts and had to mime everything."

Rosie closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly.

"Come on." I take her hand and tug her towards the door. "Let's go pack away the Christmas decorations, then we'll see if we can talk Aggie into making us her toffee cookies."

"Fine." Rosie pouts. "But they better be a really big cookies."

I laugh and reach for the door handle but as I open it, we both jolt in shock to find Bertie and Roger on the other side, crouched over as if they'd been listening at the door.

"For fuck's sake," Rosie bursts out, and I look over at my bestie. She doesn't usually swear, but I can see the change in spectral circumstances really seems to be getting to her. "Do we need to put a bloody bell on all of you? How is it we can go for ten long, peaceful years and then all of a sudden the whole place is crawling with ghosts?"

"We do not crawl," Bertie scoffs as they both straighten up.

"What are you doing?" I ask curiously.

"We were just–oomph." Roger wheezes and doubles over as Bertie elbows him in the ribs.

"Nothing." She gives a brusque huff and looks behind her, as if to check someone wasn't sneaking up on her. "Just out for a morning constitutional and thought we'd stop by to see if you've come up with any ideas to save the hotel yet."

"Since I saw you an hour ago?" I reply, my brows rising. "Even I don't work that fast, Bertie. You're going to have to give me a little more grace than that."

"Of course, of course," she says and looks around again in an almost nervous way.

"Are you alright?" I ask. "You seem, I don't know. Distracted?"

"Oh, no. Fine, fine, it's all fine." She looks to Roger.

"Fine." He nods.

"Uh-huh," I reply.

"Yes, well, we should be going. Unless you want to tell us what Morgan's doing back in the old family fold?" Bertie asks.

"You know Morgan?" My stomach jolts a little at the mention of our newest guest's name.

"Of course I do." Bertie frowns. "He is my great-great-nephew, after all. Although I haven't seen the lad since he was a nipper."

"Is that definitely him though?" Rosie pipes up. "I mean, how do you know for sure?"

"He's the image of his father, Elliott. A little older maybe. After all, Elliott was only twenty-nine when he died. Morgan must be…" Bertie shrugs. "I don't know. Forty-ish, maybe? Don't pay much attention to time these days."

"He is a dish though, isn't he?" Roger smirks, staring at me like he's gauging my reaction. I try not to blush, but I can feel my cheeks warming. "That's what I thought," he says smugly. "Can't say I blame you, darling. If I still had a pulse, I'd be climbing that man quicker than a monkey up a tree."

"Oh, I…uh."

"Yes, well, we should be going," Bertie says hurriedly as she glances over her shoulder. "Things to do and all that."

The pair of them wink out and Rosie and I are once again left on our own. Frowning, I turn towards her. "Is it just me, or did they look like they're up to something?"