Chapter 6

6

I slump back against the wall outside Morgan's room and resist the urge to fan my warm face. But before I can mentally replay the incredibly tempting image of a naked Morgan Ashton-Drake, I hear a quiet, childish laugh.

Glancing down the corridor, I see a small boy about ten years old. He has a sweet, mischievous face and a naughty smile, and is dressed in rather old-fashioned clothing: grey knee-length shorts, a white shirt, a pullover, and a jacket.

His name is Arthur. I haven't interacted with him much, but I know for a fact that—like most nine-year-old boys—Arthur, having rattled around the house for the past eight or nine decades, gets bored easily. I have this on good authority from my new friend, Tristan, who was a guest here during the murder mystery and just so happens to be a medium… kind of. Anyway, he told me that Arthur has a habit of moving the furniture around when the guests aren't looking to alleviate said boredom. He's also a nightmare for hiding things.

He died in 1942 from what I've been told by Bertie, who's a fountain of knowledge regarding the house, its history, and, more importantly, its entire list of resident spectres and spirits. Arthur had been evacuated to the house during the war but died of diphtheria before it was safe for him to return to London.

I smile and give him a small wave. He grins in return and disappears straight into one of the walls. It doesn't give me so much as a jolt, and I wonder why that is. Instead, I find it… well, thrilling, but I also get a strange sort of comfort knowing that death isn't the end. That life goes on, just in a different form.

Morgan's door opens and I straighten as he strides out. He's put on a perfectly tailored suit and I can't stop the appreciative slide of my gaze as I take in his long legs, firm-looking thighs, tapered waist, and broad shoulders. As my eyes reach his chiselled jaw and firm lips, I resist the urge to sigh. It's like someone just plucked him straight out of my most private fantasies.

His dark hair is combed neatly, a couple of streaks of silver at his temples. Heat rushes across my skin as I meet his dark eyes, and he quirks one of those thick brows.

Oops .

I'm going to have to get this crush of mine under control. I can't keep eye-fucking him every time I see him looking scrummy and delicious. Which, to be fair, is every time I see him. I want to climb him like a tree, possibly licking every inch of him while I'm at it.

Maybe Rosie's right, maybe I do need to get out. I can't even remember the last time I had sex, but then again, the hotel takes up nearly all of my time and energy. The last guy I even attempted to date got tired of me never being available to pander to his needs twenty-four seven. The one before wasn't much better, and neither was the one before that.

Hmm, maybe I just have really bad taste in men. I always ended up with confident, emotionally unavailable, selfish, bossy types with narcissistic tendencies. They seemed to think that just because I have blonde hair, blue eyes, and leak sunshine from every pore—as one guy put it—that I must be brainless as well. Every one of them expected me to cater to their needs, to change my life to suit their schedules. Hang off their arms, laugh at their jokes, and present my arse whenever the mood struck them .

As a result, I've stuck to hookups only for the past few years, just enough to scratch an itch, and even that hasn't happened very often. There's just not that much of an active social life in a mostly empty hotel skirting the Yorkshire moors.

I stare at Morgan and feel my heart start to dance a fandango, complete with castanets and everything. He's so bloody tempting. I'd suggest a hookup while he's here but that'd be wrong; he's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson, after all. It'd be too messy. I love Mr Ashton-Drake like he's my own family, and there's no way I'm going to complicate his relationship with his grandson, especially after years of the older man not seeing him.

"You look very smart." I smile easily at Morgan and take a small, self-preserving step back. If I have to inhale any more of his gorgeous aftershave, I may just bury my face in his neck and sniff him like a horny puppy. In fact, I may not be able to draw the line at humping his leg either.

Shit. I really do need to get out and get laid.

Morgan grunts quietly, his brows drawing down as he smooths the front of his jacket. It's a little formal for meeting family, but then again, I don't really know him. Maybe he's just not a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy.

I tilt my head slightly and consider him. He looks a little nervous. Mum always said I was good at reading people. It comes from being a total people pleaser, often to my own detriment. To almost anyone else, Morgan Ashton-Drake would appear a confident, sexy man. He has a commanding presence that I noticed straightaway, but I imagine he's someone who gets his own way more often than not. He's fascinating to watch, emotions flitting across his face in a fleeting kaleidoscope before settling into a scowl. It looks like he's having some kind of internal argument with himself, but as I examine closer, I realise there's something else going on too—a tiny hint of vulnerability that makes me want to wrap him up in my arms and comfort him.

Judging from the glower he's now sporting, he's probably not a hugger.

Giving him my best customer service smile, I resist the ridiculous urge to reach out and squeeze his hand in support.

"Well," I say cheerily, "let's not keep your grandfather waiting. He's very excited to see you."

Morgan's scowl deepens. "He is?"

I nod emphatically. "So, how are you enjoying England so far?" I ask as we begin walking. "Have you been before?"

"Technically, I was born here," he says gruffly. "But no, I don't visit often. If I do, it's only to deal with one of our hotels in either Edinburgh or London."

"Hotels?" I reply as my stomach jolts in excitement. "You run hotels?"

"My family does," he replies. "My stepfather built an entire brand of luxury hotels, which my brother and I now run."

"Has your stepfather retired?"

Morgan's lips tighten. "He passed away. Last year."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, again fighting that urge to squeeze his hand to comfort him.

"Have you worked here long?" He changes the subject abruptly as he eyes the fading wallpaper.

"Yes, I've spent most of my life here," I reply. "My mum used to be a maid here when I was little. We didn't have anywhere to live, so Mr Ashton-Drake let us stay here up on the fifth floor. I used to lie on the carpets in the hallways playing with my toys or doing my homework. The guests were always really nice. When I turned sixteen, Mum got another job and moved to Leeds. I wanted to stay, so I started working here and I've been here ever since."

"You lived here? What about the rest of your family?"

"It's always just been me and Mum." I shrug. "I never knew my dad. Neither did my mum, really," I chuckle. "I was conceived in a field in the pouring rain at a music festival while Oasis was playing."

He turns to stare at me. "Is that true?"

I nod again. "Yep." I laugh as we begin to climb the stairs to the next floor.

"Where are we going?" Morgan asks. "I'd have thought we'd meet in the restaurant or the bar, maybe the study? Doesn't my grandfather have an office?"

"An office?" I laugh, trying to picture Mr Ashton-Drake in a stuffy office. "No, he'd hate that."

"Then how does he run the hotel efficiently?"

I shrug. "He just tells us what he wants us to do and we do it. To be honest, most of the time he just leaves us to it. He doesn't want to run the hotel day-to-day. After all, that's what a manager is for. The only problem is that we can't seem to keep managers. I think Mr Eldritch was the one who lasted the longest."

"And how long was that?"

"Three months and twenty-two days," I muse. "Mr Jackson was the shortest—he only lasted thirty-eight."

"Thirty-eight days?" he says in surprise.

"Minutes."

He stops dead and stares at me. "Seriously?"

I shrug again. "For some reason, people don't seem to warm to this place, but honestly, Ashton House is the best place in the whole world."

"I think your world view may be slightly lacking, because this is most definitely not the best place in the whole world," Morgan replies, his tone dry.

"You just need to give it time to grow on you."

"Like a fungus," he mutters.

"It's in your blood."

"I sincerely hope not." He once again begins climbing the steep stairs. "Where did you say we were going?"

"To the family apartments. They were created when the house was renovated into a hotel back in the early eighties. The family rooms take up nearly an entire wing, but to be honest, Mr Ashton-Drake only uses two of them. The rest we close up to save on the heating bills. Aggie and Dilys have rooms on the ground floor. John the Maid, Rosie, and I have rooms up on the fifth floor in the old servants' quarters."

"Five live-in staff members?" He glances sideways at me when we reach the top floor. "Please tell me you have more staff than that though."

"Not at the moment, no," I answer as I lead him down a narrow corridor.

"So, let me get this straight." His brow wrinkles. "You have no manager, only five people on staff, and no guests."

"Well, we technically have one guest at the moment. Mr Pennington. He's a writer."

"How is this place still open?" he asks in confusion. "Surely it's not making enough money to pay for the–"

"Here we are," I announce as we reach Mr Ashton-Drake's door.

I stare at the unassuming wooden door in front of me. It has no numbers, unlike the doors we passed on the other levels. Instead, there's only a little brass plaque polished to a high shine and bearing only one word.

Private .

I swallow hard and fist my hands at my side. My collar feels too tight, like my tie is attempting to strangle me. I chose this suit carefully; it's one of my favourites and has always made me feel confident and in control like my own personal armour.

Warren was right—although I'll never admit it to him. I did have to earn my place in our family business, even if not in the family. I wasn't biologically related to Royce Hamilton, a fact the press never let me forget. My every move was scrutinised in a way that Warren never was.

My stepfather came from old money that went right back to the Gold Rush. His marriage to my mother was treated like a Cinderella story by the press: the poor, young, beautiful, grieving widow falling in love with a third-generation hotel magnate, their perfect son born barely a year after the wedding of the year.

It's true that Royce never treated me any different from Warren. He loved us both and made sure I knew it. When he passed away, he left us equal shares in his hotel empire, but no matter how hard I work, I still don't feel like I've earned it. I've spent my whole life under a microscope, always aware that my behaviour had to be above reproach—no partying at college, no affairs, no scandals. I knew the slightest hint of impropriety would bring the full scrutiny of the press down on me again. Things had only just died down since my stepfather's passing. Once everyone knew about my inheritance, they'd dragged everything back up again—my biological father's death, my mother's marriage to Royce, the fact that I was not his son.

Somehow, it always boiled down to that.

He was a good man, a good father, and he loved my mother, as shallow as she could sometimes be. I even love my brother, even though we're technically only half-siblings. I never resented Warren. I've adored him from the first moment he was placed into my arms, arms that at the time were barely big enough to hold a squirmy red-faced baby.

I never minded that I wasn't Royce's biological son, but somehow, that is always the yardstick by which I'm measured. The press has constantly tried to build up animosity and competition between Warren and me.

Frankly, it's exhausting. I'm sick to death of continuously being judged. I swallow again as I stare at my grandfather's door.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Why did I think it was a good idea to put myself in a position where my only remaining blood family could once again reject me? After my mother took me to New York, I never heard from him again. Not so much as a birthday card or a single phone call. I don't remember this man at all, and it's clear he doesn't care about me.

I should never have let Warren talk me into this trip. It was a stupid idea, but before I can even consider turning around and heading straight back to my room, Ellis reaches up and knocks on the door.

He waits a few moments, then opens the door and pokes his head around. "Mr Ashton-Drake, it's just us." He opens the door wider and steps inside.

I stand frozen, unsure what to do. We haven't actually been invited in and I'm not sure I feel completely comfortable just–

I don't have time to finish that thought because Ellis grabs my arm and tows me inside. Caught off guard, I stumble into the room and nearly trip over my own feet. I find myself standing in… a sitting room, I suppose you'd call it. There's an upright piano pushed against one wall, the lid covered in framed pictures. The walls are papered in a faded rose print, with more pictures mounted everywhere. Tucked in one corner is a worn armchair with matching footstool and next to it is a side table stacked high with magazines. A low coffee table is close by, and a tea tray on it contains an empty cup, a plate holding a few crumbs, and a teapot.

There are a couple more old sofas covered with crocheted blankets and frayed cushions, and a TV cabinet stands in the corner directly opposite the armchair. It's the type I'd expect to see in a museum—small and boxy and built directly into the cabinet. It even has buttons and dials on it. Like the computer at the front desk, I wonder if it even works at all.

The room is silent except for the sound of our quiet breaths and the monotonous ticking of a small golden carriage clock sitting on the mantle above a fireplace.

I blink as I stare at it. It's a real fireplace, complete with crackling flames and the vague scent of smoke, as opposed to an LED screen with the image of a cheerfully snapping fire.

It also appears that Ellis and I are completely alone. My grandfather is nowhere in sight.

"I thought you said he was expecting me?" My tone is more accusing than I intended.

"He is," Ellis says simply. "Don't worry, he won't have gone far. He doesn't ever leave his rooms."

Before I can begin to unpack that sentence, Ellis calls my grandfather's name loudly, and a door on the far side of the room creaks open. I have just enough time to register a mop of wild white hair before the door slams shut.

"Hey, Mr Ashton-Drake," Ellis calls in that cheery way of his. "I brought you a guest, remember? Your grandson Morgan has come to visit. Isn't that lovely?"

I just about hear a grunt come from the other side of the door. Ellis practically skips across the room whereas I shuffle along in his wake like I'm being led to the gallows.

"I think he's feeling a little shy." Ellis sends me an apologetic smile, then gives a polite little tap at the door. "Mr Ashton-Drake, wouldn't you like to come out and say hello? Morgan has come all the way from America to see you."

"Then he can ruddy well go back there. Bloody Yanks," says the gruff voice on the other side.

"Mr Ashton-Drake." Ellis fists his hands on his hips as he firmly admonishes the closed door. "That's really very rude."

There's another huff from the other side and the door creaks open a fraction, revealing a wrinkly face with dark brown eyes, wiry white eyebrows that match the mop of hair, and a glower I see every time I look in the mirror. He then glances over at Ellis.

"Sorry," he mumbles contritely, and I'm surprised at the dynamic between them.

Given that the formal way Ellis refers to my grandfather as Mr Ashton-Drake, I'd assumed they had a professional but distant employer-employee relationship. But I'm sure I'm not imagining the way his eyes soften with affection when he looks at Ellis.

Affection that disappears the moment his eyes lock on me. His jaw juts out stubbornly and those dark eyes narrow. "You came back, then."

"I–"

Whatever I was going to say trails away as the door opens further and he shuffles out. My gaze drops past the checked shirt and buttoned-up sweater vest he's wearing to his very bare legs. I blink slowly, sure this is an hallucination brought on by stress and jet lag, because he's only wearing a pair of white briefs. Well, I say briefs, but they're huge. His shirt is tucked into the waistband of them, which practically goes all the way up to his armpits, and they fit a bit saggy and have a Y seam in front, although I'm trying really hard not to look at that. His skinny legs are smooth, other than a few tufts of white hair, and he has very knobby knees. On his feet are red tartan slippers and grey socks pulled up to the middle of his calves.

"Where are your pants?" I blurt out in shock.

His scowl deepens. "Right here." He snaps the waistband.

"He means your trousers, Mr Ashton-Drake," Ellis supplies helpfully. "The Americans call them pants."

"I know what he means," my grandfather grumbles and shuffles across the floor towards his piano. "My balls needed some air, damn trousers were too tight."

My brows rise so high I wouldn't be surprised to discover they'd disappeared into my hairline.

"I thought you said he'd be happy to see me?" I whisper harshly.

"That is his happy face," Ellis replies.

"What do you want?" my grandfather says as he settles himself on the piano stool and lifts the lid.

"I… uh." I take a step closer to him as I try to figure out what I want to say, but my mind is completely blank.

He starts playing a piece I'm not familiar with, which isn't surprising since I'm not really into classical music. Classic rock, maybe. But despite my lack of knowledge, I'm grudgingly impressed at the level he plays. His gnarled fingers fly over the keys, producing a mournful, melancholy melody.

"Oh dear," Ellis murmurs and then sighs, seemingly recognising the music. "He's in one of those moods."

"If he's got nothing to say, take him away," my grandfather orders without so much as glancing in our direction. "I've got better things to do with my time than watch him stand there and gawp at me like a fish."

"Now just wait a minute." My temper snaps, and I step closer to him. "I've travelled thousands of miles to be here. The least you can do is have a civil conversation with me."

He abruptly stops playing and slams the lid of the piano closed. The sound ricochets across the room like a gunshot. He turns his head to glare at me.

"No one asked you to," he snaps back, mirroring my tone. "So why don't you go back to wherever it is you've been for the last thirty-something years?"

"Now, just a minute," I reply hotly.

"No, I'm tired. Go away," he says stubbornly and shuffles back across the room, disappearing through the doorway before I can utter another word.

I flinch as the door slams loudly, then grit my teeth. Lifting my hand to pinch the bridge of my nose, I try to wrestle my temper back under control.

"Well, that could've gone better."