Chapter 9

9

I really have no intention of going down to the dining room and eating stew and dumplings with a bunch of strangers. Not that there'll be many strangers; this place is almost empty except for the one guest and a few members of staff.

My stomach tries to have some input, growling loudly at the thought of a meal, but I'm not in the mood. I'm still pissed I'm even here in the first place, unhappy with the way my grandfather acted like I was dragged in on the bottom of Ellis' shoe, frustrated at the snow and lack of anything remotely resembling a contingency plan for adverse weather conditions, and annoyed that I'm going to be stuck here in this old British relic which is falling apart at the seams and is probably in imminent danger of closure.

There's only been one tiny spark of brightness, and that would be the cute blonde with an ass I'd like to feast on for days. Too bad he's off-limits. I get the feeling he'd be an immensely satisfying way to pass the time while snowed in. But given his sweet disposition and his obvious friendship with my grandfather, it would be a bad, bad idea to hook up with him. I'm not even going to think about how much younger than me he is.

No, I'm going to sit in this room until the snow melts enough for me to get on the next flight out of this miserable country. No snow ploughs. Seriously? What country doesn't account for snow in the winter, particularly in the northern parts? I mean, do they not have forecasts? It's not difficult to plan accordingly.

My stomach growls loudly once more.

I am not going downstairs. I do not want to see Ellis again and have him smile at me. I keep telling myself that even as I leave my room, pocketing the old-fashioned room key.

I've always been a bit of a moody bastard, or at least that's what Warren takes great delight in telling me. My brother is charming and boyishly good-looking, and has most people eating out of the palm of his hand within twenty minutes of meeting him. I've always found it much harder. It's not that I have a chip on my shoulder per se, but I was always uncomfortably aware of trying to find where I fit in. Making friends doesn't come easily for me.

It doesn't help that I'm a bit of a perfectionist, especially when it comes to my professional life. I don't like to form attachments and have never really had the urge for a committed relationship. I'm too busy, too set in my ways. When I have an itch that needs scratching, I hit up Grindr, not that I can do that here, and I'm not going to lie, an orgasm or two would go a long way towards easing the tension currently making my shoulders ache in its iron-like grip. However, the distinct lack of options means a little self-relief is probably in my cards somewhere.

My thoughts drift back to Ellis again, and I immediately shut them down. No . I am not going to start down that slippery path. Off-limits, I tell myself firmly. Even if he is prettier than anyone I've ever seen, with those big blue eyes, cherubic blonde curls, and soft, pillowy lips.

I'm only fixating on him because of the limited options. Probably. Maybe. Okay, it's because he's the only person who's piqued my interest in god knows how long. Doesn't mean it's a good idea, and he's most likely not going to be interested in someone as prickly and hard to please as me anyway.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Shaking my head, I follow the staircase down past the various empty floors, but just as I reach the short flight of stairs that leads to the foyer, I stop and jolt in shock. There's a body sprawled out at an unnatural angle on the floor at the foot of the steps.

What the fuck? Is this place murder central? And is it so common now that they just leave dead bodies lying about the place for guests to trip over? I hurry down the steps and kneel beside the man. He doesn't have any obvious injuries, so mostly likely internal. I reach out to press my fingers to his neck in order to search for a pulse, but as my fingertips skim his skin, his eyes open and he gives a loud cry of surprise, jerking up into a sitting position.

I topple back and fall on my ass, my eyes wide and my heart pounding, having not expected an animated corpse.

What the hell is it with this place?

"Oh, so sorry," the man says, his tone polite. "You startled me."

"I startled you?" I snap. "What on earth were you doing? Taking a nap at the foot of the stairs?"

"What?" He looks confused for a moment. "Oh, no." He scrambles to his feet and reaches out a hand to help me up. "I wasn't taking a nap."

I ignore his hand and push myself up, scowling at him. "What the hell were you doing, then?"

"Pretending I was dead." He says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I can see that," I say dryly. "Why?"

"Oh, I do beg your pardon." He gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm Alfred Pennington." He stares at me expectantly, as if the introduction alone should explain why he was lying at the foot of the main staircase in the foyer, imitating a corpse.

Seriously, what is it with this place?

"Morgan," I reply out of politeness as I give his offered hand a brief shake. I omit my surname, not really wanting random and possibly crazy strangers to know about my connection to this place.

We stare at each other in silence for several uncomfortable moments, then the smile slowly falls from his face, to be replaced with a confused frown.

"I'm a horror writer. Well, more of a hybrid writer. My novels are kind of cosy mystery meets horror." I continue to stare him. "Killer Plague Country Village?" he says as if I should know what he's talking about. "The Knitting Club Murders? High Tea at the Homicide Café?… The Deadly Vicar?" He trails off. "No?"

"These are… books?" I guess.

"Yes!" His smile widens once more. "I do have a somewhat modest following," he says coyly.

"And you were lying on the floor because…" I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

"Oh! Yes, I'm working on my new novel. It's going to be completely different from anything I've written before as I'm venturing rather daringly into the paranormal with a haunting ," he announces gleefully. "I've been giving a lot of thought to adapting my pen name. Make it look a bit bolder on the cover and maybe give a little degree of separation from my older novels. Let the readers know they're getting something new and exciting. I was thinking about using my initials. Alfred Stanford Sebastian Pennington. A.S.S Pennington."

"Ass Pennington?" I stare at him. "You're going to print Ass Pennington on your exciting new novel? Well, your readers will certainly be expecting something different."

"Argh, yes, I see what you mean." He gives a loud and slightly awkward chuckle. "Maybe not. Perhaps I'll just drop Sebastian, never liked it much anyway. A.S Pennington." He muses. "Anyway, in one of the chapters, a character is thrown down the stairs, and as they lay dying, they look up into the eyes of the killer, who happens to be the deceased former owner of the hotel…" He looks thoughtful.

"You don't say," I murmur.

"Possibly. It's still a bit of a work in progress. Anyway, I wanted to really get into the mindset of the character, so I thought, you know?—"

"That you'd pretend to be dead?"

He nods enthusiastically.

"And did it help?" I ask, although I'm not really sure why I'm encouraging the continuation of this ridiculous conversation.

"Oh, yes, very much so." He beams at me.

"So you're a guest here?" I ask. Again, I'm not really sure why. I stare at the strange guy with the garishly patterned pants in bright orange paired with a blue argyle knit sweater-vest over a pink checked shirt. Apart from the fact that the clashing colours and patterns are starting to hurt my eyes, there's a strange kind of surrealism to this whole encounter, and I'm beginning to wonder if it's not me who's prostrate at the foot of the stairs with a head injury, hallucinating this whole conversation.

"Yes, I'm a guest. I came for the murder mystery weekend, hoped it would fuel the old creative tanks."

"And did it?"

"It most certainly did," he exclaims with very obvious delight. "Not just the whole dead body slash was it a murder or was it not a murder, oh my gosh who's hidden the body debacle. No, I mean, that was obviously a huge shock, but then all the ghosts of the house appearing was just so thrilling. Terrifying, obviously." He waves a hand wildly. "But thrilling. I mean, how often is one invited to look beyond the veil of life and death? I knew then... Well, once I'd come around from passing out due to the shock, I knew that I needed to stay here, that I was destined to write the greatest works of my whole life within these walls," he says reverently. "This new novel will rival the likes of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol ." He stops and looks as if he's thinking hard. "Or maybe Beetlejuice . I haven't quite figured it out yet."

"Uh-huh." I narrow my eyes as I watch him, wondering if he's on some kind of medication or has a drinking problem. After all, ghosts aren't real. "Okaay," I say slowly. "Well, don't let me keep you."

"You're absolutely right, of course," he guffaws. "Must get back to the old grind. This masterpiece is not going to write itself."

"It certainly isn't," I mutter under my breath as he scurries back across the foyer and through an open doorway into another room, closing the door firmly behind him.

I shake my head and turn away from the staircase, wondering which direction the dining room is in when my elbow catches the suit of armour and the whole thing crashes to the ground.

The sound of all that metal hitting the flagstone and then skidding off in all directions is deafening. I wince and tense up as the helmet spins on the stone floor before finally slowing. I glance up, certain that everyone in the hotel must have heard the commotion and would come running, but there's nothing. Not one single person to witness my embarrassment.

After several long seconds, I breathe a sigh of relief. At least no one was around to witness my abject humiliation; after all, if there's one thing I hate, it's being the centre of attention. Reaching down to pick up the helmet, I pause, my hand outstretched, as the helmet begins to vibrate, dancing on the spot.

A scraping sound pulls my attention and as I turn to look, the chunks of polished metal that are spread far and wide across the lobby floor also begin to vibrate. I pull my hand back, standing up sharply as one piece of the armour slides across the stone, followed by another, then another. Stumbling back a step, my eyes widen as the pieces of metal lift off the floor and shoot across the room as if attracted by a giant invisible magnet. I watch in disbelief as the parts reassemble themselves, and I find myself once again staring at a pristine, complete suit of armour standing on its plinth.

"What the hell?" I mutter aloud. "How did they do that?"

They really must be taking this haunted hotel theme seriously. I have to admit, it's very impressive. The parts must be on wires or something. I step closer to the amour and study it closely, but for the life of me, I can't see how they pulled off such a convincing trick. Maybe it's some kind of magnets?

I kneel down on the floor to examine the base of the plinth. There must be something, some explanation. I lean in further and stick my head around the back of the armour, conveniently ignoring the fact that I probably look ridiculous on my knees in a thousand-dollar suit with my ass in the air, looking for some sort of concealed ropes or a pulley system.

"Morgan?"

I close my eyes as I recognise the voice behind me. So much for no one witnessing my embarrassing moment. Pulling back, I stand as gracefully as I can and dust the knees of my pants.

"Did you lose something?" Ellis asks.

"My good sense, apparently," I mutter. "My dignity seems to be MIA too."

Then he hits me with that goddamn smile of his, and I can't do anything but blink back at him. It's like staring at the sun for too long and makes me feel a little dizzy. What is it about him that sets the butterflies loose in my belly? Or maybe it's just that I'm hungry.

Right on cue, my stomach gives a very loud, very unattractive gurgle, and I close my eyes in mortification.

"Did you come down for dinner?" Ellis asks sweetly.

"I was looking for the dining room, but as I was coming downstairs, there was…" I glance back at the foot of the stairs and frown, deciding I don't really want to revisit the weird conversation I had with the Ass Pennington guy. Instead, I turn back to Ellis, who is watching me curiously. "You know what? Never mind. Yes, as you can probably tell, no matter how much I was intent on brooding in the privacy of my room, my stomach had other plans. Besides, I can't miss Maggie's stew and dumplings, right? I heard they were the best in England."

Ellis' smile widens even further if that's possible, and damn if it doesn't give me a weird warm feeling in my gut that I was the one that put it there.

"Aggie," he corrects me gently, "will be so pleased, and you won't regret it. She also makes a sticky toffee pudding to die for."

"God, I hope not. I would have thought you'd had enough of dead bodies around here."

Ellis lets out the sweetest laugh. "Careful, Morgan, or people might start to think you have a sense of humour buried underneath that scowl."

"I'll have you know I've worked very hard on the scowl. I practice in the mirror and everything." I'm not sure what I'm doing. I sure as hell have no business flirting with the pretty staff member, but when I'm rewarded with another soft laugh, I can't lie to myself. It fills me with… something. Something not unpleasant.

"Come on." Ellis nods towards the door behind him. "I'll show you to the dining room. I just have to pick something up from the bar first."

I follow along in his wake obediently like a baby duckling before I even realise what I'm doing. He just has this way about him, all warm and genuine, and it draws me in like a gravitational pull.

I shake my head. I'm sure it's just an undiscovered side effect of jet lag or something. I have no doubt I'll be back to my grouchy, cutting self tomorrow, but right now, I'm content to let him lead me along like a pied piper with a gorgeous smile and a sexy ass.

The doorway leads into a small bar area, and it's like I've stepped into a different time period. Out in the lobby, the hotel has an almost medieval feel to it, with flagstone floors, high ceilings with exposed beams, and fake candles mounted on heavy wagon wheel-shaped metal chandeliers. But in the bar, I find myself surrounded by geometric patterns with gilded edges, low, polished dark wood tables, and velvet-covered bucket chairs. It all has a very art deco feel to it, and something about that appeals to me, reminding me of all the architecture back home in New York.

All the furniture and fixtures are decorated in a theme of black, cream, gold, and teal, and I'm struck with the realisation that although everything is old and worn, it's scrupulously clean and well maintained. I'm coming to understand that despite this place's reputation for unfortunate incidents and accidental deaths, the building itself is well loved and cared for.

I pause and watch as Ellis ducks behind the bar. There's a clinking of glass and then he reemerges with several bottles of wine, both red and white, in his arms.

"Should I be worried you have a drinking problem?"

He chuckles. "No. A couple are to serve with dinner and the rest are for Aggie for cooking. She ran out earlier."

"Here, let me help you." I reach out and carefully take some from him, and once again try to ignore the warmth spreading in my chest when he smiles at me gratefully.

We head out of the bar the same way we came in, stepping back out into the foyer and crossing the large space to a door on the opposite side. He leads me into a fairly large dining room, and despite the size of it, it still manages to feel cosy and intimate. It's filled with round tables covered with pristine white linens and gleaming silverware. Small deco lamps light each table, casting a soft glow throughout the room, and Ella Fitzgerald's dulcet tones croon softly in the background.

Ellis leads me to a table by a large window. "This is the best table in the room." He nods towards the window, and although it's dark outside, I can see the fluffy white snowflakes falling, giving the room an even cosier feel. "During the day, it has the best view of the grounds, but there's just something so soothing about sitting quietly and watching the snow fall."

"Yeah," I mutter, standing there like an idiot, holding several bottles of wine and completely mesmerised by this beautiful man.

"Why don't you take a seat?" He takes the wine from me and I do as he suggests, sliding into the comfortably cushioned chair.

"I'll just drop these in the kitchen and be back shortly with the menu."

"There's no need." I shake my head. "I'll have the stew. After all, it comes so highly recommended."

Ellis gives me a shy smile and his cheeks go deliciously pink, making me wonder what other parts of his pale skin I could make flush that pretty colour.

"I'll be right back," he says again, and I watch as he turns and makes his way across the dining room to a set of double doors on the far side. I assume it leads to the kitchen and to Aggie, the cleaver-wielding small Scottish woman who apparently uses a lot of wine in her cooking.

I lean back in my comfortable chair and gaze out of the window, watching the fat flakes drift down languidly, and for the first time in months, I begin to relax.