Page 16 of Christmas Spirit
Roland strode over to the sofa, the rest of the words dying in his throat as he peered down. Georgie was fast asleep. Roland reached out to shake him awake, but Georgie sighed again, and muttered something incomprehensible, and Roland’s hand stilled before it fell back to his side.
The room was lit only from the soft light of table lamps and the flicker of the fire. Shadows shifted over Georgie, and all Roland could do was stare down at the boy.
Pink and pouty lips billowed out with each regular soft breath. Dark stubble was breaking through his pale skin, as dark as Georgie’s messy, mussed hair that, in the flickering firelight, was as deep and glossy as a winter raven’s inky feathers. Long, thick lashes formed crescent moons on the shadowed, bruised looking skin under his eyes.
God, but he looks tired… How hadn’t he noticed that earlier? But Roland knew the answer. He’d been concerned only with his own screwed up plans and his resentment at having his kitchen boy forced into his company.
A bubble of contrition broke in the pit of Roland’s stomach. The kitchen boy. The lowest rung of the ladder. The one who was at everybody’s beck and call, castigated by all and thanked by none. Yes, he had been hard on Georgie, but he was hard on everybody, and was hardest of all on himself. It was because he expected the best, and would settle for nothing less. But he had been especially tough on the boy, from his very first day, when he had no reason other than the one he kept buried deep in a cold, dark place inside of him.
A log shifted in the grate, hissing and spitting bright red sparks. Georgie jerked and his eyes snapped open, eyes that were huge and sleep fogged as he blinked up at Roland.
“I went right out. More tired than I realised.”
Georgie yawned. His plump lips stretched wide, and Roland’s balls tightened, as his dream, a dream that had felt so real, burst into life in rainbow-bright glory in his head.
“Did you use the landline?” he rasped.
“No,” Georgie said, sitting up, and tilting his face up to Roland. “Nicholas said it’s out of order, due to the weather. I was going to call for a cab in the morning, but with the line down… So, I asked him about having one of the hotel staff take me to the station in the morning.”
“I said I’d take you.”
Georgie looked away, and stared into the fire, drumming his fingers on his knees.
“I know you did, but I reckon you’ve gone beyond the call of duty. I don’t suppose we can be a million miles from town, and you’ve got a home to go to, so it’d be for the best if I can wangle a lift from somebody here. Nicholas said he’dmake enquiries.” Georgie air quoted the words. “Who of, though, I’m not sure. There’s neither hide nor hair of anybody else here, staff nor guests. Do you think he runs the place single handedly?”
“I doubt it. The clientele are no doubt elderly, and elderly guests tend to keep to their rooms.”
“I guess so.”
Some did, but not all. Roland didn’t believe his words, as much as he guessed Georgie didn’t. No noise, no chatter, no movement. None of those abandoned newspapers and magazines, or empty tea and coffee cups…
“As for trying to get a lift, I intend to leave early so I’ll take you to the station. I said I would, and I’ve no intention of going back on my word. So, forget about trying to make alternative arrangements.”
And no, I don’t have a home to go to. I have a house, but it’s not a home…
“Thank you,” Georgie said, his mouth twisting into a lopsided smile. “Don’t know why you’re so determined to be stuck with me, but thanks.” Georgie pushed himself up and stretched, revealing a band of taut, pale skin above the waistline of his jeans. Roland looked away, and cleared his dry, rough throat.
“What’s that over there?” Georgie nodded to the corner of the room. Roland followed his gaze to an ornate and old-fashioned drinks trolley. On top sat an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a note propped up against the bucket.
“That wasn’t there when I came in. Or I don’t think it was.”
“Then somebody must have brought it in when you were asleep,” Roland said uncertainly. He hadn’t noticed it when he came into the room, but he must have missed it, that was all. He walked over to the trolley and picked up the note.
“‘To Mr. Fletcher Jones and Mr. Forrester, with compliments of the season,’” he read aloud.
Roland turned the little card over. There was nothing else. No hotel name printed on the back, no website address, no telephone number, no clue as to what the place was called, or where they were. He picked up the bottle and inspected the front label, his brows lifting. It was an excellent vintage, and one they served at the Manor, when they could get it.
“With compliments. So, you think it’s free?” Georgie asked, appearing at Roland’s shoulder and looking over at the note Roland still held in his hand.
“I doubt it very much.” Roland smirked.
“Oh… I suppose not. It’ll be pricey, this being a hotel. What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m opening it,” Roland said, removing the gold foil. He didn’t give a damn how much it cost. If there was a day when he deserved a drink, this was it. “You’ll join me? Drinking alone isn’t a good idea.” He twisted off the cage with more force than he’d meant. Drinking alone. He’d done enough of that over the years. It would make a change to have company for once.
Even if it was his kitchen boy.
“I won’t have any. Might get to like it, which wouldn’t be such a good idea, as it’d be the first and probably last time I’d get to taste champagne.” Georgie shrugged and wandered over towards the window.
