Page 6 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

“There is no way I'm getting up again. Not after that.” I spoke into an unhygienic mouthful of carpet threads that was probably once a lush pile carpet, but no longer.

“Pity. I just located a wine cellar with the most stunning looking Beaujolais I’ve ever seen. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

A pregnant pause drew out into eternity while I groaned into the threads. “You need an answer, don’t you?” I managed to raise my eyes—just those—to stare at my unintentional holiday companion.

Or at least, his shoes.

My dusty castle-goer took his sweet time answering. Not that I was going anywhere. “Yes. Please.”

“In a better mood now you’ve milked the cow? Do you also need to have a release valve handled?”

He made a strangled sound I reciprocated as I levered against gravity and managed to win. My back creaked, and more sweat poured from my body. Fabric stuck to me in places no fabric should ever stick, but I made it. Cheering out loud as well as internally, I raised my arms over my head and let out a moan.

“That hurt.”

Dustman let out another strange sound. “When you’re ready.”

I glanced up to find the tall brown-haired, brown-suited man staring at me with a reddened face. “Are you alright? You resemble a Christmas bauble,” I informed him.

“I’m fine.” He coughed. “Do you need to shower? The hot water actually works.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” I tipped my head back and let gravity take hold until I starfished on the floor. “I’m staying right here. Just pour the goddam wine.”

“Do you always have such a potty mouth?” The blessed man took me at my word, producing a pair of wine glasses—crystal, no less—out of absolutely nowhere.

“Yes. Is that going to bother you all Christmas?”

“No.”

“Alright then. Also, why are you in my room?” I eyed him as he placed a glass full to the brim—that’s trust right there—in my trembling, sugared out hand, and closed my fingers gently around the crystal.

His touch wasn’t dry or crusty or dusty. His touch was warm and reminded me of nights in bed with a man?—

—who broke hearts wherever he went and whom I refused to think about this trip. Hands down.

I forced a smile, drawing my wine glass back and tipped it up, draining its contents. About halfway down, my brain recognized it wasn’t a great plan and this was not, in fact, a prime Beaujolais as advertised. Too committed to back out, I slugged the contents as originally intended, holding Dustman’s too-heated gaze over the rim of the crystal the entire time.

My grace lasted until the last drop hit the back of my tongue. Then?—

“That was port. You damn liar.”

He grinned smugly. “Port whiskey, actually. Forty years, on the bottle. And that was for upsetting my placid cow.”

“You got me back for the cow?” I raised my eyebrows, impressed at both his vengeance plan and my ability to still feel my face.

“Yes, ma’am.” He watched me carefully. “Are you going to puke?”

“I will not.” I swallowed, tasting that truth and shook my head as the ground swam a little. “Food is probably required. It’s been a good…dozen hours?”

“I have snacks.” He nodded decisively and dashed through a wall.

No, wait–

Not a wall, a sliceinthe wall that allowed him to slide between two stone sections like a ghost. A nearby—also threadbare—tapestry waffled against the wall to complete the effect.

I have a Dustman ghost.

Somehow, the concept that I wasn’t alone in the enormous, stark castle left me feeling as warm as when his hands folded around mine.

---