Page 13 of Christmas Spirit
No, he wouldn’t try again later, because who would he call? Who would be expecting to hear from him or would want to hear from him?
Roland looked up and caught Georgie’s eye.
“No signal,” Roland said. “Perhaps you should use the landline, ask Nicholas if you can call whoever’s expecting you in London. You should let them know you won’t be back home tonight.”
Georgie didn’t answer.
“Won’t your parents—?”
“I’m not spending Christmas with them.”
Roland jerked back as Georgie jumped from his seat, his sudden, abrupt movement knocking the trolley hard, sending the now empty cake stand crashing into pieces on the floor.
“Oh God. Sorry. I’ll clear up.” Georgie fell to the floor, and with head bowed, scrambled to clear the mess. “I’d better go down and tell Nicholas what I’ve done.” He deposited the broken pieces on the trolley. “Hope it’s not an antique or anything, because it looks kind of old.”
On his knees, Georgie looked up at Roland and gave a small smile, pushing his raven-dark hair out from his eyes. In the flickering light from the fire, its sheen was almost iridescent. And so soft looking.
How would it feel to…?
No.
“If it is, and you have to pay for it, that’s on you.”
Roland leaped up, darted around Georgie, and with his back to him, wrenched open the zip on his bag, tugging out his toiletries and a change of clothes. He closed his eyes for a second, and inhaled a deep breath before he released it on a long, slow, shaky exhale. Why was he thinking like this? He was the Executive Chef and Georgie was the kitchen boy, for Christ’s sake. There was a strict hierarchy in any professional kitchen, and he was not about to breach it.
Because he’d learnt the hard way what happened when he did.
Chapter Eight
Georgie made his way downstairs. With every step he took, the tread creaked under his weight.
He’d never been in a hotel like this before, not that he’d been in too many, and certainly not as a guest. With the log fires and dark wood, the place reminded him of something out of a fairy tale. Georgie snorted. It was just a shame he was with the ogre rather than Prince Charming. But perhaps that was a little unfair. Roland was a dick, but he’d made it plain he was going to stump up for the hotel, which kind of made him a generous dick, he supposed. Georgie laughed. He really shouldn’t be thinking about the man’sgenerous dick.His laughter died away.
Resentment and relief tussled within him. He’d paid his own way in life for as long as he could remember and being beholden to anybody, let alone Roland, didn’t sit well with him. Yet the stark truth was that he would never be able to afford to stay in a place like this, even half would be unaffordable. Much as it went against the grain, he had no option but to accept Roland’s offer.
Georgie reached the bottom of the creaky, wooden stairs, and looked out over the entrance hall, silent save for the ticking of an old-looking ornamental clock and a crackling fire, both of them larger versions of those in the bedroom. Georgie groaned.
The bedroom. With one, huge bed. That looked soft and comfortable and perfect. A bed he wouldn’t be sleeping in, a bed he would not be sleeping in with Roland Fletcher Jones. Georgie smirked. He bet Roland had silk pyjamas. Georgie didn’t have silk anything, he didn’t have pyjamas of any description because he always slept in the nude.
“Better not do that tonight, I suppose,” he muttered under his breath. He’d wrap himself in some spare bedding, and catch a cab to the station first thing in the morning. Whatever Roland said about his promise to take him to the station, as far as Georgie was concerned the man had more than fulfilled his part of the agreement. Yes, he’d get a cab, but first he needed to order one.
“Hello,” Georgie called out as he approached the reception desk. “Hello, Nicholas?” he repeated, listening for footsteps or the sound of somebody in the room behind the reception.
He stood and listened, straining his ears, but all he could hear was the whoosh of blood flowing through his veins.
Where was everybody?
Georgie leaned across the desk to see if there was a phone underneath, but there was nothing, not even the old ledger Nicholas had brought out for Roland to sign. With a huff, he turned around. Now he was down here, he might as well explore.
A door next to the reception led into a lounge. Squishy looking chairs and couches littered the room but the focal point was another huge fireplace, its grate banked up with logs, and dancing with orange and white flames. Just as with the mantles over the other fireplaces, this one too was decked with winter greenery, but it was what stood to one side of the fireplace that brought a laugh to Georgie’s lips.
A fat, jolly, smiling Santa, dressed in a traditional red suit trimmed with white fur, big black boots, and on top of his head an oversized floppy Santa hat. Red-cheeked and blue-eyed, it reminded him of Nicholas, although the old man’s beard wasn’t nearly so full and bushy. Georgie edged in closer and bent forward to examine the Santa. It was made of plaster and looked old. Very old.
“Wow. So lifelike.”
Georgie reached out to touch and—snatched his arm away, stumbling back, catching his breath as his heart raced wild in his chest.
“Soddin’ hell.”
