Room 216 (The Scarlet Hotel #16)

Prologue

The Staff

Patrick didn’t mind working in housekeeping at The Scarlet Hotel.

His boss was fair, his coworkers were fun, and the work was slack enough that he had plenty of time to work on his romance-author side gig.

Whenever he wasn’t cleaning rooms—and sometimes when he should’ve been—he was writing.

He blamed all those rumpled sheets for stimulating his muse, as he imagined all the sexy things that might’ve gone on behind closed doors.

And Patrick had a very, very good imagination.

It helped that he had a sexy new husband at home to keep those creative juices flowing.

Alan was always up for a little experimentation when Patrick needed to know if a certain position was even physically possible.

Alan was an architect, which certainly helped with his spatial awareness. He was especially good with angles…

Last week, the hotel’s industrial washing machine broke down, which meant sending all the towels and sheets out to be washed while they waited for a part to be delivered.

It was a pain in the ass, but not unexpected when the machine was a relic of the Bronze Age.

And then yesterday, the dryer said, “Here, hold my beer. I’ll show you how it’s really done,” before it blew a rotor.

The hotel’s owner, Monsieur Holland, had gotten it repaired ASAP to avoid a second round of expensive third-party washing, but not before the mound of towels and sheets needing to be cleaned, dried, and folded had climbed to an epic proportion.

And now it was sometime after midnight, and Patrick was feeling a bit salty about drawing the short straw.

He could’ve been at home choking on his husband’s knot, but instead, he was the designated employee doing 27 loads of laundry overnight.

It should’ve been Stella’s job, as head of housekeeping, but quite honestly, she had that stern schoolmarm vibe about her, and Patrick was appropriately worried of having his knuckles rapped with a ruler if he even so much as considered talking back to her.

At least it paid overtime, and as a bonus, it left lots of time for writing between loads.

There was even some inspiration to be found in the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk of the washing machine.

At least it had until Conner appeared at the doorway to the laundry. “Hey, someone up on the third floor asked for fresh towels.”

It took Patrick a second to emerge from the scene he’d been writing about a plumber working to clear out some pipes.

He withdrew the pen he’d been chewing on from his mouth and glanced up at the clock.

“Now? It’s like 2am. He can’t wait until morning?

” His brain immediately supplemented a few ideas for why he might need more towels and what might need to be sopped up.

Conner just shrugged. “I guess not. I’m at the front desk by myself. Do you mind?”

Sighing, Patrick didn’t even bother to argue.

“Yeah, whatever. What’s the room number?

” He grabbed a stack of the freshly folded towels and headed for the elevator.

It was good to stretch his legs anyway. Maybe he would grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen on the way back to help wake himself up.

He still had a good two hours of work before he could call it a night, and if he fell asleep, it would only mean he’d be stuck here even longer.

The elevator gave a cheerful ding on the third floor.

All was silent at this time of night, the guests tucked up in their beds.

Even Patrick’s footsteps were muffled by the thick scarlet carpet lining the hall.

He tapped lightly on the door of room 320, and when the man in his 40s opened it wearing only a robe, Patrick smiled.

Were his suspicions correct? “Your towels, sir.” As he passed them over, he tried to peek around the man to see who else might be in the room with him, hoping for a glimpse of some kind of novel-worthy debauchery, but no such luck.

“Thanks,” the man said with a sigh. “I’ve got the worst hemorrhoids, and I thought a hot soak might help so I can sleep.”

Patrick’s teeth clicked as his jaw clenched tight in an effort to school his expression.

“Ah. Yes. That does sound… soothing. I’ll, um…

let you get to it then. Have a good night, sir.

Feel free to contact reception if you need anything else.

” He halfway expected to be sent up later with some Epsom salts.

On his way back to the elevator, though, the placid stillness of the slumbering hotel was interrupted by a low groan.

Patrick’s steps slowed, his lips slowly spreading into a lurid smile.

Ahhh, at least someone was having fun tonight.

The groan continued longer than it should’ve, though, almost like someone was in pain.

That… was not a sexy sound.

Patrick, concerned, waited a moment as the stillness returned.

He had just decided that it was safe to continue on his way when another groan sounded, deep and guttural, before it was choked off on a sob.

It was clearly coming from room 316, and Patrick paused in front of the door, raising his hand to knock.

Was this something that shouldn’t be interrupted?

Sometimes Alan wrenched a few sounds out of him that might’ve been worrisome to a bystander. Maybe this was none of his business.

But after the groan came whispered mutterings, something that sounded like pleas or prayers to a higher power that may or may not exist, Patrick wasn’t sure.

He took a deep breath and held it, eyes closed, and then brought his knuckles down against the wood in a solid knock.

His anxiety spiked. The guest might get pissed and report him to his boss, and how was he supposed to explain that he’d been eavesdropping in the hallway and heard a moan?

Nobody answered, though, and against his better judgment, Patrick leaned even closer and put his ear to the door. “Please…” he heard someone say. “Please… help me.”

“Shit,” Patrick cursed, fumbling for the clunky master key clipped onto his belt. It took three tries to get the brass key into the lock. He shoved through the door and was hit with a metallic scent of blood. Double shit. “Hello?” he called from the entryway. “I’m here to help. Can I come in?”

His overactive imagination painted all kinds of dramatic scenarios in his mind. Mafia drug deal gone wrong. A scorned lover hellbent on revenge. Sex swing accident. None of those images could’ve prepared him for what he found in the bathroom, though.

There was a young man in the shower stall, lying on his back, legs dangling out the door onto the white tile. His knees were splayed wide, thighs slick with blood, and his hands between them, seemingly trying to hold in a… a… “Holy shit, is that a head!?” Patrick squeaked.

“The baby…” the man panted, his face scrunched up in pain. “He’s not supposed to… It’s too early. Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure. I can…” He trailed off, totally unprepared for this kind of thing. This wasn’t in the housekeeping training manual, that was for sure. His brain was spinning in dizzying circles, searching for somewhere to land. He needed to call an ambulance, for starters, but then what?

His cell phone was in his locker where it was supposed to be, according to hotel policy, but he still patted his pockets as if it might’ve somehow reappeared.

“I-I’ll be right b-back,” he stuttered, then ran to the room phone.

Picking up the handset, he paced back and forth as far as the short cord would allow him.

Finally, Conner picked up downstairs. “Hi, this is Conner at reception. How can I—”

“It’s me!” Patrick interrupted.

“Patrick?” Conner sounded genuinely confused. “What are you--?”

“The baby’s coming! Call 911, we need a doctor!”

There was a stunned pause where they both waited for the other to fill the silence. “I didn’t know you were pregnant,” Conner said at last.

“Not me, you idiot! I’m an alpha! The man in 316 is in labor, and the baby is early. We need an ambulance.”

There was the distinct sound of Conner’s panic through the phone, but it was drowned out by the wail of pain echoing out of the bathroom.

“I have to go,” Patrick muttered as he went to hang up the phone, but he stopped at the last second when he heard Conner say, “There’s a doctor on the second floor, right below you! Room 216!”

Patrick couldn’t believe their luck. First, he ran back to the bathroom to offer a quick reassurance. “You’re gonna be okay, sir. The ambulance is on its way, and there’s a doctor in the hotel. I’m just gonna run downstairs and get him, and I’ll be right back. Okay?”

The man nodded, but his skin was too pale, hair plastered to his skin either with sweat or from the shower he’d obviously been trying to have.

The elevator would take too long, so Patrick took the stairs, three at a time and nearly breaking his neck in the process.

He burst out on the second-floor hallway, but before he could knock on the door of room 216, it opened and a man appeared.

He was sleep-rumpled, his t-shirt on inside out as he tugged on the hem, but he didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised that Patrick was there. “Upstairs?” he asked.

“Um… yes?”

“I heard,” he explained, pointing at the ceiling. “There’s no mistaking the sounds of labor.”

This alleged doctor calmly led the way up the stairwell and went straight to the room. He stepped into the bathroom like it was an operating room, washing his hands at the sink. “Hello, sir. My name is Doctor Zappek. What’s yours?”

Shit, why didn’t Patrick think to ask for the man’s name?

“Corey,” the guest panted through dry lips. “Please, my baby…”

“Don’t you worry for a second, Corey. Help is here.”

The first blush of dawn was just kissing the skyline when Dr. Zappek finally stepped back into the hotel lobby through the front door.

The ambulance had just pulled away from the curb, taking new-dad Corey and his baby to the hospital.

The doctor looked tired but relaxed, considering he just delivered a baby in a hotel bathroom.

His t-shirt was smeared with blood and other fluids Patrick refused to identify.

“That was…” Patrick began, approaching the doctor in awe.

“Gross?” Dr. Zappek offered, chuckling.

Patrick laughed too. “I was going to say heroic. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I was all set to panic, but you just delivered that baby like a boss.”

“Well, it is my job. Thank you for your help,” he said, offering his hand to Patrick to shake. “Your quick action got that man and his son the help they needed in time.”

A blush of pride warmed Patrick’s cheeks. “Thanks.” That warmth carried him back to the laundry, where he found Stella finishing off the laundry.

She, too, offered him a proud smile. “Good job last night, Pat. You head on home to your husband. I’ll take care of the rest.”

As much as Patrick enjoyed writing the sex scenes in his romance novels, there was something about a happy ending that filled his heart with love.

This was what a love story was all about.

Pain and fear and darkness only made the HEA that much sweeter.

And Patrick couldn’t wait to tell Alan all about it.