Monarch

4. Atlas Covett

4

ATLAS COVETT

T he author brought his wife to the hotel today.

He’s already been staying here for three months with his daughter. Where this wife was the whole time is a mystery. Or it was a mystery until I saw her. Heartbreakingly beautiful, rose-gold hair, faint eastern accent, no ring on her finger, at least ten years younger than him…

He was gone exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes, just enough time for a round trip to the Grimstone airfield. I have a sneaking suspicion that this girl just flew in.

It’s none of my business.

But then, everything that goes on inside my hotel is my business.

I spoke to her alone while my receptionist distracted the husband. She didn’t seem distressed, only exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and hair a little limp. In a strange way, it only made her lovelier, like how the Japanese kintsugi artists believe a crack enhances the beauty of a teacup.

The separate rooms were odd. The author requested it last minute from Amy while she read him his messages.

The only available room was on the opposite end of the hotel. We’re booked solid all month long thanks to Grimstone’s Halloween festival. It’s the biggest event of the year, busier even than our summer season. It was lucky we had an extra room at all until everybody clears out at the end of October and this place becomes a true ghost town.

I was surprised at the number of bookings. Even more than last year. The festival keeps growing, despite all the nasty shit that’s gone down the last few years. Or because of it. I guess nothing makes the Reaper’s Revenge more authentic than a real-life murder.

The crowds obviously don’t care, especially the true-crime enthusiasts who take selfies in the patch of park where our sheriff was stabbed so they can post their theories.

I’ve got a pretty good idea what happened. Not that anyone will ask me. There are advantages to looking like you were spawned in the pit of Tartarus, and one of those advantages is very little casual chitchat from strangers.

The disadvantage is how easy it is to frighten people. I startle Amy just by existing in the main lobby when she returns to the front desk.

“Jesus! Don’t scare me like that!”

“By standing here?”

“Standing so still.” She gives me a mischievous look. “And looking so intimidating while you do it.”

Amy Archer is my newest employee, brought on part-time for the busy season. She works as a maid at the Onyx resort the other three days of the week. She’s too pretty for a receptionist—the businessmen won’t stop flirting with her, and it slows down the line. But she’s clever and innovative, reorganizing the front desk and streamlining the check-in system without being asked.

She’s also cheeky, way too curious about the guests and her boss, but I like that she has the balls to tease me. It’s not too difficult to shut her down with a long and silent stare. Keeping her quiet is a challenge.

“I guessed Mrs. Ronson would be pretty, but goddamn! She looks like a snow queen!”

Amy does have a knack for bringing an image to mind.

I see our newest guest as if she’s standing by the stone fireplace all over again, tall as a Viking queen in her white fur coat with the ice-blue dress beneath. Her eyes were almost the same shade of clear arctic blue. Her thick ropes of hair were every sunset color, the twisted strands as bright as metal.

Elena.

“Makes sense.” Amy taps her pen noisily against her teeth. “Ronson could get anybody; he’s hot and loaded and famous.”

Indeed.

And yet the author chose someone half his age from a foreign country. Whose suitcase is held together with duct tape.

“How is our newest guest settling in?”

Amy’s vivid dark eyes snap to mine. The wicked little smirk playing at the edges of her lips gives me the uncomfortable sensation that I’ve exposed myself.

“Sleeping off her jet lag, I guess. Her husband ate alone at dinner.”

Lorne Ronson takes most of his evening meals in the restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel. His daughter rarely dines with him. I haven’t seen much of the little girl, who mostly stays shut up in her room on the fourth floor, or else is dragged around by that bitter-faced assistant who hustles in and out of here on the author’s errands.

“The tag on her bag was from Ukraine,” Amy notes, watching my reaction. “I wonder how they met?”

I doubt it’s escaped Amy’s notice any more than mine that while Mr. Ronson has been telling us for a month that his wife would soon be joining him, the woman who arrived today was bare-handed and seemed oddly cautious of her supposed husband.

“Borders are no impediment to relationships these days,” I say.

“I wonder if he met her on a book tour,” Amy muses. “I bet he travels all over.”

“Have you read any of his books?” My receptionist often keeps a novel tucked away in her desk for slow afternoons.

“Just one,” says the ever-honest Amy. “I didn’t love it.”

“Why not?”

“It was too gruesome. And the ending…” Amy shivers. “It was too much for me. I’m here alone half the time. I mostly read romance novels.”

That tracks. Amy is always imagining romances between our hotel guests. She was certain that Mr. Portnoy in room 202 would extend his stay after his persistent breakfast buffet flirtation with the widowed Mrs. Bennington from 413. But he checked out at the end of the week and returned to Massachusetts still single.

“Kind of ruined the whole celebrity crush thing for me, though,” Amy says.

“What do you mean?”

She pokes out her tongue slightly, one eye closed like a pirate. “It just…gave me the icks. I didn’t think he was as hot after.”

That makes Amy a party of one, because the rest of the female hotel staff are infatuated with the author. I’m pretty sure Olivia’s been sneaking him free lattes.

“Guess it just wasn’t for me.” Amy gives a jaw-cracking yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, didn’t sleep for shit last night. Aldous had some girl over.”

Aldous is Amy’s twin brother and a concierge at the Onyx resort. Since I’ve already heard more than I want to about the number of women he brings home from work, I say, “You’re welcome to leave. Your shift ended an hour ago.”

“I know. I stayed so I could clean up that payroll spreadsheet for you.”

Amy has wisely made herself increasingly indispensable since I brought her on board. I only promised her employment through October, because winter in Grimstone is dead and the hotel operates with a skeleton crew. But I already know I want to hire her on full-time next year. She’s even started taking over some of the night shifts.

I haven’t had someone I could trust to do that in…way too long. Amy makes the right decisions in a pinch, in the moments when there isn’t time to ask. That’s rare.

“Are you walking out alone?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Aldous is waiting for me. He’s not completely useless.” She says it with a mix of sibling fondness and resentment that I can only imagine is ten times more potent in twins.

Retrieving her coat and purse from the staff room, Amy exits with a cheery wave. “Good night, Atlas!”

Everyone calls me Atlas, even my employees. When a name fits you like mine does, there’s no chance of anyone using Mr. Covett .

I’ve been overgrown since before I was born. When my mother couldn’t fit behind the wheel of a car even with the seat pushed all the way back, the doctor induced her early. I still came out at eleven and a half pounds, thirty-one inches, requiring a three-month onesie.

Dane got two measly years as my “big brother” before I surpassed him. He doesn’t hold a grudge about it, probably because he’s a respectable six foot three and has witnessed firsthand how the extra inches only earn me bad jokes, clothes that won’t fit, and charley horses on airplanes.

Maybe that’s why the Ukrainian girl caught my eye—in those sky-high shoes, she was at just the right level to do it. Can’t say that of many women. I’ve practically got to get down on my knees to find my tiny receptionist.

But it wasn’t actually Elena’s height that drew me in.

It was the expression on her face, curious and intelligent. She moved carefully through the lobby of the hotel, examining the clock, the mirrors, and finally Toulouse…I followed without thinking.

Speak of the angel.

Elena has emerged. She pads down the curved staircase in sneakers and jeans. With her face scrubbed clean and her rose-gold hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looks both younger and more Eastern European.

She walks in a cautious sort of way, like she’s creeping around someone else’s house in the middle of the night. That’s probably exactly how it feels to her. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and the hotel is silent, aside from the ticking of the carriage clock.

The clock is the heartbeat of the hotel, echoing softly down the hallways, bouncing off the tufted sofas, emerald rugs, and velvet drapes.

Elena pauses at the foot of the stairs, squinting slightly in the gloom. I keep the lamps low at night purposefully. It encourages the guests not to linger, and to shut the fuck up so noise doesn’t carry through this ancient place.

I could direct Elena. That’s what I’d usually do. But I hang back in the doorway, watching.

She guesses correctly, turning left in the direction of the Reinstoff restaurant.

There’s a perverse thrill in following her down the hallway, close behind without her knowing. I’m acquainted with every brick and board in this place, every place the floor groans. I’m quiet as the grave as I follow her, shoes muffled by the thick carpet. I reach out and brush the back of my fingers down her silken ponytail without Elena noticing.

Then I fall back, blood thudding through my veins.

It feels like I stole something.

I am stealing something…a close-up look at another man’s wife.

Supposed wife.

I still haven’t seen a ring.

Elena reaches the restaurant, stopping short when she sees the darkened windows and closed doors.

I step out where she can see me.

“Mrs. Ronson…are you hungry?”

Even though I moved heavily on purpose to give her warning that I was coming, she spins around, hands up, eyes wide.

But she relaxes when she recognizes me, which is…surprising.

“It’s you.”

The way she says you almost makes it feel like she was waiting for me.

I know she wasn’t. But it feels that way anyway.

“The restaurant is closed.”

Elena shrugs her acceptance. “I know it’s the middle of the night. Only…” She gives me a brief, sideways smile. “In Lviv, it’s lunchtime.”

I want to ask her how she learned to speak English so well. It’s impressive, the speed and smoothness of her speech.

But that would be inappropriately personal.

So all I say is, “I have the key to the kitchen. Come inside, I’ll make something for you.”

“Oh, no…” She backs away, horrified. “You don’t have to?—”

“I insist.”

I take out my ring of keys, the correct one already sliding into place between my finger and thumb. I could find any one of the twenty-seven master keys underwater and in my sleep, just as I’ll always know the precise tone of the tumbler sliding home.

This hotel is mine. I know it like I know myself.

I pull the doors wide and place my hand against the small of Elena’s back to guide her inside.

Now this is inappropriate. If I have to touch her anywhere, I should use her upper back or elbow.

But I touch her there and only there, because I have to test what my eyes seemed to promise: that the curve of Elena’s back is the exact shape of my palm.

My hand fits flawlessly. Like that’s what it was made to do.

I lead her through the forest of upturned chairs, all the way back to the kitchen. Then, I take back my hand.

I pull the cord on the overhead light, bathing the forest-green cabinets and oaken butcher block in a firefly glow. Elena slides onto the nearest stool, crossing one long, jean-clad leg over the other. Her sneakers are the shade of gray that takes years to accumulate. Her eyelashes have flecks of reddish gold in them. With all that makeup washed off, I can see her skin.

I’m aware of exactly which of my iron-clad rules I’m breaking right now.

First of all, I have never flirted with a hotel guest before. Especially not a married guest.

I wouldn’t say that I’m flirting right now. But I’m alone with a beautiful woman in the middle of the night, and if I were to examine the reason, it’s not customer service.

Second, I never make exceptions for hotel guests. Rules are there for a reason—make one exception, and god knows what they’ll get me to do next.

But how could I let the poor girl starve? I’d eat my own arm if nobody fed me after a flight from Lviv.

I open the fridge like that will absolve me.

“Ham sandwich?”

“Please,” Elena says behind me.

I haul out the ingredients, spreading them across the butcher block.

“Do you often cook for your guests?” Elena has a restrained way of speaking. But I detect a teasing note.

I scan her face. Those arctic-fox eyes give nothing away.

“I’ve never cooked for a guest.”

The tiniest hint of color comes into her cheeks. “Why am I so lucky?”

“Because there’s nowhere else to get food at this time of night.”

Usually, that means the guests are stuck with the snacks in their in-room minibars.

Elena’s getting a ham sandwich because…I want one anyway. I love ham sandwiches.

I cut the slabs of bread thick, toasting and buttering the bread, adding a little yellow mustard and a large amount of shaved ham and sharp cheddar.

Elena lights up when she sees the finished product, reaching out with both hands and ripping in like she’s starving.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, mouth full. “I haven’t eaten since…sometime yesterday. Was it yesterday? Time zones are strange.”

I make myself a sandwich just as large and sit down next to her to eat it.

We’re quiet, taking huge bites, chewing and swallowing. This is how I prefer to eat. Food is high on my priority list and talking gets in the way. It’s not so bad later in the meal, but in the early part, when I’m hungry as a wolf, I like to focus.

Elena doesn’t speak until she’s devoured every scrap of bread and meat. Then she drinks half the glass of milk I poured for her and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “I would have worked all day for that sandwich.”

“I did feel like it was one of my best.”

She smiles slightly. “Do you cook for yourself often?”

I nod.

“Here?”

“I live here.”

“And this whole place belongs to you?”

I try to hide the current that surges through me whenever I think of my hotel. “Yes. The Monarch is mine.”

Elena watches my face and sees that surge. Her own expression is envy and wonder. “I can’t imagine owning something so huge…all these rooms…everything inside of them…”

“It’s more like it owns me.”

She snorts as if she thinks I’m being falsely modest but is willing to concede the point. “Yes, it must be endless work.”

Driven to explain properly, I say more than I should.

“It’s not just that. My family has run this hotel for generations. Covetts have been conceived, birthed, engaged, married, and even murdered inside its walls. I spent most of my waking hours here as a child, and I always knew I would run it someday. So I belong to it more than I would to a parent or even a spouse. I’ve been wed to it since before I was born.”

“Oh,” Elena says softly.

She falls silent, and I think what I said was too honest and too much.

Then she admits, “I envy you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t belong to anything.”

The words slip out before I can stop myself. “Not your husband?”

That was a mistake. The mood shifts in the kitchen now that I’ve mentioned him out loud. Elena moves on her stool so we’re no longer sitting so close.

“Fiancé, actually.” She lifts her bare left hand to show me what I already saw. “We’re not married yet.”

That yet nips at me like an annoying little dog. Yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet!

“When’s the wedding?”

“As soon as his house is finished. We’re going to be married in the garden.”

I’ve already heard all about this house the author is building, not only from him but from anyone in town who’s been hired to work on the project. It’s six months overdue and double the original budget, apparently because of Lorne Ronson’s bizarre demands. He’s gone through three different contractors, including a friend of my brother’s named Tom Turner, the second to be fired.

“He had me rip out half the work from the first guy and change it all around. First he wants the window here, then over there…plumbing in rooms with no sinks…closets that make no sense… I do exactly what he says, and then he fires me! I’m telling you, the guy’s a fuckin’ loony.”

I don’t mention any of this to Elena, not only because Tom is newly sober and not the most reliable narrator, but also because it’s none of my damn business.

This girl is engaged. To one of my guests. Who happens to be a handsome, successful author.

So what in the hell am I doing sitting here chatting with her?

I push back the stool, heaving up my bulk. “I hope the work will be finished soon.”

Taking my cue, Elena likewise slips off her stool. “Me too.”

I give her the kind of nod I’d usually give a guest, measured and professional. “You can leave your dishes there; I’ll lock up.”

She answers back just as politely. “Thank you again for the food.”

We part ways as if the entire interaction was professional.

And maybe it was, mostly.

Except for that moment when our eyes met and she said, It’s you.

Her voice whispers in my ears, all the way back to the front desk.

It’s you…

It’s you…

It’s you…