Room 1017 (The Scarlet Hotel #14)

Prologue

The Staff

It was one of those days. The kind of days when nothing went right, and Monsieur Holland had experienced more than his fair share of them in recent years, since taking over management of his grandfather’s legacy. The Scarlet Hotel, while majestic in the classic sense of the word, was also old. Certainly older than many of the buildings around it. The downtown area had seen generations of refurbishment—office buildings and restaurants, condos and cafés—and still, the hotel remained, largely unchanged since it was first built back in the 1920s.

Unfortunately, as with anything in life, with age came wear and tear. The hotel had been plagued with creaky floors and crumbling plaster, leaky pipes and sewer backups, and most recently, a minor electrical fire. Thank the gods the staff were reliable.

Emerson Holland’s musings were interrupted by a knock on his office door. “Yes?” he called.

The door cracked open, and Conner stuck his head through the door. He was still fairly new to the hotel’s staff, young and inexperienced, but he was doing a good job. That didn’t mean he didn’t get a little nervous around his boss. “Um, sorry, sir, but… there’s a bit of an issue with the elevator.”

Emerson’s heart sank. Not again .

He immediately pushed back from his desk and stalked out to the hotel’s lobby, worry gnawing at his gut. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked tightly, holding his breath that it was just moving too slowly or maybe one of the doors was stuck. He didn’t wait for Conner’s answer, who was hurrying after him, tongue-tied.

Marching straight over to the elevator, he pushed the call button. There was a distant metallic clunk from somewhere deep in the basement, but otherwise, the expected sounds of whirring motor, spinning wheels, threading cables… were frustratingly absent.

“Shit,” Emerson muttered, too low for anyone to hear. This wasn’t the first time the ancient relic had given them trouble, and he’d been hoping to be able to afford an upgrade soon. Waiting was a gamble, but it seemed his luck had just run out. “There’s nobody caught inside it this time, is there?”

“No, sir,” Conner chirped behind him. Well, that was one mercy.

He clapped once, loud enough for the sound to echo through the marble lobby, then spun on an expectant Conner, awaiting instructions. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I will call the repair company, but in the meantime, any guests come in, we’ll just have to carry their luggage upstairs for them. Hang a sign saying it’s out of order. Hopefully we won’t have any guests who have trouble with stairs, but just in case, move any reservations down to the lower floors. I’m sure the repair company will be able to send someone first thing tomorrow morning.” Because of course it broke on a Sunday evening, just ten minutes before Emerson would’ve gone home for the night. Of fucking course!

Nerves fraying dangerously, he returned to his office, going through the list of current guests and this evening’s reservations in his head. It would be okay, it had to be.

Fate was not smiling down on them, though, because before Emerson could even look up the phone number for the repair company, there was another knock on his door. “What?” he snapped before he could reel his frustration back.

Again, it was Conner. The young man’s face was a worrisome shade of gray. “S-Sir, um… we have… uh, there’s a guest who…”

Emerson’s stomach plunged, hands bunching into fists as he hurried out of the office. There in front of the desk was a man in a wheelchair. Double shit. The woman who accompanied him turned to Emerson with a warm smile. She had dark hair pulled back in a bun and eyes so black, he couldn’t see the pupil.

“Good evening,” he said, greeting them with a smile that he hoped conveyed the proper amount of regret and apology. “I’m afraid our elevator is currently out of order.”

“Oh…” The woman’s smile wobbled, and she glanced down at the man in the wheelchair.

“Just fucking great,” the man said.

“Peter,” the woman scolded, laughing awkwardly. “Will it be repaired soon?”

Emerson’s brain was spinning with ideas. He knew a guy who might be able to come tonight if he asked really nicely. “I’ll see what I can do, but perhaps you might prefer we find you a room at a different hotel.”

Peter, however, set his hands on his chair’s wheels and cranked himself around to the side, forcing the woman to hop out of the way or be run over. “Forget it, Amy. It’s fine. I’ll take the stairs.”

“Peter, no! Your surgery is tomorrow! Can’t you just be patient for a few minutes?” She ran after him toward the bottom of the stairs.

Emerson’s lips thinned as he turned to Conner. “What room are they in?”

He winced. “Ms. Abadi and Mr. Brown are in room 1017, sir.” The tenth floor.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Emerson blew out a tight breath. If they moved him down to the second floor, would the guest perhaps allow them to carry him up the stairs? Peter had already pulled himself out of the chair and was balanced dangerously, gripping the handrail, while Amy was hissing frantic arguments at him, struggling with her panic and trying not to make a scene.

Emerson pointed. “Get over there and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Catch him if he falls.” They could not afford a lawsuit.

Conner nodded sharply, his cheeks going from gray to red. As young as the omega was, he had a protective streak a mile wide, and it seemed to bolster him to have a task. “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked as Emerson pulled out his cell phone.

Under normal circumstances, he would never let the guests see him on his phone, but he refused to hide in his office when he was clearly needed right here. “I’ve got to make a call.”

Ben Howe didn’t answer the phone until the fourth ring, and Emerson had almost given up hope. “Hey, Em. Everything okay?” The man’s voice was husky. They tended to go to sleep early over there, what with the new baby.

“Hi, Ben. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but it’s a bit of an emergency.” Before he was done with the explanation, Ben interrupted to say he was on his way. No anger at being woken up, no questions asked. Ben didn’t work as an electrician anymore, since he primarily spent his time as a stay-at-home dad, but he had experience with the hotel’s persnickety elevator and knew just what tools to bring.

With Ben on his way, Emerson hurried over to break up the argument that had arisen between the two guests, their volume increasing as they got more worked up. Peter was back in his wheelchair for now, Conner hovering nearby, looking helpless.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Mr. Brown was shouting. “The guy said they can move us down to the second floor. It’s one flight of stairs. I can manage one flight of fucking stairs!”

Most people would’ve found the alpha intimidating, but not this woman. She didn’t even blink as he lost his composure. Ms. Abadi might’ve been on the more delicate side physically, but there was something about her that spoke of her strength. And she was clearly used to handling his temper. She narrowed those black eyes of hers, leaned close, and in an even voice said, “You are being a stubborn ass. I have no doubt that you could manage the stairs, but you would absolutely hurt yourself in the process. Now is not the time to play hero. You will accept help. Do you hear me?” Her level voice somehow made it sound like a threat.

The man seemed to collapse in on himself as her words registered, and that fiery temper was extinguished with a sigh. “Okay, Amy. Sure.” It was hard to watch this large man clearly struggling with his loss of independence. His chin dipped to his chest, but not before Emerson swore he saw Peter’s eyes shine with frustrated tears.

Emerson cleared his throat. “Good news!” he said, forcing himself to sound upbeat. “I have an electrician on his way. Hopefully the elevator will be back in working order shortly. Perhaps I could offer you a complimentary meal in our restaurant while you wait.”

Peter snorted a laugh, devoid of humor. “Sure, thanks. It might just be my last meal.”

Amy slapped his shoulder. “It’s routine surgery. You’ll be fine.” She moved around behind his wheelchair and grabbed the handles, pushing him down the hall toward the restaurant. “Thank you,” she said to Emerson, then to Peter, “Come on, let’s go eat a nice meal before it’s time for you to start fasting.”

Emerson blew out a breath in relief, then closed his eyes and hoped like hell that he hadn’t been lying about the elevator being fixed soon.

In under ten minutes, Ben was there, his large form taking up more space in the lobby than seemed possible. His wide smile emerged from the middle of his dark beard, now streaked with silver. “Great to see you, Em. It’s been too long,” he said, slapping Emerson on the shoulder and nearly knocking him back a step. He was a large bear of a man, well over six feet, with wide shoulders, barrel chest, and a thick pelt of hair coating his exposed forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves, ready to get to work.

In under an hour, the elevator was back up and running, and the two guests, now full and slightly less grouchy, were tucked upstairs in their upgraded suite.

Emerson held out a hand to Ben and watched as it was swallowed in the electrician’s much larger grip. “Thank you, Ben. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“Never a problem.” He grinned as he passed over an invoice, and Emerson cringed.

Yep, he’d had his fair share of those days, but why did they always have to cost him so much money?

It was easy to let these setbacks get the best of him, but he tried to look at the bright side. It was a beautiful evening as Gerald, the night doorman, held the door open and Emerson stepped onto the sidewalk out front. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp spring air.

Yes, spring. It was the time for fresh starts. Clean slates. Maybe even an upgraded elevator. And for the guest upstairs, it apparently meant surgery. Emerson hoped it meant a positive change for him too.