Chapter Thirty-One
The elevator doors slide open with a quiet ding, and I step out onto the polished marble floor of the Belicourt’s main level beside Calliope and Mabree.
“Well,” Calliope sighs, tucking a wiry curl behind her ear, “that was anticlimactic.”
“You call that anticlimactic?” Mabree squeaks.
Calliope shrugs. “I didn’t even get to use my holy water.”
“Mr. Garrison could have fired us,” Mabree whisper-yells. “He still could.”
I laugh under my breath, though my nerves still feel a little jangly from the whole ordeal. Our little late-night ghost hunt has officially been shut down.
By Porter, of course.
“Nobody is getting fired,” I say as I walk them to the front doors of the hotel. “Promise.”
I’ll grovel if I have to.
“Good night, ladies,” I say. “Sorry the whole operation was a bust.”
“Night, Miss Storm,” Calliope says with a mischievous grin. “We’ll get ’em next time.”
Mabree wiggles her fingers. “Sleep tight.”
I turn and hurry toward my office to grab my coat and purse. If I leave now, I can still make it to The Soused Cow.
Time to blow off some steam.
I duck into the dark hallway that leads to the management offices, already fishing my phone out of my pocket so I can text Cabe that I’m on my way.
The corridor is dim, the lights low for the night shift.
I reach my office door.
And suddenly, a hand shoots out of the darkness and grabs my bicep.
I yelp.
Before I can even breathe, another hand clamps over my mouth.
My heart nearly launches straight out of my chest.
“What the—” I twist violently, panic flooding me.
And then I look up.
Porter.
His broad frame looms over me, his hand still firmly covering my mouth as his darkened eyes pin mine in the dim hallway light.
My brain short-circuits.
“Mmff!”
He removes his hand slowly.
I gasp. “What the fuck?!”
Where the hell did he come from?
We just left him upstairs.
There is no way he could have beaten me down here.
None.
“You scared me!” I hiss.
He says nothing.
Not a word.
Instead, his fingers tighten on my arm as he turns and begins walking.
Taking me with him.
“Porter,” I protest, stumbling to keep up, “what are you doing?”
He guides—no, escorts—me right back through the lobby.
Past the front desk.
Through the enormous archway into the Belicourt’s grand hall, where the chandeliers glitter overhead like a sky full of stars.
My confusion only deepens.
“How did you do that?” I demand, half jogging beside him.
Still nothing.
He keeps walking.
Straight into the bar lounge.
My irritation spikes.
He steers me to the far end of the bar, where two stools sit tucked beneath the polished wood.
“Sit.”
The word lands like a command.
I stare at him.
Then I sit.
But I do it in a huff.
He lifts two fingers toward the bartender. “Two drafts.”
The bartender moves quickly, already pulling the tap.
Seconds later, he sets the frosty glasses down in front of us.
“Here you are, Mr. Garrison. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Mr. Garrison.
The name rolls around in my head.
Porter gives him a polite nod. “Thanks.”
The bartender drifts off to help other guests.
The instant he’s out of earshot, I turn to Porter. “What the hell, Porter?” I demand. “Want to tell me how you did that?”
His eyes slide to mine.
They are not amused.
Not even a little.
Instead, they’re dark.
Angry.
“Want to tell me what you were really doing upstairs?”
My mouth snaps shut.
Oh.
Crap.
“I didn’t think so,” he says flatly.
I huff and grab the beer, taking a long sip just to give my mouth something to do.
He doesn’t even look at me.
His gaze stays fixed on the television mounted above the bar.
Some late-night sports news show is playing.
“What did I tell you about chasing ghost stories?” he says quietly.
The quiet is worse than yelling.
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t.”
The warning slices through the air before I can even finish the lie.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You caught me. What are you gonna do? Spank me?”
His eyes flick to mine.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
“Do not tempt me,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Then his attention goes right back to the television like the exchange never happened.
My pulse does a weird little skip.
“I just thought I’d see if anything was really happening up there with my own eyes,” I admit finally.
He exhales sharply. “Fuck, Harleigh.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach twist.
Not Miss Storm.
Harleigh.
“You even dragged two other employees into it.”
“Calliope is the one who told me about the complaint,” I argue quickly. “They wanted to see too. I didn’t drag them.”
“You’re management,” he says, his voice tight. “You’re supposed to set an example, dammit.”
The disappointment in his voice hits harder than the anger.
It lands square in my chest.
Like a punch.
I suddenly feel about six years old.
Like I just got caught doing something stupid by my daddy.
I push off the stool.
“Whatever,” I mutter. “I’m leaving.”
Before I can take a step, his hand catches mine beneath the bar.
I freeze.
Instead of pulling me back down and forcing me into the seat, he simply laces his fingers through mine.
Casually.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Then he lifts his beer and takes a long drink.
His eyes never leaving the television.
My brain completely stops functioning.
Our hands are still linked under the bar.
His palm is warm. Large enough to completely envelop mine.
“I need to go,” I say softly.
His fingers flex against the back of my hand.
“Porter,” I whisper his name like a plea.
“Not here.” His voice is low.
Tempered.
“Go to my office,” he says. “I’ll meet you there.”
Then he drops my hand just as the bartender returns.
“Anything else, Mr. Garrison?”
“Yeah,” Porter says calmly. “I’ll take another beer.”
I stand there for a second longer.
Then I slide off the stool and walk out of the lounge. Leaving my mostly full glass.
My heart is beating way too fast.
What the hell just happened?
I pass the front desk.
The lobby.
My plan is to grab my coat.
My purse.
Leave.
Go home.
Forget this whole weird night ever happened.
Instead …
My feet carry me straight into the elevator.
I press B.
Basement.
I’ve never been down there before.
I just know that’s where his office is.
The elevator hums as it descends.
My pulse matches the rhythm.
The doors slide open—a soft ding announcing my arrival.
The basement hallway is quieter than the rest of the hotel.
Long.
Dark.
The soft hum of electrical equipment echoes somewhere in the distance.
I follow the corridor until I spot a large wooden door with a brass plaque.
PORTER GARRISON
GENERAL MANAGER
I grab the doorknob.
Locked.
“Great,” I mutter.
I knew I shouldn’t have come.
I turn to leave, and the door suddenly swings open.
A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
I gasp as I’m yanked inside.
The door shuts behind me with a solid click.
I whirl around. “How the hell?” I yell.
Porter stands there.
Right in front of me.
Not even slightly out of breath.
My brain short-circuits again.
“You were upstairs,” I say slowly. “How did you get down here?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did you take the stairs?”
No. I’d have seen him come out of the stairwell.
His mouth twitches.
My eyes narrow.
His office is lit by a single desk lamp.
The space is bigger than I expected.
It has a fireplace.
And a bar.
His jacket is draped over the back of his chair.
He steps closer.
Close enough that I can smell the faint scent of his cologne.
My pulse stutters.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
“Why did you come?” he asks quietly.
“Because you told me to.”
His lips curve into a devilish grin, and he starts to undo his cuff links.
“I believe you said something about being spanked.”