Prologue
The Staff
Patrickdidn’tmindworkingin 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,verygood 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 washedwhile 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 rhythmicthunk, thunk, thunkof 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 whenanother 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.”
