“Do I?” I said, surprised. I hadn’t noticed it, and I didn’t usually talk about him. My parents didn’t like it when I mentioned him, and Ethan and Logan were practically strangers to each other who coincidentally shared DNA.
“Yes. Far more than you talk about the rest of your family anyway.”
“Probably because he’s the only one I really know,” I confessed, and sat down next to the scratch on the ground. My dad had ordered for it to be sanded down and polished a few times over the years, but it was too deep, and it had never fully gone away. “My mum has always been very reserved. She’s used to being a trophywife and leaves all the talking to my dad. He, on the other hand, has always worked a lot. That’s what he says anyway. It’s possible he was just too busy with other women to spend time with his sons. Logan and I were alone a lot—we were best friends. Wearebest friends, even if the last years have been a little difficult.”
Kate sat down next to me. “Why were they difficult?”
“Logan and I went to the same boarding school in Crawley, but our parents sent him to France unexpectedly when he was thirteen. From then on, he was only home for the holidays. I still don’t know why they did that. After he graduated, he broke off contact with the family.”
“But not with you?” Kate pressed.
I shook my head and ran my finger along the scratch. “No. We wrote to each other a lot, especially in his first few weeks in France. He was pretty lonely. But at some point, he made friends, and then we stopped speaking so often. Looking back, I wish I’d stuck up for Logan, or that I’d gone with him.”
Kate placed a hand on my knee. I could feel its warmth even through my jeans. “You were practically a child yourself. What could you have done? It was your parents’ decision, not yours, and Logan knows it.”
I avoided her eyes. I didn’t feel like I deserved her pity. “Perhaps, but it ruined a lot in our relationship. When Logan came back to London, I was already studying at Oxford, and then I started working for the hotel while he was pretty busy getting his own thing off the ground. We still get on well, but it’s not like before. Whatever inspired our parents to send Logan to France is still a wedge between us. It’s like he’s the black sheep and I’m the golden child of the family.”
“That doesn’t sound fair.”
“It isn’t.” I sighed. “Logan doesn’t deserve it.”
“Neither do you,” Kate interrupted, her hand pressing more firmly against my knee. I looked up, drawn into her dark eyes as completely as the chandelier light had been. How could something so dark radiate such warmth? “It must be exhausting, having to carry the weight of your parents’ expectations.”
“I got used to it.”Have you really?mocked a voice in my head, but I ignored it. “Still, sometimes I wish Logan were here to help me out, especially with all the shit that’s going on right now.”
“Couldn’t you get him to come back? Now that you run the hotel?”
I snorted. “Oh, believe me, I’ve tried, but he doesn’t want to. And I get it. The hotel isn’t Logan’s home like it is mine, and his restaurant is doing really well. He’s even considering opening another location with his business partner,” I said, full of pride for what my brother had accomplished—he had managed to build his own little empire. As much as I wanted him by my side, I didn’t want him to sacrifice any of that for the hotel, especially after the way our parents had treated him. Even if that meant I had to put out all the fires single-handedly.
But I’d take care of that tomorrow.
This evening belonged to me and Kate.
23
The people still staying at The Darlington are part of the problem! #BoycottTheDarlington
Comment by Angry_Escape02
Kate
Henry led me around the entire hotel, showing me nooks that weren’t on Grace’s tour. This included the cigar room, the only place in The Darlington where smoking was allowed, and the game room, with its cupboards full of board and card games, some of them decades old. We went out onto the roof terrace with the bar Grace had raved about, and now I could see why. The view was breathtaking. All of London sprawled out below, and lights glinted everywhere, almost as though the city created its own starry sky. Despite the cold, the bar was busy—part of it was in a heated dome, and the chairs and tables outside were warmed by heating units. As we had a drink, Henry told me more stories about the hotel and him and Logan, and explained what the deal was with the uniformity of his DVD collection.
Later, we took the lift from the roof down to the basement, which was anything but musty and damp. It had been convertedinto a wellness area with several saunas—Henry explained the difference between a Finnish sauna and a steam room—and a heated indoor pool modelled on a grotto, with turquoise water and a small waterfall. The plants dotted throughout the wellness area gave it a tropical atmosphere. According to Henry, he’d had many water fights there with Logan, all of which Henry had won.
“Ready for the last stop of the tour?” Henry asked.
No. I didn’t want the evening to be over. I liked spending time with Henry and wanted to hear more stories about the hotel. I hadn’t had a proper home in a long time. I’d never felt comfortable in Randell’s rundown place, and even the flat where my mum and I had lived before hadn’t really felt homey. Hearing Henry talk about The Darlington, though, made me feel at home. He loved the hotel, and I hated that it took so much of his strength for him to save what he loved.
“Yes,” I replied after a brief hesitation.
“This was my grandfather’s favourite room,” said Henry as we stopped in front of a massive door on the first floor, not far from my room. The door was adorned with intricate carvings that made it look like a bookcase.
As it happened, there really was a room full of books concealed behind the door. A library.
Inside, it smelled of paper, glue, and the dust that had collected between book pages. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with built-in shelves made of dark, solid wood. The books on the upper shelves could only be reached with sliding ladders attached to cabinets. In the middle of the room were several cosy winged armchairs next to tables with cast-iron reading lamps on them.
“I think this will be my favourite room too,” I said, and ran a finger over an old leather binding. Judging by the spines, therewas also a large collection of modern literature. I spotted novels by Stephen King, Jojo Moyes, and Nora Roberts, and it looked like there were books in languages other than English.
