"Psst."

"Shh!"

My eyes snapped open, goosebumps covering every inch of my body. Without moving, I cut my eyes up and to the side, toward the whispers.

There, at the foot of the bed, barely visible in the strip of light bleeding underneath the bathroom door, were two dark shadows, staring down at me, heads bowed like they were trying to figure out if I was awake.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I pulled the blankets over my head and tried to control my breathing, my chest heaving up and down. A quiet thump came from the wall opposite the door, and when I peeked out over the top of the cover, the shadows were gone.

"What the fuck?" I whispered, sitting up and flipping on the stained-glass lamp on the bedside table.

I flopped back into the mattress and stared at the shadow of the antique light fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling. This was not a good start to my new life, giving into the stories about the hotel and believing that creepy figures stared in the middle of the night. After my breathing slowed and I stopped shaking from fear, my brain began sorting through the problems Hunter found with the hotel and what needed to be fixed first. Anything to focus my wayward thoughts.

The long list of things I needed to have repaired gradually morphed into thinking about my family. They weren't being totally unfair with their concerns about me taking over the Reynard. I had a history of starting things and not finishing them as my mother so kindly pointed out at the will reading.

My teachers in middle school said I had ADHD, that I couldn't focus for longer than a few minutes, definitely couldn't multitask, and had trouble following multistep directions. But my mother and father hadn't taken me to the doctor; I can remember little snippets of conversations between them, claiming the disorder wasn't real, condemning the idea of medication, saying that a diagnosis of ADHD would just be an excuse for me to be flaky and irresponsible.

Luckily, I'd had a teacher in high school who saw my struggle and taught me ways to cope when it came to my schoolwork. I'd managed to graduate with a 3.0 and get into college, but the fact remained that emotionally, I was still impulsive, and no matter how many years passed, commitment seemed to be an issue for me.

But this time would be different. People were depending on me for their livelihood...this town was depending on me. And I loved the hotel and would do whatever it took to keep it successful. I'd do it for my Aunt Hazel.

With a sigh, I punched my pillow a couple of times, flopped to my side, and closed my eyes, hoping I'd not hear any more bumps in the night. The heaviness of sleep drew me in, and my body relaxed into the mattress.

The brass doorknob to my room rattled, and I bolted upright, glaring at the door and holding my breath. Slowly, the knob turned to the right and then the left.

I jumped from the bed, flung the chain from the door, and unlocked it. The heavy wooden door creaked as I whipped it open.

No one was there.

Peeking out into the hallway, I looked both ways to find the corridor empty, not even the rustle of a leaf from one of the potted plants. "Damn Larry and his stories about this place," I said, stepping back into my room. I stopped short of clicking the door into place when a dark shadow accompanied by footsteps flashed in my peripheral vision.

I eased back into the hallway. "Hello?" I whispered, not wanting to wake the sleeping guests.

Mumbled voices came from around the corner, and I tiptoed toward them. It dawned on me that maybe I was walking into something questionable, and if so, how would I defend myself? I scanned the passage for a weapon. I considered the candleholder on the accent table beside me, but it would be too hard to hide. A tray with used dishes sat outside of a door, and I snatched a fork from it. Holding it next to my ear with the prongs out, I started forward again.

The scent of saffron and nutmeg lingered in the air the closer I got to the voices. A light flickered behind me and I spun around, my heart racing. I held my weapon tighter as perspiration formed on my brow. My breathing felt erratic as I leaned against the wall and looked into the next corridor.

Nothing but darkness and silence awaited me. I shook my head. "Gemma, come on. Get your shit together," I muttered, turning away from the darkness and walking toward my room.

I'd have to let Larry know that I didn't want to hear any more ghost stories. I felt like an idiot, wandering around the hotel after hours, chasing creepy sounds like Nancy Drew. When I reached my room, I grasped the doorknob and pushed. But instead of giving way and swinging open, I was met with resistance—a locked door.

"What the hell?" I looked down at my white cami and green snowman pajama shorts. Even though I had no pockets, I patted around my waist for a key that was most definitely inside the room.

I didn't lock that door; of that I was sure. I purposely unlocked it from the inside before I darted out to ghost hunt. Leaning against the wall, I ran my fingers through my hair and gripped it at the roots. I could handle this; I just needed to sneak my way downstairs and grab a spare. No one needed to see me or learn just how incompetent I really was.

Even though I knew there was nothing there, I looked over my shoulder all the way down the hallway and the spiral staircase. Everything was quiet again, as if there were never any noise to begin with.

When I got to the lobby, Larry was putting around behind the desk, and I darted behind a column so he wouldn't see me. I stood there for a few more seconds, but when I could still hear him moving things around and humming a familiar TV show theme song, I scanned the area for another place to go to wait it out.

Right across the lobby from me, a door stood open—the bar. With a shrug, I slipped inside.

The lights in the bar were low, the entire room dim with candlelight and jazz music. Only a few straggling guests remained, nursing whiskeys and absentmindedly eating peanuts from the little glass bowls in the center of the tables.

The bartender looked like someone out of the 1940s, with a crisp white shirt and silky black vest, complete with a bow tie and pageboy hat. "Good evening, Miss Fox." he greeted me, and once again I was surprised at the fact that people just know who I am.

"Good evening..." I looked for a nametag, but he wasn't wearing one. "What's your name?"

"I'm Lloyd," he said, and I grinned.

"Like the bartender in The Shining," I commented, hopping up on a barstool and clasping my hands on the oak counter.

"The same. Although I hope I'm not quite as creepy." He smiled under his white beard and moustache, giving him the appearance of Santa Claus.

"Not at all. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise, although I remember you from when you were a little girl. What can I get you?"

I hadn't intended on having a drink when I came downstairs, but what could it hurt?

"How about a Cosmopolitan?"

"Coming right up."

I looked down at my pajamas and remembered my lack of pockets. "Oh, crap, wait. I don't have my wallet on me."

"Don't worry about it. This one is on me." A deep, rich baritone from right next to me caught my attention, and I jumped in my seat, turning to look at the person it belonged to.

The man had to be one of the most gorgeous humans I've ever seen in my life. His dark hair was perfectly coiffed, except for one strand falling on his forehead, a black button-down hugging his biceps, his olive skin rich in the flood of candlelight, but...the thing that stood out more than anything else were his eyes. His irises were the deepest shade of purple like the pre-dawn sky.

"Th-thank you, but you don't have to do that."

His gaze raked over my skimpy sleeping attire. "It looks like you're having one hell of a night. It's the least I can do."

I crossed my legs and pulled my shirt up to cover my cleavage. My cheeks must have been as red as the wallpaper covering the small barroom.

"What was your first clue? My out-of-season pajamas or the random fork I'm still holding?" I muttered, tossing it onto the bar with a resounding clatter.

"Neither—it was the bedhead that gave it away." He reached to a wavy strand of hair next to my ear and playfully tugged it. His sultry pink lips pulled into a lopsided smile.

I chuckled even as I pretended to be offended. "How do you know this isn't the way I wanted my hair to look?" My cheeks were still burning, but it wasn't the most unpleasant sensation I'd felt all day.

He shrugged and leaned against the bar. "Don't get me wrong; the night of passionate sex hair looks good on you, but seeing as you are alone, I'm guessing this is more of a tossing and turning look."

My mouth fell open, but I snapped it shut almost instantly. "Well, that is definitely not a style I get to rock very often these days," I said, closing my eyes in mortification as soon as I finished the sentence.

My flirtatious company took a step back from the bar as Lloyd approached with my drink. He leaned in toward me and his breath was warm against my ear when he said, "I hope one day soon you get to remedy that."

Every inch of skin on my body burned as Lloyd set my Cosmo on the bar top and gathered the dollar bills left on the other side of me. I turned in my seat to thank the man or perhaps ask him to join me, but he was gone. I stretched my neck, scanning the far corners of the room, and turned back to the bartender. "Did you see where that guy went?" I asked, gesturing with my thumb toward the empty space beside me.

The older man furrowed his brows. "I haven't seen anyone but you on that side of the bar, Miss Fox."