It was the first really hot day of the summer. The sun was warm on Finley’s face as he propped his bike against a picket fence around the picture-perfect cottage garden. The gate squeaked as he entered and, like always, a small figure was on the doorstep, beaming so wide that her bright, black eyes almost vanished into her wrinkled face.
“Morning, Auntie Mia.”
“Morning, Finley love. Two dozen, today,” she said, handing over a wooden egg box. “And four duck eggs, too. The girls are laying well right now.”
“Must be the weather. Finally feeling like summer.”
“You’re not wrong, love. Now none of that,” Mia continued as Finley held out some bank notes. “I told you, it’s my pleasure.”
“Please, Auntie Mia,” Finley pleaded. “Your eggs are the only reason I get any customers at all.”
“That’s your baking,” she said, winking. “Plus, maybe that bit of magic in the air at Sea View.”
He laughed wanly. “That’s just damp.”
Her eyes glinted. “The whole point of luck is that it likes to change,” she said, then nodded toward the gate. “Speaking of which, you better hurry back. I directed a nice young man toward your place just a few minutes back.”
“What…a guest?’
“I can only assume so, dear.”
Finley peddled as fast as he could along the country road then down the sandy lane marked by a faded sign for Sea View Guest House. The Victorian building came into view, set in a spread of unkempt lawn. The sun shone on the peeling paint and rusted guttering, but for once, Finley didn’t see the dozens of maintenance jobs still needing attention. All he saw was the convertible Bentley parked by the bushes and the thirty-something man on the front steps contemplating the locked doors with a frown.
Finley braked hard enough to scatter gravel. The man turned. He wore a pair of designer sunglasses, dark chinos and a tan linen shirt, open at the collar. His shoulders were broad, his waist trim. His skin was a warm, nut brown which, to Finley, looked good enough to eat. The vision was topped off with a mop of wavy hair the color of strong coffee.
“I’m so sorry,” Finley said, somehow finding his voice as he set the bike against the wall. “Can I help you?”
“Is this Sea View Guest House?” The man’s voice was weighty as sun-warmed earth.
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” Finley stammered, unlocking the doors and shoving them open with a squeal of unoiled hinges. “Are you wanting a room or just breakfast?” He threw a smile over his shoulder as he hurried inside. “Don’t want to toot my own horn, but we do a mean Eggs Benedict.”
“A room, please,” the man said. “I’ve already eaten.”
Finley hoped his face wasn’t as flushed as it felt as he moved behind the reception desk and stabbed the power button on his laptop.
“I tried to book online,” the man continued, “but I couldn’t find a listing.”
Finley smiled what he hoped was a bright enough smile to hide his embarrassment. “Our website’s down at the moment. Some minor technical glitches.” Like not paying the hosting fees. “But we do have capacity.” The man lifted his eyebrows, looking around the deserted lobby and dark dining room beyond. Finley managed a nervous laugh. “Yes, full capacity, actually. So, how many nights was it?”
“I’m not sure yet,” the man said, holding out a credit card. “I’m taking a career break at the moment. At least a week, maybe longer.”
Finley did a double take. “Longer?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, no, that’s great,” Finley said, taking the credit card and attempting to launch the computer booking system. “I’ll keep the card on file, and we can settle up when you leave.” The screen froze, and he swore under his breath. He dug out a pad of check-in cards and scribbled down the credit card details. “Name?”
“Arthur James Harrison.”
Finley fought a rush as the sound of the man saying his own name rippled through his body. “Car reg?”
“ART 565.”
“That’s pretty cool. Nice car, too.”
“Thanks.”
Despite the sunglasses, Finley had the feeling his guest was examining him very closely. He finished filling in the check-in card and pushed it over. “Just sign here,” he said, then pretended to examine the key-rack while trying to calm his racing heart with some slow breathing. He selected the key for room 201 and turned back as his guest laid the pen on the desk.
“Any luggage?’
“Just this,” Harrison said, lifting the small case he had set on the floor.
“This way.”
Finley led the way to the stairs, opening drapes as he went. Dust motes danced in the sunlight like fireflies.
“No Wi-Fi?” Harrison asked, examining his phone as they ascended.
Finley threw an apologetic grin over his shoulder. “Internet’s down. If you need any directions or anything, I know the area pretty well—or you can get 4G out on the beach.”
“No,” Harrison said, pocketing his phone. “I want to be out of reach for a while.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place for that,” Finley said as they reached the second floor. “I can put you on the first floor if you prefer, but the view is better up here.”
Finley unlocked room 201. Harrison stepped in. Finley felt a rush of pride as admiration smoothed the hard lines of his guest’s face.
“Very nice,” he said, examining the large bay windows looking out over Shell Cove and the four-poster bed made up with crisp, sea-blue sheets. Oil paintings of Littleton and the Yorkshire coastlines decorated the walls, free of dust, since Finley always ensured this room was perfect.
“Best room in the place,” Finley said, holding out the key.
Harrison took it. “A real key, too.”
“We have a key-card system on order,” he lied. “But there’s a backlog. Hopefully by next year, though.”
“That’s a shame. I rather like having a real key,” Harrison said and finally took off his sunglasses. Finley’s breath caught in his throat. His guest’s eyes were startling. They were the color of honey and wet sand, late evening sunshine and the richest of his aunt’s whiskeys that sat gathering dust downstairs. They were hard as jewels and bright with some deep, roiling emotion.
Harrison frowned, and Finley looked away, aware, too late, that he was staring.
“So, yes…uh…towels. I’ll be right back.”
He was yanking on the unresponsive light cord in the linen cupboard when he heard steps behind him.
“There you are.” A sunny voice echoed down the hall. “What are you doing up here? You need to double-pull this one.” Pearl reached past him and tugged the cord twice. The light flickered on. “You’ll never guess what.”
Finley grabbed towels and turned to see his only employee beaming at him, her eyes bright behind her turquoise-framed glasses. Her purple hair had been fought into a straggled bun on top of her head, and she wore lemon yellow dungarees with a bumblebee patch on the pocket. She was holding out her phone with a photograph of an empty teacup, the bottom clogged with tea leaves.
“See the crescent shape here? And the circle next to it?”
“Pearl, I—”
“This means big changes,” she went on, “especially with the full moon tomorrow. Something huge is about to happen.”
“Pearl,” he said urgently, “we have a guest.”
Her eyes widened. “No shit.”
“Definite shit,” Finley whispered. “Booked in for a week, maybe longer.”
“You’re kidding. I saw the car. I just thought someone was chancing us for free parking again.”
“No, it’s a real guest. A paying one. And he’s…” Finley clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Pearl was grinning.
“A ‘him’, huh? Is he hot?”
“Pearl—”
“Oh God.” Her face fell. “Fin, we’ve only got enough food in for afternoon tea, and the bar is practically dry—”
“I know,” Finley said, hurrying past her. “Look… Can you try to get the lounge sorted then run into town for supplies? They won’t give me any more credit at the shop, but Lukas at the White Hart might spot you a case of wine if you ask very nicely.”
“You really think he’ll stay a whole week?” Pearl said as she hurried along at his side. “I have a fresh batch of mugwort arriving. I was gonna have a go at that good-luck spell, what with the full moon and everything.”
“Please, Pearl,” he begged. “I could really do with another pair of hands.”
Pearl sighed as they stopped outside room 201. “Okay, Fin.” She grimaced. “I owe you for letting me keep this job, even when I know for a fact you don’t need me.”
“I need you, Pearl. I really need you.” He gave her a shaky smile. “Do you remember where the dusters are?”
“Yes, I remember where the dusters are,” she said, striding back down the hall. “I’ll sort the lounge…and the wine…and some grub. Leave it with me.”
“Thank you,” Finley called, then turned to find Arthur Harrison standing in the open doorway.
“Uh, hey,” Finley said, with a crooked grin. “Towels. Oh, and about the hot water…” He wrinkled his nose. “The boiler’s a bit cranky. It starts off freezing, but just let it run for a bit.”
“Thanks. And your name is?”
“Finley O’Neill. Hotel manager, I guess?”
“You guess?”
“Chef. Housekeeping. Everything, really.” He grinned and held out the towels. “So yeah, if you need anything, literally anything, you let me know.”
“Thanks,” Harrison said, taking the towels. His fingers brushed Finley’s arm, and the hairs stood up along Finley’s skin.
“Great,” Finley said, hurriedly stepping out of reach. “You know where to find me.” He left before his hot face could betray anything else.
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