Crescent Hill
Page 1
Crescent Hill
Jackie Wang
Jackie Wang Books
Contents
Acknowledgments
About
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Rescue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Redemption
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
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Sneak Peek of Fireproof
Also by Jackie Wang
About the Author
Copyright 2016 Jackie Wang
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and locations mentioned in this book are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, people living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contact the publisher at authorjackiewang@hotmail.com.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to others. Please stop online piracy and support the author by purchasing only legitimate copies via major online e-book retailers.
Edited by: Dominique Scott
Interior formatting: Vellum
Cover photo: Copyright 2016 DepositPhotos
Dedicated to Gordon Ramsay, my favorite British celebrity, whose hit TV show, Hotel Hell, inspired this novel.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my beta readers: Abbie Zanders, Sarah Alexander, and Elizabeth Cash, for volunteering their time and offering me valuable feedback on my work. I couldn’t have done this without them! Thanks to all the bloggers and readers who supported me along the way, and of course, a huge thank you to my family, without whom I could not have completed this book.
About
Roman Finnegan fixes hotels for a living. Give him two weeks with any failing hospitality business, and he'll make it profitable again.
But his latest charity project, Crescent Hill Lodge, may be beyond saving.
The owners refuse to acknowledge their financial problems, the staff are disrespectful, the hideous rooms are filthy, and the entire Summers family is on the verge of bankruptcy.
If they can’t turn things around before the new year, they’ll have to shut down the lodge.
The only person determined to see the business succeed is the owners' daughter and hotel manager, Magnolia (Maggie) Summers. She's hard-working, loyal, and kind to a fault. She also has big dreams that are stifled by her inner demons.
Despite trying to stay professional, Roman falls hard for this sweet, small-town girl.
So hard, in fact, that he wants to bring her back to London with him.
His gift: an all-expense paid winter holiday in London. All Maggie has to do is say yes.
The only thing is, Maggie’s past is littered with broken hearts, unfulfilled promises, and stolen dreams.
She’s too scared to leave her family, hometown, and safety net behind.
She doesn’t think Roman can make her happy.
He needs to convince her otherwise…before his flight back to the UK first thing Christmas morning.
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Part I
Rescue
Roman
I wanted to be her hero.
But she was never mine to save.
The harder I tried, the faster we crumbled.
The faster we crumbled, the harder we tumbled.
I couldn’t be her hero.
Chapter 1
14 Days Left
A sharp pain radiated from my tailbone up to my spine, hot and fast. My arse burned fiercely as my hands scrabbled for purchase. Using a nearby rock, I eased back on my feet and swept the snow off my trousers.
Someone needed to clear those icy steps before a guest slipped and cracked their skull. Less than twenty-four hours into my fourteen-day sojourn and I was already suffering. I was just glad nobody had witnessed me falling arse over tit. That would’ve added to my humiliation.
The surroundings were deserted—not a single person, animal, or car for miles. In fact, during the entire cab ride here from the docks, I hadn’t seen more than two vehicles, and those were headed in the opposite direction.
Crescent Hill towered before me, a magnificent sight. Thousands of frosted red, gold, and orange maple leaves blanketed the slopes like confetti. Massive Red Cedars towered in the distance like solemn guardians, their woody arms covered in pristine powder. Behind me, great swathes of snow flanked the main road, untouched by human feet. I squinted up at the behemothic building nestled at the top of the hill. In the weak winter sunlight, the lodge looked like a hibernating giant.
With the right stewardship, this place could be great.
I always enjoyed fantasizing about a hotel’s potential. After all, a fresh coat of paint and a new attitude worked wonders in most cases. Right now, however, the lodge looked as if someone had staked a huge “Do Not Trespass” sign on the front lawn. Several boarded-up windows upstairs looked like horrendous eyepatch jobs. Only two little lights were on in the entire building. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought I was approaching a haunted house, not a historic hotel.
Damn. I had my work cut out for me.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, I attempted to climb the hill once more. The luggage wheels clacked against each rimy step, threatening to fly away from me.
After muttering half a dozen more expletives, I managed to arrive at the lodge's front entrance. Monolithic cedar beams girded by hundreds of twinkling holiday lights greeted me. A massive evergreen wreath hung on the front door, its red and green LEDs intermittently flashing ‘Merry X-mas’. Christmas was just around the corner, and if I did my job right, this place would be packed by the new year. Unfortunately, my brief bout of optimism was dashed when I saw the crooked sign above the door: “Cr ent Hil Lo ge”. The plaque was missing five whole letters, and the owners hadn’t bothered to replace them.
I sighed, my breath escaping in foggy puffs. My entire body ached at that point, and I couldn’t wait to get inside and warm up by the fire.
There was a lot of work waiting for me tomorrow.
Tugging on the ornate door handles, (which were a pair of beautiful antlers) I was met with surprising resistance.
The door was frozen shut.
“You've got to be kidding me,” I cried, kicking the doors for good measure. An icicle fell off the eaves and crashed behind me. “Shit.”
I tried to locate a doorbell of some sort, but a
lso came up short. How were guests supposed to alert the staff when they'd arrived? “Hello? Anyone in there?”
Raising a gloved hand to the door, I began thumping it.
Two minutes and a bruised knuckle later, I heard footsteps approach. A bolt clicked open on the other side, followed by some rattling noises.
“Langston Summers! Get over here!” a shrill woman cried. “The door's stuck again!”
I shook my head and sighed. They hadn’t even known the front door was inaccessible until I came around. I was already dreading the next two weeks of hell. I hadn't even met the owners yet, but I could already tell they were incompetent and irresponsible. Perhaps cabin fever set in a long time ago and they just stopped caring about their business. Perhaps the entire island’s economy was falling to shambles. Whatever it was, it would take everything I had to put this failing hotel back on the map. I just hoped they wouldn’t be stupid enough to ignore my suggestions.
Ten minutes later, after a lot of grunting and cursing, the door cracked open. A buxom, red-faced woman and a tall, spindly old man greeted me. They were probably in their late fifties, early sixties. The woman was wearing a red and green knit jumper with an ankle-length wool skirt, and the man, a blue polyester pullover with tan trousers.
“Terribly sorry,” the woman said, dabbing her sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Damn door always sticks when it's below thirty-two degrees.”
“Not only that, I nearly slipped half a dozen times trying to make it up those steps back there.”
“So sorry. I had no idea…”
I extended my hand. “How do you do, Ms...”
“Call me Mercy.” The woman beamed and shook my hand, her massive bosom heaving as she did so. “Mercy Mary Beth Summers. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“And I'm her husband and co-owner of Crescent Hill Lodge. Name's Langston Summers,” the man said, offering his callused hand and a tight smile. His hair was graying at the temples, and his sandpaper skin was flecked with age spots. Salt-and-pepper scruff hugged his jawline.
“Nice to meet you both. I'm Roman Finnegan.”
“Oh, we know,” Mercy said, smiling. “We've been looking forward to your visit all week, Mr. Finnegan. Please, do come in and get yourself warmed up by the fire.”
“I'd love to,” I said. I cleaned my boots on the welcome mat, then lugged my suitcase inside. Its wheels left two wet, S-shaped trails on the hardwood floor.
At first glance, the interior of the lodge seemed reasonably neat and well-maintained. The spacious lobby sported thirty-foot vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows. Very classy. The view was somewhat obscured by the snow, but on a bright day, I had no doubt it was phenomenal. What wasn’t classy was the legion of taxidermy corpses that greeted me from every angle of the room: buck and bear heads, stuffed falcons, owls and even a lynx. Their beady, lifeless eyes made me feel unwelcome, even intimidated. I felt like a dazed child walking through a natural history museum.
I sought out the crackling fireplace and after removing my coat, scarf, and gloves, I sat on a cushion by the fire to warm up. After a moment, I noticed that the carpet was fraying at the edges and covered in soot. Standing up, I realized that my hands and the back of my trousers were blackened by ash. “Shit. This here is a fire hazard.”
“Would you like me to bring your things up to your room, Mr. Finnegan?” Mercy’s voice came behind me. Her cheeks were still flushed, and her reddish-gray hair poked out of her bonnet like wires. What the hell was she wearing a bonnet for?
I pointed to the fireplace. “When was the last time somebody cleaned the hearth?”
Mercy scratched the back of her hand, her dry skin sloughing off in flakes. “I’m not sure. But I’ll look into it right away.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Thank you.” Then I added, “I’d like to get settled in now, if you don’t mind.” I brushed off my dirty clothes. “Please show me to my room.”
“Certainly. Follow me,” Mercy said. She nodded to a few rusty nails jutting out of the floor at crooked angles. “Mind your step, please.”
Why the hell were there rusty nails sticking out of the floor? Were they trying to give people tetanus? Send guests to the ER?
We scaled two flights of stairs and wound down a dark corridor before Mercy unlocked a door at the far end of the hall. “This is the Staghorn Suite. Best in the house,” Mercy said. “I do hope you like it. Here’s the key.”
I scanned the suite. Its depressing walls were plastered with peeling yellow wallpaper and the patterned comforter on top of the bed was pilling and sun-bleached. The once cream carpet sported miscellaneous brown stains, and the entire room smelled like a musty coffin. I tried my best not to frown. “Thank you, Mercy. I'd like to meet your staff after dinner service,” I said. “If you could please let them know.”
“Of course. Did you need anything else?”
“No, this is fine. Thanks.”
“I’ll see you later then,” Mercy said, grabbing my hand and patting it. “And Roman, thank you so much for coming.”
“You’re very welcome, Mercy.”
Chapter 2
After Mercy had left, I began unpacking my suitcase. I ran my index finger along the top of the dresser, and it came back covered with dust. My clothes would probably stay cleaner inside my suitcase than out. This place wasn’t even fit to be a pig sty. It was quite possibly the worst hotel I’d ever stayed at. Even worse than that ramshackle hut in Kathmandu I visited six years ago—at least that was clean, if spartan.
The enormous stag head looming over my king-sized bed was not only coated with visible grime, but it also looked poorly mounted. I wondered if it would impale me in my sleep.
God, what a way to go: death by taxidermy stag.
I bent down and sniffed the sheets. They smelled like lavender. At least they had the decency to clean those before my arrival, or else I’d need to roll out my sleeping bag.
I walked over to the window to let in some fresh air. When I parted the thick curtains, a plume of dust rose to greet me. I coughed into my elbow and sneezed. Did they even employ any cleaning staff at this hotel? My room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the hotel had first opened in 1922. I looked down at the rotting sill and saw a parade of dead insects waiting for me. A few beetle, wasp and fly corpses lay in twisted poses, most of them belly up. “Hello there,” I greeted them. “Looks like you fellas had a shit stay here.” I scooped up the corpses and flung them out the window.
What a disgusting room. I didn’t even need a black light or a bacteria test kit to tell me how filthy everything was. Grime oozed from a thousand different surfaces, mocking every health and sanitation law ever written.
I shuddered to think how much the owners charged for a suite like this.
I wanted to take a long, hot bath to soothe my achy muscles, but I was a bit reluctant to see the bathroom, given the deplorable state of the bedroom. Unfortunately, I reeked badly enough that I had no better options.
The bathroom looked better. Renovated with modern finishes. Brushed nickel faucets and a tasteful checkered backsplash. A clawfoot soaker tub: the epitome of luxury. But what worried me the most was the reason behind the renovation. The rest of the suite looked dated; something out of a seventies catalog. But this bathroom was right in the twenty-first century...Did the hotel suffer from plumbing issues? A previous flood?
Too tired to dwell on it further, I ran a bath and stripped down. My skin felt sticky after the eleven-hour flight, hour-long bus ride, and forty-five-minute ferry to Penderton Island. To make matters worse, I'd booked a last-minute red-eye, which left dark rings around my eyes and a jet-lagged pallor on my cheeks.
Just as I was about to step into the steaming bath, I heard footsteps outside. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I left the bathroom to investigate the noise. When I popped out, the first thing I saw was an arse. A delicious, heart-shaped arse that connected to a pair of long, toned legs and...
&n
bsp; A goddess, on her hands and knees.
Maybe this job wouldn't be so terrible after all.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”
The woman jolted like a startled cat.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked, delighted by how flustered she looked.
Her doe eyes widened as she turned to face me. “Shit,” she cried. “I didn't know someone was in here.” When her eyes flicked over my naked torso, her face darkened to an even deeper shade of burgundy. “I'm going to go,” she said. “Sorry about—”
“Hold on, what's your name, love?”
“Magnolia—just call me Maggie.”
“Do you work here, Maggie?”
Maggie nodded, biting her lip. “I’m the general manager.”
“So…what are you doing in my suite?”
“I think I lost my earring in here,” she explained, avoiding my gaze.
“How—”
“I was cleaning here the other day,” Maggie explained.
I wanted to laugh. If Maggie really had cleaned here, she’d done an absolute crap job. It was a miracle she hadn’t been fired yet. “So you're in housekeeping as well?” I asked.
“I do a little bit of everything I guess. I help out wherever I’m needed,” Maggie said. “Anyway, I'll just—”
“You might as well look now. I'll be staying here for two weeks, and you may not get another chance to find it.”
“You—You're—” Maggie stammered. She licked her lower lip. I loved watching her pink tongue dart out and across her full mouth.
I nodded. “That's me.”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Finnegan. I thought you were coming tomorrow,” Maggie apologized. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Let's just look for your earring, shall we?”