At the top of wide-open staircase that ran up the very center of the inn, Mason paused to scan the organized clutter of the lobby. It contained the ancient, dark oak registration counter and mailboxes on one side, but the majority of the room was the cozy salon. A fire already blazed on the hearth, pushing back the early morning fall chill.
Mason shrugged his shoulders against the chill and charged down the stairs, gaze wandering from corner to corner, looking of the woman he'd met the night before.
"Hello? Ruby?"
Looking behind the desk, he found no evidence of another person, but the fire and the steaming cup of coffee on a stand beside a fireplace chair told him he wasn't the first one awake.
"Hello? Anybody around? Ruby?"
A snap and thud yanked his attention to the fire. A log had toppled off the fire grate and rolled precariously near the edge of the stone hearth, just a few inches from the carpet. Mason hurried to the raised stone, grabbed a poker from the stand and awkwardly struggled with the crumbling log as it shattered in a shower of hot rolling embers. He'd never worked with a real fire. His apartment in NYC only had a gas fireplace for looks. He batted at the largest of the chunks with the poker but only managed to send a shower of sparks up to land on his inner thighs, exposed as he crouched.
"Shit!” Mason jumped back, ash-tipped poker flailing in the air. He stumbled on the edge of the oriental rug, his untied boot slipping part way off and tripping him all the more. One hand batted out the sparks on his jeans as he lost his balance and landed on his ass hard enough to jar his glasses askew, back shoved against a heavy wine-colored ottoman and matching chair. A new ember tumbled from the fire. Instinctively, he jumped forward and reached for it with his bare hand.
Suddenly Mason was lifted back from behind by a steel band that scooped him up around his waist. He was molded against a hard chest, his ass comfortably tucked into the crook of a thick, bent thigh. The wildly waving poker was plucked from his hand. A deep voice chuckled softly in his ear.
"Hold up there, torch. You're going to set yourself on fire and poke someone's eye out at the same time."
Panicked, Mason fought the restrictive hold until the man spoke, the warm, amused voice sending shivers of another kind down his back. Mason twisted around in surprise, as the hands on his waist became more of a steadying hold than a restraining grip. His body hadn't responded like that to another male voice in a long, long time.
Nose barely inches away from a square jaw, Mason looked up into a face that made him automatically reach up to push his crooked glasses back into place to make sure he was seeing things correctly. He got a swift glance at dark, cheerful eyes, at dark hair and broad cheekbones, together composing a very handsome face. Then, the steel arms heaved him into the ottoman beside the hearth chair and out of the secure embrace.
The man moved closer to the fire, exchanged the useless poker for long-handled shovel. He expertly scooped up the spattered, glowing coals and dumped them back into the crackling fire. It took him about ten seconds.
"Not much good around open flames, are you?” It was said with a grin and a wink so captivating Mason couldn't work up the steam to be mad. He sighed and picked at a tiny scorch spot on the leg of his jeans, trying hard not to gaze for too long into the stranger's dark eyes. He felt the man watching his every move, assessing him. He reached down and tugged his boot back into place.
"Not much, no. I opted out of the Boy Scouts.” He inexplicably wished he'd taken the time to put his contacts in after all. Mason shoved at the bridge of his glasses then readjusted them when they moved too snuggly against his face. “I got picked on enough for being smaller than the rest of the guys at school. I didn't think joining a group that concentrated on developing he-man skills was a great way to avoid more of the same."
The man chuckled again, the sound warm and rich. It made something unfurl in Mason's belly, deep down in the pit of stomach.
"I think they teach a few more things that he-man skills, but it's just a guess. Didn't have them where I grew up.” He sat down on the edge of the chair closely facing Mason's seat and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I'm Eli, by the way."
"Mason Everett.” Mason clasped the callused palm and watched his own hand disappear in the mighty grip. The heat from Eli's palm was intense. Mason actually thought his own would come away reddened, but his hand only tingled and his fingers twitched. He rubbed them on his jeans to lessen the sensation. Then, to stop his own gaze from lingering too long on the man, he glanced around the sitting room. Eli's charming smile might be catching, and it won't do to be chipper this early in the morning on a day he had promised himself he'd sleep in and hadn't.
"I was looking for Ruby. Is she the housekeeper? I thought she could tell me where to find breakfast."
A fifty-something, cheery woman with smooth skin and gray-streaked hair held in a loose bun by antique bone sticks had registered him on his arrival late last evening. She had chattered non-stop once she shook his hand in greeting, her own grip firm and lingering just a little longer than Mason had expected. By the time she had shown him his room, he'd realized that Ruby punctuated her gentle and reassuring presence with small touches and fluttering pats.
Ruby made him think of an old maiden relative, Aunt Sophie, the one everyone whispered was slightly off, but whose appreciation and lectures about art had inspired mason to try his hand at it. He never told her before she passed on, but she had put him on his career path. Slightly off her rocker or not, he had a soft spot for Aunt Sophie that colored his assessment of Ruby. Mason had instantly liked her, especially when she had told him breakfast was served until 10:00 a.m.
"Kitchen's that way. We're going to be informal here for the next week or two.” Eli pointed to an archway to their left. “No one else works here at the moment. Maid service comes in from town once a week.” He gave Mason a thoughtful, appraising stare. “Not usually many visitors this time of year. The leaves are gone and the snow hasn't come yet. Too cold and dreary for most people."
Eli hadn't pried, just left the door open for discussion if Mason wanted to elaborate on why he'd isolated himself out there.
But Mason wasn't in the mood to talk about it yet. He switched to a more neutral subject.
"But ... there was a Ruby here last night when I arrived.” Mason knew he had been tired but he didn't think he'd been hallucinating, as well. “She checked me in. She was a little eccentric, but I didn't think she'd walked in off the street. Kind of hard to do that way out here anyway. I'd assumed she worked here, owned the inn maybe.” He shrugged his shoulders, glanced around the comfortable, warm sitting room and shyly added, “The place has a homey feel to it, like a woman's touch. My apartment doesn't have that."
Eli smiled and gave a pleased chuckle. “Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment. My mother did all of the decorating before her death a while back. I've kept it pretty much the same since then. She had good taste.” Eli ran one of his palms over the fabric of the chair he was sitting on. Mason found himself wishing it was his skin under the hand instead. The thought startled him and he jumped when Eli's smooth, deep voice spoke again. “Ruby's just a friend. I had a town board meeting last night and couldn't be here myself. So she filled in. I should have given you my last name earlier. I'm the innkeeper. Eli Storm."
Mason's eyes betrayed him. Faced with seeing this man everyday for several weeks was going to be a challenge. Besides good looking, Eli was intelligent and hard working. This cozy, well-maintained inn showed that. Just his luck, Eli was turning out to be a nice guy as well.
His gaze flickered over Eli's features and he swallowed past a dry throat. He hadn't been interested in another man for so long he forgotten how it made him flush. Dating had always been difficult for him and now a twinge of guilt choked off the pleasant feeling of attraction.
"She was nice. I'd hope to see her again. She kind of looked familiar to me.” He shrugged again and readjusted his glasses. “Must be because she reminds me of someone I used to
know."
"You'll see her. She stops by a lot, especially during the slow season. Until next week, you're the only guest staying here.” Eli leaned closer and said in an amused, conspiratorial whisper, “She doesn't think I should be alone in a haunted house."
"What? Haunted? You're kidding me, right?"
Mason knew his eyes had gone wide behind his glasses by the way Eli's gaze was drawn to them. Eric had always said his glasses looked dorky, but they made his eyes appear bigger and their crystal green color hypnotizing. He tried to squint to counteract it, hoping Eli didn't think he was flirting with him. Even if his body was telling him he was attracted to the man, he wasn't ready for anything, including harmless flirting. He thought he'd seen a look of interest on the guy's face earlier, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't think it was a good idea to explore it. He'd just keep his newfound fascination with the innkeeper confined to his daydreams.
"You don't actually believe in that, do you?” Mason couldn't help glancing around the room. It still held the gray edges of morning light. He could tell it was going to be a dreary, dark day. Perfect for introspection. And ghost stories. He shifted a bit closer to the fire and tugged his sweater sleeves down to the tips of his fingers. “Ghosts? Who is it?"
"Reported to be my great-grandfather, Eugene Storm. The man that built this house.” Eli glanced around the room, too, but Mason couldn't tell if it was more for effect than an effort to find anything otherworldly. “Never seen anything to completely convince me of it."
"Not completely?"
Eli tilted his head to one side and shrugged, his dark eyebrows raised and then lowered once, very quickly. The smile dimmed a little, but a sparkle of mischief shone in his eyes. “No, not completely."
"Give! What?"
"Not much. Maybe a shimmer of white out of the corner of my eye, or wind that seems to call my name on the cliffs, but I'm told I'm not very sensitive to the paranormal vibes. Too practical and closed-minded.” He smiled wider. “For a gay man, I rate low on the touchy-feely meter."
Heart beating a little faster at that last revelation, Mason pretended not to let Eli's sexual orientation register as important to him. Not quite knowing how to read the other man, Mason narrowed his eyes and persisted.
"But Ruby believes the house is haunted?” He jumped slightly when his stomach suddenly rumbled, adding a disembodied growl to the gloomy conversation. He placed a sweater sleeve-covered hand on his stomach and cast an embarrassed grimace at Eli. “Sorry. No ghosts or goblins, just me. It's been a long time since lunch yesterday."
"Yes, Ruby believes in ghosts but she calls them spirits.” Smile still intact, Eli shook his head and stood. “She also believes in three meals a day, starting with breakfast."
His tone was brisk and crisp, making the whole room seem less dark and eerie to Mason. Eli's voice had a power to it that made it a one-man PA system if he pitched it just right. It made Mason's stomach flutter like the drums in the marching bands did.
"I've only made coffee so far. Why don't you join me in the kitchen and I'll make us both something. Like pumpkin pancakes and sausage?"
"Pumpkin pancakes? Ah ... Do you have any cereal?"
* * * *
The walk to the cliffs only took about ten minutes. The path was winding and long so Mason decided to take a more direct route up the hill through rock and scrub grass. The grass grew in clumps so thick and raveled that it nearly tripped Mason on several occasions. He stopped after the first twenty feet to ties his boots tighter. At home he preferred sneakers. The hiking boots he packed for the wilds of northern Maine were heavy and restrictive. He always wore them loosely tied, but he could see it being hazardous to his health. He'd have to remember to take the time to tie them properly.
He persisted in taking his makeshift route, but by the time he reached the point Eli had described over breakfast as having the best view of the ocean, Mason was panting and his thighs burned. City walking and apartment elevators hadn't prepared him for hiking up a rugged hilltop.
At the edge of the narrow cliff, Mason threw himself down on the ground. He lay back to watch the gray clouds gathering while he caught his breath again. They didn't move with any real speed, but they were growing in number and density. The air was heavy with moisture, scented by grass and the ocean. His sweater and jeans had become damp to the touch. The sand and grass under him molded to his body and stayed that way, firmly packed.
It was peaceful, if a little storm-swept. Mason rolled over onto his belly and wiggled closer to the edge so he could see both the blue-green ocean and the gray sky.
Breathing back to normal, Mason propped his chin on his hands and listened to the sound of the water and wind mixed with the occasional sea gull cry and the faint rustling of the tall grasses around him. He couldn't hear the waves breaking against the bottom of the cliff from this position, but he saw them in his mind, crashing on the rocks below, beating uselessly against an unyielding surface.
It reminded him of his pain over Eric's death. He felt as if he was riding a wave, always trying to reach the safety of dry, stable land, but the rocks, like the harshness of Eric's death, constantly loomed in his way, forcing him back into the water, back into the cold, pointless hollow his life had become.
He hadn't meet anyone new he was interested enough in to consider getting to know better. That is, if he didn't count the new innkeeper. Eli Storm had definitely made his cock sit up and take notice. Eli did funny things to his stomach, too.
And, here he was—lying in wet scrub grass on the edge of a tall cliff in dreary Maine, listening to the ocean, watching the storm clouds gather and getting sand in his underwear and hair.
A particularly dark cloud pushed its way into the gray gathering overhead and Mason decided if he was going to get a look at the rocks below it was now or never. The wind was whipping his hair in his eyes and the air had a biting sting to its chill.
He crawled the last few feet to the edge of the cliff and poked his head out over the drop. The huge, white rocks along the shoreline stood up out of the whirling, foam-peaked waters. They were battered and dowsed by waves of frothy white that left behind shallow black pools on their pitted and worn surfaces. There were hundreds of them all along the cliff's edge where rugged land met unyielding ocean. It made Mason dizzy to look at them.
"Whoa! Where's a guard rail when you need one?"
His voice was lost in the wind. Mason propelled himself backward on his belly for a couple yards before standing up. He didn't mind heights, but the spongy wet sand and earth under him didn't fill him with confidence that close to the edge.
Once on his feet, he realized just how much sand had made its way into his boots and clothing. He shook out his sweater, dusted off the outside of his jeans, wiggled and shook his butt trying to dislodge sand from inside his pants, and then looked for a clean, dry place to sit down to work off his boots.
Several feet away a six-foot long outcropping of earth and rocks jutted up from the otherwise unbroken plateau. The rocks were white and worn smooth on the surfaces, like the shoreline rocks below. Someone had carried them up from the base of the cliffs, rescuing each one from the punishing ocean waters.
The largest stone was long and thin, almost like a park bench. Mason sat on it, shivering at the cold that immediately seeped into his bones through his damp jeans. Moving with as much haste as he could with cold, numb fingers, he worked loose the leather ties on his ankle-high boots and shook each one out. He was brushing the last of the clinging sand from his sock when a hand pushed at his back, nudging him forward. He lost the grip on his boot. It tumbled to the sandy grass.
"What the hell?"
Mason jumped and twisted around, surprised he wasn't alone. Then ... astonished that he was alone. There was no one at his back. He spun around on the rock and checked in all direction, but only a lone seagull flew overhead. There was no other living soul near him nor could one have advanced on him without his knowing unless the route had been over th
e cliff's edge, and he knew that was impossible. The beach had been deserted when he had looked down only a few moments ago.
The cold, building wind whipped his too-long bangs into his eyes, catching them on his glasses, and blinding him until he swiped them out of the way with an impatient hand. Heart pounding from the momentary fright, Mason glanced around one more time, convinced himself it had just been the wind or his imagination and sat back down to retrieve his boot.
He spread his legs to reach down between them to grab his boot, tugged its heavy leather back into place and tied it in record time. Still bent low working the ties, a dark shadow passed over him and he jerked his face upward.
He laughed out loud, a nervous, out of place sound, as he realized he had overreacted to a pair of snowy egrets as they flew by, low and large.
So much for this calming nature shit. A soul-searching, solitary walk on the cliffs is not as relaxing as the movies lead everyone to believe. I need to get a grip.
Closing his eyes, Mason took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He squared his shoulders and let his chin drop to his chest, attempting a relaxation technique a yoga instructor had shown him once. The tension eased from his back a bit, and he felt his arms loosen up slightly. The wind became irregular, a siren's song, lulling him into a calmer state.
A tingling pressure blossomed at the back of his neck, the spot that always felt so good when Eric rubbed it after Mason had spent a long hard day hunched over his drawing table. Mason concentrated on the pressure, expecting it to spread down his back and travel through his body. But, no. The pressure didn't move, didn't slide down his body. Instead, it rested there, at his neck, growing colder, growing heavier. The visual of an ice bag popped into his mind, then morphed into the image of a bloody, refrigerated dinner steak lying on his neck before turning into the white, icy, cold hand of a dead man.
"Fuck!"
Leaping off the rock, Mason stumbled away from the outcropping, one hand massaging the back of his neck, trying to restore warmth into the cold flesh. His eyes frantically searched the empty land around him. He started to run without conscious thought.
Scared Stiff Page 2
