Christmas Spirit: An Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Age Gap MM Christmas Romance

by Ali Ryecart

  At least Roland wasn’t there to see him make a fool of himself.

  Georgie backed away, putting distance between himself and the plaster model.

  To the side of a large window stood another Christmas tree, as tall and lush as those in the entrance hall. Like those, it was hung with decorations. Reindeer, elves, snowmen, and yet more Santas — little soft knitted ones, fortunately — all jostling for space. Underneath, a big pile of boxes wrapped in bright festive paper and adorned with extravagant bows, were tumbled together. Every box would be empty.

  They had done the same thing at the Manor. Christmas trees everywhere, with fake presents underneath, although the trees hadn’t been as big and grand as the ones here, or the fake gifts as extravagant. It was a nice illusion, but that was all it was.

  Gloom settled on Georgie’s shoulders. It was an idyllic, Christmas card scene. But it wasn’t like any Christmas he remembered, growing up. His Christmas Days had been spent hiding in his room as his mum and stepdad got drunker and drunker, paving the way for shouts and screams, and hurled abuse, before—

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Georgie spun around.

  Nicholas, no more than a couple of steps away. How come he’d not heard him?

  “God, you made me jump,” Georgie said, a nervous laugh falling from his lips.

  The guy was no more than a foot away from him but he’d not made a sound. Nicholas said nothing in reply, only smiled and stood perfectly still, making Georgie think of the plaster model by the fire.

  “I—I was wondering if I could use, erm, use your landline? I haven’t got a phone, but Mr. Fletcher Jones can’t get any signal on his. Which is due to the weather, I guess.”

  The old man’s mellow face puckered in regret. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but the landline’s down. The weather, as you so rightly say. Is there anybody in particular you need to get a message to?”

  No tingled on the tip of Georgie’s tongue. But it seemed like such a sad and pathetic admission.

  “Erm, it’s okay. I suppose it’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  Nicholas’ face wreathed in a deep smile, and the skin at the outer edges of his eyes crinkled. A shiver ran the length of Georgie’s spine. The old man looked so much like the plaster Santa that one could have been the model of the other. The plaster Santa that—

  Moved, and smiled. Yeah, right, ‘cause it did.

  “I trust the tea was to your liking?” Nicholas asked.

  “Sorry?”

  Oh God, of course. The tea, the broken crockery. That was why he’d come down in the first place. The broken crockery that looked antique, and expensive.

  Oh shit.

  “Yes, it was lovely. Thank you very much, it went down a treat. But I, er, I had a bit of an accident, I’m afraid. I knocked the stand over, and broke it.”

  Just don’t tell me it was an old family heirloom…

  “I really wouldn’t worry about that. What’s broken can always be mended.”

  “What? Oh, yes, I guess it can. But I’m sorry.”

  “If that’s all, sir, I will bid you good afternoon until dinner later this evening,” Nicholas said, turning to go.

  “Wait! I mean, don’t go. Please.”

  Nicholas turned, his brows arched in question.

  “Tomorrow, I’ve got to get the train to London. So, erm, could you or a member of staff take me? Obviously I’m willing to pay.”

  Oh please let it not be too far, please let it not cost too much money…

  “Let tomorrow take care of itself.”

  What kind of answer was that?

  “But I have to get back to London. Surely somebody could help?”

  Nicholas inclined his head. “I will make enquiries, sir. If you would care to wait?”

  Nicholas gestured towards a sofa in front of the fire, and Georgie stepped forward, his gaze flickering towards the plaster Santa, the Santa who—

  Get a grip.

  “Erm, sure. Yes. Thank you.” Georgie sat down, on the side of the sofa furthest away from the Santa. “Oh, just one thing, but I’ve been wondering. Where are the other—oh.”

  He was alone. Nicholas was gone, and nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Nine

  Roland woke up with a start, a thin sheen of sweat coating his partially naked body. He’d been dreaming. Dreaming of Georgie. The boy had been straddling him, smiling, his lips soft and damp, his hips rocking backwards and forwards, before he’d inched down his body and—

  “Christ.”

  He stared down at his hand, wrapped around his erection, which bulged beneath the thick and fluffy bath towel tied around his middle. His hand felt good there, and he squeezed and pulled, losing himself in the delicious tingle deep in his balls. He was harder than he’d been in — well, he couldn’t remember when he’d last been hard, or not like this.

  But for Georgie, his kitchen boy?

  Whipping his hand away, he wiped it across his damp brow. It had just been a dream, that was all, nothing more than a reaction to the hard driving conditions, the endless diversions, and this odd hotel, all of it in the company, the unwanted company, of Georgie Forrester.

  Roland pushed himself up to sitting. His cock was still stubbornly refusing to deflate. He needed to get dressed, and get dressed quickly. The last thing he wanted was for Georgie to return and find him — like this. He pulled a loose, comfortable shirt and a pair of woollen trousers from his bag before he noticed that the small trolley that had held the tea things was gone.

  “Oh no, don’t say…” Had a member of the housekeeping team come into the room when he was asleep and found him with his hand on his…? Roland groaned as he dressed as fast as he could.

  A few minutes later Roland closed the door to the room, and looked along the short hallway. Three or four other doors, all guest bedrooms he assumed, and all closed. The hallway was silent. No muffled TV, no indistinct chatter, no sounds of anybody moving around in their rooms. No trays with used glasses or crockery ready for the staff to whisk away. Nothing, other than silence. He and Georgie could have been the only guests. Which of course was ridiculous, otherwise Nicholas wouldn’t have claimed the hotel was busy, and would have offered two rooms.

  Roland made his way downstairs to the reception, which was as soundless and deserted as the hallway he’d just come from.

  “Hello,” he called out, but nobody answered. as his voice was swallowed into the void.

  Roland felt for his watch, but he’d not put it on after his shower. His gaze fell to the large clock on the end of the desk and he gasped. It was already 7.00pm. Had he really been asleep for over two hours?

  Seven o’clock… Dinner service should be well under way…

  Along with breakfast service, dinner service was one of the busiest times in a hotel’s day. The place should be bustling with guests heading off to their evening meals, or sitting around in groups or couples, talking and laughing as they enjoyed pre-dinner drinks. Wherever he had worked, in large hotels and small, in cities, towns and villages, in England and abroad, it had been the same everywhere.

  Everywhere, except for here.

  A door leading off the reception caught his eye. Walking across, he stood on the threshold of what appeared to be the guest lounge. The room was decked with festive decorations and a large, extravagantly dressed tree. It was a scene straight from an advertiser’s image of a traditional Christmas but, like the reception, it was silent and empty.

  No abandoned newspapers or magazines, no coffee cups on side tables. No indication of the life of a busy hotel, a hotel that was apparently full. There was no sign of any guests, nor of the staff to look after their every whim. Staff at Pendleton Manor were instructed to be unobtrusive, but even then they were visible, always there in the background.

  A fire burned bright in the grate, next to which stood a model Santa bearing more than a passing resemblance to Nicholas. And where was he? Roland huffed. He wanted a large G&T, and somebody could damn
well get him one.

  Roland turned to leave when a sigh stopped him. He peered at the sofa in front of the fire, and a pair of denim clad legs stretched out, ending in a pair of beaten up trainers.

  “Were you able to use the land—”

  Roland strode over to the sofa, the rest of the words dying in his throat as he peered down. Georgie was fast asleep. Roland reached out to shake him awake, but Georgie sighed again, and muttered something incomprehensible, and Roland’s hand stilled before it fell back to his side.

  The room was lit only from the soft light of table lamps and the flicker of the fire. Shadows shifted over Georgie, and all Roland could do was stare down at the boy.

  Pink and pouty lips billowed out with each regular soft breath. Dark stubble was breaking through his pale skin, as dark as Georgie’s messy, mussed hair that, in the flickering firelight, was as deep and glossy as a winter raven’s inky feathers. Long, thick lashes formed crescent moons on the shadowed, bruised looking skin under his eyes.

  God, but he looks tired… How hadn’t he noticed that earlier? But Roland knew the answer. He’d been concerned only with his own screwed up plans and his resentment at having his kitchen boy forced into his company.

  A bubble of contrition broke in the pit of Roland’s stomach. The kitchen boy. The lowest rung of the ladder. The one who was at everybody’s beck and call, castigated by all and thanked by none. Yes, he had been hard on Georgie, but he was hard on everybody, and was hardest of all on himself. It was because he expected the best, and would settle for nothing less. But he had been especially tough on the boy, from his very first day, when he had no reason other than the one he kept buried deep in a cold, dark place inside of him.

  A log shifted in the grate, hissing and spitting bright red sparks. Georgie jerked and his eyes snapped open, eyes that were huge and sleep fogged as he blinked up at Roland.

  “I went right out. More tired than I realised.”

  Georgie yawned. His plump lips stretched wide, and Roland’s balls tightened, as his dream, a dream that had felt so real, burst into life in rainbow-bright glory in his head.

  “Did you use the landline?” he rasped.

  “No,” Georgie said, sitting up, and tilting his face up to Roland. “Nicholas said it’s out of order, due to the weather. I was going to call for a cab in the morning, but with the line down… So, I asked him about having one of the hotel staff take me to the station in the morning.”

  “I said I’d take you.”

  Georgie looked away, and stared into the fire, drumming his fingers on his knees.

  “I know you did, but I reckon you’ve gone beyond the call of duty. I don’t suppose we can be a million miles from town, and you’ve got a home to go to, so it’d be for the best if I can wangle a lift from somebody here. Nicholas said he’d make enquiries.” Georgie air quoted the words. “Who of, though, I’m not sure. There’s neither hide nor hair of anybody else here, staff nor guests. Do you think he runs the place single handedly?”

  “I doubt it. The clientele are no doubt elderly, and elderly guests tend to keep to their rooms.”

  “I guess so.”

  Some did, but not all. Roland didn’t believe his words, as much as he guessed Georgie didn’t. No noise, no chatter, no movement. None of those abandoned newspapers and magazines, or empty tea and coffee cups…

  “As for trying to get a lift, I intend to leave early so I’ll take you to the station. I said I would, and I’ve no intention of going back on my word. So, forget about trying to make alternative arrangements.”

  And no, I don’t have a home to go to. I have a house, but it’s not a home…

  “Thank you,” Georgie said, his mouth twisting into a lopsided smile. “Don’t know why you’re so determined to be stuck with me, but thanks.” Georgie pushed himself up and stretched, revealing a band of taut, pale skin above the waistline of his jeans. Roland looked away, and cleared his dry, rough throat.

  “What’s that over there?” Georgie nodded to the corner of the room. Roland followed his gaze to an ornate and old-fashioned drinks trolley. On top sat an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a note propped up against the bucket.

  “That wasn’t there when I came in. Or I don’t think it was.”

  “Then somebody must have brought it in when you were asleep,” Roland said uncertainly. He hadn’t noticed it when he came into the room, but he must have missed it, that was all. He walked over to the trolley and picked up the note.

  “‘To Mr. Fletcher Jones and Mr. Forrester, with compliments of the season,’” he read aloud.

  Roland turned the little card over. There was nothing else. No hotel name printed on the back, no website address, no telephone number, no clue as to what the place was called, or where they were. He picked up the bottle and inspected the front label, his brows lifting. It was an excellent vintage, and one they served at the Manor, when they could get it.

  “With compliments. So, you think it’s free?” Georgie asked, appearing at Roland’s shoulder and looking over at the note Roland still held in his hand.

  “I doubt it very much.” Roland smirked.

  “Oh… I suppose not. It’ll be pricey, this being a hotel. What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m opening it,” Roland said, removing the gold foil. He didn’t give a damn how much it cost. If there was a day when he deserved a drink, this was it. “You’ll join me? Drinking alone isn’t a good idea.” He twisted off the cage with more force than he’d meant. Drinking alone. He’d done enough of that over the years. It would make a change to have company for once.

  Even if it was his kitchen boy.

  “I won’t have any. Might get to like it, which wouldn’t be such a good idea, as it’d be the first and probably last time I’d get to taste champagne.” Georgie shrugged and wandered over towards the window.

  Never had champagne…? Roland looked from the bottle to Georgie and then back again. How could Georgie never have had champagne? But he knew. A kitchen boy’s wages would barely run to a discount bottle of basic wine, let alone champagne of this quality.

  “Everybody should drink champagne, even if only once.”

  With an expert twist of the bottle, the cork popped, releasing a sigh and a plume of smoky vapour. Filling the glasses, he picked them up by the stems and took them over to the window, where Georgie gazed out into the blackness, his brow pressed to the pane, a little cloud of condensation forming from his warm breath.

  Roland held out the glass. Georgie looked at it, then at Roland, and back at the glass before he shook his head.

  “If I don’t have any, then I won’t have to pay.”

  “You don’t have to pay. At all. I told you I’d take care of the bill, just like I will for this. I’ve opened it, so you may as well join me.”

  “You said you’d pay for the accommodation. Thank you. But that’s all. Anything else, and I’ll pay my share. But I can’t afford to pay for as much as a sniff of that.”

  “For goodness sake. Will you just take it?” Roland snapped. “You said you’d never tasted champagne, well here’s your chance. And it’s a good one, too.”

  Georgie stared at the glass, making no effort to take it as he chewed on his lower lip, indecision dancing in his grey eyes.

  “If there’s one time of year to drink champagne, it’s Christmas,” Roland added, his gaze trained on Georgie, watching the younger man’s resolve weaken.

  “Well, I suppose so… It’s not like I’m going to get another chance… But just the one glass, just to be able to say I drank champagne.”

  Georgie took a tentative sip. Roland half turned, feigning that he wasn’t watching Georgie. He tamped down the smile that threatened to break out at Georgie’s expected exclamation.

  “Wow, that’s – I don’t know what, but I like it.”

  Roland wheeled the trolley over to the sofa. If he was going to be drinking champagne of this quality, he’d do it in c
omfort. Sighing, he settled back into the plush cushions, letting the champagne do its work, letting it ease the tensions and frustrations from his muscles. So comfortable. No wonder Georgie had fallen asleep. He glanced at Georgie — and his near empty glass.

  “Here,” Roland said, topping him up. “But take it slower this time. Savour. Feel the weight on your tongue, and the juicy burst of flavour. You’ll never taste anything this good.”

  “Wouldn’t quite say that.” Georgie spluttered and coughed at the same time.

  Mortification gripped Roland hard, pulling him tight. What in God’s name had he sounded like? But he knew, and so did Georgie. No wonder the boy had laughed.

  “What I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. Wine tasting speak. Shouldn’t have bolted it down, I know that much, but it’s so good. The second-best thing I’ve tasted. Yeah, definitely the second.” Georgie laughed again, his shoulders jiggling up and down as he took a small sip, his tongue lapping at his damp lips.

  The second-best thing…

  Georgie’s words went straight to Roland’s balls. Roland’s sip turned into a slug, and like Georgie, he spluttered and coughed.

  “Take it slower this time. Savour—”

  “Yes, all right. Don’t be a smart arse. And there’s no need to repeat my—”

  “Gentlemen. I trust your pre-dinner apéritif is acceptable?”

  Nicholas stood in the doorway, his hands resting on his round stomach. He was smiling, but there was something more, something akin to satisfaction, as though what he was seeing pleased him. No, that was ridiculous, it was—

  “Very. Roland reckons it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted…” Georgie’s words dissolved into a snort of laughter as he gulped back his champagne.

  “It’s Mr. Fletcher Jones to you,” Roland grumbled. But didn’t Roland sound so much better? “Thank you, Nicholas. Please excuse Mr. Forrester. He is, as you can see, very young. Perhaps it was a little unwise to allow him to imbibe.”

  Roland met Georgie’s eyes, his own narrowing, at the same time as he smiled.

  Not such a smart mouth now…