Read Online Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel by Jane Costello - Free Book Online

ought to have been. I just kind of stood there, carp-mouthed and muttering, ‘You?
You’re
the new owner?’ as I tried to think of a way to
explain why I’d have greeted the news that he was the son of the Anti-Christ more warmly.
    Of course I was polite. Or perhaps a wimp. Either way, I hid the contempt sizzling through my veins as, when quizzed gently by Emily, he said simply that he’d be going into further detail
with the staff in due course, thereby doing nothing to abate anyone’s fears about the fate of the Moonlight Hotel – otherwise known as Lakeland’s newest Travel Haven
.
I
shudder.
    It goes without saying that this puts a wildly different perspective on my views about him and Emily.
    There is no way I’d have considered him as a potential love-match for my gorgeous friend if I’d known what he was up to. And despite the handsome smile and sexy swagger, one thing
was absolutely clear last night: he can’t be trusted.
    Worryingly though, this is obvious to everyone except Emily, who refuses to be put off, despite my clearly-expressed rant on the way home.
    I run for twenty minutes until the rain gets heavier, and by the time I’ve completed my circuit, there is steam coming off the skin on my arms. The second I reach the car and stop to catch
my breath, cold encroaches on my skin, rain slicing into my cheeks.
    I grab my car key and dig my fingers into the knot on my leggings to release it. Only, it doesn’t budge. My nails are too soft from rain to be effective against the string, no matter how
determined my attempts and colourful my profanities.
    A gust of bitter wind nearly sweeps me off my feet and, with rain lashing against my face, the more I fiddle with the knot, the more it refuses to budge. I’m swearing hypermanically,
sweating despair as the red raw skin of my fingers burns – until I am hit by a bolt of genius. I leave the key where it is – stuck to my midriff – and simply click open the lock.
Then I slide into the seat, soaking, freezing, but with a temporary respite from the elements.
    I briefly consider an escape attempt that involves twisting into a position that would allow me to put the key in the ignition while it is still attached to my belt. Then it strikes me that, in
the absence of a lifetime’s experience in circus contortion, it’s out of the question.
    In the end, there is no option but to whip off my leggings, drape them on the dashboard and start the ignition, thrusting the heating on high enough to recreate the climate inside a tumble
dryer.
    If you’d told me this morning that I’d have been relieved at the prospect of sitting in my car in nothing but a sweaty Nike thong, attempting to bring my bum cheeks back to normal
body temperature, I wouldn’t have believed you.
    But I tootle back home, reminding myself that it’s a single-track road most of the way and, even if someone overtakes me, I’d only be visible from mid-shoulders upwards.
    All goes well, until I pull up to a junction adjacent to a white hotel service van. I glance up anxiously – at the exact moment when the passenger, a bearded, heavily-tattooed bloke of
indeterminate age, glances down.
    His response when he sees that I’m near-naked from the waist down is not a subtle one. His eyes catapult out of his head. His jaw bungees to the floor. He even nudges his friend to have a
look, to which I can only respond with the expression of an outraged
Carry On
matron before the lights change and I slam my foot on the accelerator.
    The rest of the journey is incident-free. All I want to do when I pull up in front of the cottage is scuttle into the house, run to the shower and get ready to work.
    Fortunately, Agnes seems to have abandoned the butchering of her shrubs and the coast is clear. So I creep out of the car, shut the door and prepare to make a dash for it. However, I
haven’t taken a single step when my elderly neighbour appears out of nowhere, brandishing her power tool.
    ‘Your