I tap the button. “Still here. Currently scrubbing a stain that might be a crime scene. If anyone asks, I saw nothing.”
“Please don’t say that on the staff radio.”
“Relax. If this place had a conscience, it would’ve called the cops before I got here.”
“Thea.”
“Fine. Alleged crime scene. Better?”
He sighs, but I hear the smile. “Three rooms left.”
I stop. “Three? I had two rooms left ten minutes ago.”
“Room 1812 requested full turndown. Champagne incident.”
“On the bed?” I ask.
“And the curtains.”
I close my eyes. “How do you get champagne on curtains? Actually, don’t answer that. I want to sleep tonight.”
“I don’t ask questions.”
“Coward.”
“Thea.”
“Finnnnne. I’m going.”
“And be nice to the guests.”
“I’m always nice to the guests.”
“You told Mr. Hargrove his emotional support ferret looked judgmental.”
“It did.”
Marco Vitale runs the Belvedere night staff like a very elegant dictator. He cares about folded corners, polished silver, and whether the lobby flowers look emotionally balanced.
He also sneaks me leftover tiramisu, so I forgive him most things.
There is very little I won’t excuse in the name of free dessert.
By the time I finish eighteen, my back hurts, my bun is listing to the left, and my audiobook billionaire has moved on to things that would make me blush if I weren’t currently elbow-deep in someone’s trash.
He is having a transformative evening. I am holding a used floss pick.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I almost ignore it.
Then I see the name.
SYLVIE.
My chest tightens.
We haven’t really talked in months. We were once “share everything, even fries” close. Before she kept orbiting bars and bright people and I sank into rent–work–sleep–repeat.