1. Monique
Monique
My uniform is already pressed and hanging on the closet door when I step out of the shower.
I blow-dry my hair before pulling it into a tight, unshakeable bun that will last me the entire night. Then I dress in a black pencil skirt, blue blouse, and black blazer.
The same studs go in. Small, gold, the cheapest pair in the case, and I've never once wanted a different pair.
The bag waits by the door, packed, the strap long enough to go across my body. I check it, though nothing inside has moved — keys, phone, and cash folded.
My eyes track the room, searching for anything that might be out of place.
The white walls are bare except for a nail above the couch, under which a framed print has leaned against the baseboard since March, wrapped in cellophane.
Behind the couch sit folded moving boxes with their corners still taped, just in case.
The lease taped to the fridge says month-to-month in a checkbox somebody filled in for me, and I never asked to change it.
I stare at it a moment longer. My sheets are tucked in neatly. The lamp is turned off. Books are arranged neatly on my nightstand. Shoes are under the bed.
I really need to visit the farmers' market and get a shoe rack.
Other than that, everything is spotless.
Except for the red cardigan lying on my bed. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the pristine white sheets. It has deteriorated over the years. It was my own fault anyway. I tried to preserve her smell and thought it smart not to wash it.
But by the time I realized her flowery scent was now mixed with dust, it was too late. No amount of detergent could get it out, not even with my skills. I still keep it because it's Mom’s.
I turn the lock twice and go down the back stairwell.
The warmth comes up to meet me before I'm halfway — sugar, yeast, and the deep under-smell of ovens that never fully cool. I push through the side door that Rosa props open on the nights I work, so I don't have to stand in the rain at the front.
She's on a call, the phone pinned between her ear and shoulder, holding tongs in one hand and conducting whatever she's saying in fast Spanish. Her silver hoops are the size of my fist. A streak of flour runs up the inside of her wrist to the elbow, but her lipstick is still perfect.
She sees me, rolls her eyes to the ceiling, mouths mi sobrino, points the tongs at the phone, and goes right back to it.
I get my own coffee. I know where the cups live, and I prefer to do it myself.
By the time the lid's on, she's hung up and dropped the tongs on the counter with a clatter and put both hands flat on the case like she needs it to hold her up.
“I’m sick of men,” she says.
What a coincidence. So am I. “You say that all the time, Rosa. Which one is it this time? Julio? Enrique?”
She sighs. “Neither. It’s Brian. He’s new.
He slipped into my bakery a few days ago.
” She grins. “I had him wrapped around my little finger by the time he finished his cup of coffee.” Lifting a tray from the case, she turns it so I can see the gap in the rows.
"You see this? Conchas. For his…” she adds air quotes.
“Nephew's christening. I made sixty and set them to rest. This morning, fifty-one.
He ate nine in the night like a raccoon, Monique, and then he tells me they were a little dry. "
I sip. "Were they dry?"
"That is not the point." Her mouth's already curling up. She shakes her head at the tray. “I shouldn’t have let him spend the night. Now I have to make nine more.” Sliding the tray back, she looks at me from head to toe. "Do you ever wear anything else? Maybe a dress to flatter your figure?”
I drink my coffee. We’ve had this conversation a dozen times. It doesn’t change anything.
"One day," she says, and now the tongs become a pointed finger, "I take you to a real store. We buy something that isn't that ugly uniform."
"Hey!" The words come to me easily, just like they do when I’m playing new Monique. “I happen to like the uniform.”
"Nobody likes that thing, mija.” She raises her hands. “And I’m no psychic, but I think that’s why you’re single. You sleep during the day, work at night. When will you ever have the time for love?”
Never. “I’m good, Rosa. That’s why I have you. You always have the best stories.”
She scoffs, moves to the back of the counter, and returns with a paper bag. “They’re your favorite. Made it last night when Brian passed out from exhaustion, if you know what I mean.”
I frown at the muffins in the bag. “Did you at least wash your hands?”
She grins. I groan.
She laughs. “You’re so easy. Yes, I did.” She waves me off, pleased with herself. “Now go before I find a way to keep you here.”
I thank her and turn toward the door.
The front bell goes, and a delivery guy ducks in dripping, a box under one arm, squinting at the label.
The empty upstairs unit, 2B. Rosa sighs.
She's already signed for 2B's wrong deliveries three times this month and is about to do it again.
She grabs the clipboard as I take my umbrella and go into the rain.
I’m still perfectly dry when I get to the Langford hotel. Being wet wouldn’t have made any difference since I always keep a spare uniform in my bag.
I walk fast with the coffee warming in one hand and an umbrella in the other, past the closed florist, the bar's last two smokers, and the bank clock that's been four minutes slow since I started night shifts.
The marble portico rises from the wet glow, the doorman turns the handle, and I'm inside — rain left behind, the lobby all mine.
Not on paper.
On paper, I'm an overnight front desk with multiple people on the ladder between me and anything that's mine. But the marble, the low lamps, and the dark hush over a hundred rooms of sleeping strangers at this hour, that's mine to keep running.
I move behind the desk and organize my station.
My computer is slightly facing to the left, away from the light. I place my coffee in the compartment below the desk to prevent any damage in case of a spill. Other personal effects are in the same compartment but well away from my coffee.
The late arrivals come in, and I catch a double booking right away — a corner suite has been assigned to two different guests for the same check-in, Mr. Aldridge and Ms. Connell. Both are confirmed, and both have prepaid. Someone on the day shift moved too quickly.
If I leave it alone, it becomes a conflict between two tired people. I move Ms. Connell to the better suite on the sixth floor, comp the upgrade so it reads as a courtesy instead of an apology, and flag the file. It takes two minutes.
No one ever knows it almost happened. That’s the job.
A room-service ticket for room 314 is printed in the kitchen and automatically routed to the third floor. But I remember the guest's history — they were moved to a different room on the fifth floor in the middle of the night, and the computer system hasn't updated yet.
I manage to catch the food runner at the service elevator before he wastes a trip taking a club sandwich to the wrong floor. He thanks me, and I tell him it’s the system’s fault, not his.
It’s the truth, and it makes him feel better.
Room 412 calls down and asks for nothing. He just breathes into the phone as if it might guess for him. I tell him I'll send up extra towels and a second robe, and he agrees, surprised every time that I know, and housekeeping's moving before he's set the receiver down.
People think being known is a luxury. For some of them, it's the only thing the money's buying.
Juan's at the bell stand, hands folded, watching the doors. He catches my eye and tips his head a quarter inch at the quiet lobby. I tip mine back.
For weeks, I’ve been bothered by a simple problem — the late-checkout key card returns. Key cards pile up, and housekeeping can’t tell which rooms are empty, so they wait outside occupied rooms or stay idle while clean rooms sit untouched.
The whole late morning runs hot just because of bad timing.
I flip a notepad and sketch a solution. We already have unused lockboxes by the elevators. Late guests drop their key card in a numbered slot on the way out. Housekeeping checks the slots in order. The desk is no longer the bottleneck. No new gear or staff needed.
The drawing looks clean, and I like it as much as a quiet lobby.
Juan's near, so I show him.
He reads it. "Nobody up top has ever looked at this."
"It's not complicated."
"That's why nobody's looked." He taps the grid. "Can I show Chuck? Day supervisor. He'd want to see this."
I lift one shoulder. "Sure."
I don't say the rest — that I've seen good ideas get taken by higher-ups and credited to someone else or disappear entirely. A working fix should work regardless of who gets the credit. I slide him the notepad, turn back to the screen, and then the doors open.
He’s here.
My hand's on his key card before I decide to reach for it.
That's what I hate. I've already programmed myself — every Friday, I hold the room. After three weeks, I stopped letting it slip. After four, I stopped pretending it was about efficiency.
He hasn't said a word, but I've already done it, like a reflex I never agreed to.
Weston Blackwood stops at the desk, rain dark on his coat and damp in his hair — men like him don't carry umbrellas. He's not polished. That's what I always notice.
His boots are heavy on the marble, his gray eyes are clearer than the weather, and his stubble makes his jaw look wider than I remember.
He clears his throat. "Same room. If it's open."
My heart flips every time I see him and hear his voice. He's the only man who's ever stirred this — the same pull I had that night in Newport — and no one since has come close.
That night is a blur, but my body still remembers him.
The pull is back now, as I lower my gaze and pretend to check my computer.
"It's open." Because I reserved it.
He smiles and just stands there without taking the card. He’s staring at me intensely, as if he wants to say something. Eventually, he takes the card.