Mister Weston

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re still working today though, right?” His glasses slid down his nose. “Jacqueline and Maria are still out sick.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” He opened his drawer and handed me a brown paper gift-box. “This is for you. The resident in 80A said he wanted to ‘express his gratitude’ to the employee who cleaned his room the most.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He shrugged. “But right after bringing me this, he signed off on banning our services from ever entering his unit again.”

“I’m sorry.” I tugged at the thin, pink ribbon that was tied around the box. “I hope it wasn’t something I did.”

“I highly doubt that, Gillian,” he said. “Anyway, the assignment lists were redone over the weekend, so be sure to take a look. I need you on mailroom duty for an hour or two. Then floors 65 and 72. Oh, and—” He paused as his office phone rang. “Don’t forget to tell HR what your official last day will be before you go.”

I gave him an understanding nod as he answered his phone, and walked away. I locked myself into the employee changing room and quickly slipped out of my Elite uniform and into The Madison’s required khaki pants and short-sleeved white polo shirt.

Stocking my cleaning cart with supplies, I glanced at the new assignment board and noticed that a huge red “X” had been marked over unit 80A. There was a note written next to it: Resident will be hiring his own private service. Was adamant about canceling ASAP for some reason. DO NOT CLEAN.

I shook my head and set the brown gift box on top of my cart. I debated whether I should wait until I was off to open it, but I couldn’t resist.

I tore off the paper and saw a box full of my belongings, small things I’d left at his place: A pink coffee mug, white slippers, a hair brush, and a romance novel. The only new things inside were a brand new crossword puzzle titled, “Gratitude” and a small white envelope.

Opening the envelope, I pulled out the small white index card and read the handwritten note:

You’re welcome.

—Jake.

I ROLLED MY EYES AND pushed my cart out into the lobby. I waved to the staff at the front desk as I passed by and headed toward the mail room.

Even though I was somewhat sad about leaving this job, I was ecstatic to finally have a job that could offer me a full forty hours a week. Even more ecstatic that I would finally get a chance to work flights that were more than an hour or two and stay at much nicer hotels.

I pressed the “up” button on the elevator and leaned against my cart as the numbers on the overhead lit up on the way down.

Is it stopping on every floor?

Groaning, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and noticed there was a new notification. A new comment on the blog I hadn’t written on in years. I opened it and saw it was the same asshole who always commented, KayTROLL.

KAYTROLL: No more blogs? No more interesting tid-bits from your woe-is-me life? I was hoping to hear a “I’ve finally grown up years later” post...That or a grand apology. Unless you’ve died...Have you died?

UGH...

I put my phone away, not wanting to engage in that part of my old life. Even though I’d never received a single positive comment from whoever that person was, I regarded him as a distant friend. A distant friend who took pleasure in treating me like shit, but at least he read everything I once wrote.

The elevator doors ahead suddenly opened and a group of residents walked off all at once. I waited for the last person to step off, until I realized he wasn’t getting off at all.

He was staring at me, looking at me exactly how he’d looked at me that night, beckoning me with his gaze.

I felt every nerve in my body instantly come to life, but I didn’t let it show.

“Are you getting on?” Jake asked, his voice low.

“After you get off, yes.”

“I’m not getting off.” He held the doors open, waiting for him to join him, but I didn’t.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Wrong elevator bank.” I quickly turned away and pushed my cart toward the western elevator bank. I felt him following me, but I didn’t look back.

I hit the up button and kept my gaze forward. When the elevator doors opened, I pulled my cart inside and he stepped right next to me. I pretended to glance at my clipboard and hit five, the floor for the mailroom.

Jake didn’t hit eighty, and the doors closed.

It took everything in me not to look toward him, to keep my face forward the entire ride up, especially since I could feel him staring at me. Especially since I could feel that undeniable, palpable energy between us.