Jonathan Pine’s fingers stilled on the terminal, mid-booking of yet another night of theatre tickets for the half-soused American dignitaries who had just,
with loud yawns and boisterous shouts and heavy feet, trod into the lift, toward their rooms, and toward sleep.
Pine sighed inwardly. He hated the thought of the complaints he’d hear in the morning should these arseholes keep their racket up.
Especially the complaints from the so-called star - a Broadway actress - who had taken up temporary residence on the fifth floor.
And the reason for the interruption in Pine’s work, the reason he peered up from the computer screen toward the door,
the reason he allowed his features to slip into their usual mask of affable servitude - slight smile, attentive eyes, neutral brow - was that very actress.
“Good evening, Miss Taylor.” He gave a slight bow of the head, respectful, cheerful, but not overly so.
Without breaking eye contact with her, he reached down to the counter, retrieved her key card, and hand it across the counter to her. “Your key. I do hope your performance went well this evening.
Read the rest via the link in the description!