Taylor blew a stray curl back from her forehead as she stretched up on her tiptoes, hooking the hanger for her dance gear against the back of the closet door. As soon as the heels of her combat boots hit the floor again, she stripped off her leather jacket and turned to Mike.
“Real good,” she told him, knowing there was probably a light sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin, even after she’d managed to steal a quick shower at the studio. Draping her jacket over her leotard, she turned to inspect herself in the mirror of Mike’s tiny janitor’s office. It was smudged and cracked in the corner, but did the job of reassuring her that, as soon as she changed from her boots to her sensible plimsoles she had tucked into a cubby here, she’d look presentable enough for work.
“Morgan says he thinks he can make an argument for me to be in a principal role for the spring show if I work on my arm placement,” she said, gathering her hair into a scrunchie. In the reflection, she spotted Mike’s proud smile and felt a smile of her own tug her mouth upwards. It was quickly interrupted by the shrill beeping of her watch.
“Shit,” she hissed, her finger scrabbling to hit the button that turned off her alarm. “I have like, three minutes to grab my cart and get to the top floor. And I still need my - fuck, where’s my–?”
A white, cloth-like piece of fabric hit her in the face and she managed to catch it before it fell to the floor. She shot Mike a grateful look before tying her apron around her waist and slipping her other shoes on.
“The missus is making me pie tonight, so you’ll need to use your key to get in here if you work overtime tonight!” Mike called after her.
“Thanks, Mike!” Taylor called over her shoulder, half-jogging out his office and towards the equipment cupboard to grab her housekeeping cart. After wrestling it out the tiny doorway and into the elevator, she rode up all eighteen floors of the Plaza Hotel until she reached the top.
In all honesty, she could see this shift far enough. She’d pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion at rehearsal, just so she could prove to Morgan that she wasn’t some simpering admirer who saw the arts and dance as a hobby rather than the thing that pumped blood around her body. Her bones ached and her feet felt even worse off, but without a job, there was no dancing. Plus, it beat going home and finding her dad in another rotten, beer-soaked mood. At least when her shift came to an end, he’d probably already be in bed, and she wouldn’t have to take her easy mac into her bedroom with a chair in front of the door.
She’d heard tell of an event at the Plaza that night, but hadn’t listened into the finer details. All she knew was that she’d been tasked with the upper floors for her shift, reassured that the guests who stayed there would be in attendance in the ballroom and she would be able to go about her duties undisturbed. This seemed to ring true, as there wasn’t a single ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging from the handles of the doors lining the corridor.
Pulling out her masterkey from her pocket and swiping it against the first fob, she waited for it to flash green before pushing the door open.
“Housekeeping!” she called as she backed in with her cart. It was customary to do so. Her training said it was required, even though it was doubtful for anyone to actually be in the room at that point.
Even more unbelievable, would be for this hypothetical person in the room to be none other than Luca McGrath, but as soon as Taylor turned around and gasped upon seeing her fellow dancer sitting on the edge of the plush hotel bed, she realised her training had not prepared her for this.
Scrubbing less than pleasant stains out of bedsheets? Yes. Bleaching the most horrendous crime scene of a toilet bowl you’d ever seen in your life? Absolutely. Confronting your half-dressed classmate wearing a tux while trying to do the job that was the only reason the two of you were allowed to brush shoulders in barre class? Taylor Hathaway did not have a manual for that.
“I…” She opened and closed her mouth like an idiotic fish. Quickly, her defensive walls shot up from the ground and her expression morphed into a scowl as everything she knew about service-with-a-smile was swept under the rug.
“What the hell are you doing?”
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