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“I’d love a cup of tea,” I said.
Esme’s office behind reception was tiny, with a kettle, two mugs and a CCTV screen showing an empty lobby. She made the tea strong, the way I like it, and we sat knee to knee on two office chairs and talked.
She was thirty-three. She’d run hotels in Lisbon and Edinburgh and had been here two years. She liked the night shift because nobody shouted at her after three. She’d read every book in the lost property cupboard.
The tea went cold. We kept talking.
At half past three she put her mug down and looked at me for a long moment.
“I’m not allowed to do this,” she said, “so I’m only going to do it once.”
She leaned in and kissed me. Slow, warm, tasting of tea. Her hand rested on my chest. Mine found her waist. It went on long enough that the CCTV screen started beeping because nobody had touched the keyboard.
She pulled back, flushed, and smoothed down her uniform.
“Go to bed, Mr Byrne,” she said. “I’ve got a building to run.”
I slept in the penthouse alone, with a stupid smile on my face.
At checkout she’d gone off shift. But the bill came in an envelope, and on the back, in neat handwriting, was a phone number and four words.
Day off next Thursday.
Ending 16 of 16: The Night Manager. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.