Page 1 of Love Marks
Chapter 1
Quinn
Sometimes the best thing you can do is listen to signs from the universe.
Take tonight, for example. All the signs were telling me to stay home. It started this morning when I woke up with a pounding headache. Things only got worse when my last clean pair of tights ripped halfway up my legs as I was getting dressed. When my most comfortable pair of heels broke, I should have taken the hint. Forgetting my metro card, subway doors closing in my face — all of it, I simply chalked up to bad luck.
In reality, they were signs from the universe, warning me that a storm was brewing. But instead of listening to those signs, here I stand, in the world’s tiniest black dress, a smile plastered onto my face. My shift is about to start — a shift that will last late into the night. Oh joy.
As far as jobs go, working at The Phoenix Lounge isn’t half-bad, so I probably shouldn’t complain. I didn’t imagine being a waitress at this point, but here I am. Technically, I’m not even a waitress, I’m a hostess. At 28, I thought that by now I’d have achieved all my dreams and then some. Life had other plans, though, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the myth of realizing all your dreams before 30 is just that: a myth.
The Phoenix is one of the most elite spots in New York City and I managed to land a job on the host staff. Ian, the maître-d and my boss, likes to remind us that our jobs are precious gems every chance he gets. Like we should kiss their feet for employing us. The truth is, the hours are terrible, most of the staff is rude, and I have to dress like Manhattan Barbie every night. But all of it is worth it when I get even the smallest glimpse into the kitchen.
I’ve always loved restaurants. When I was little, my mom and I would make our escape to the Sunset Park diner for donuts and burgers, always in that order. She let me get whatever I wanted off the menu even though money was tight. More importantly, I’d start with dessert before my main course, a tradition I cherished deeply and still practice myself at times. I can't help it; I have a sweet tooth. Dentists hate me.
Standing beside the hostess stand, I glance around at my surroundings. The Phoenix Lounge is the antithesis of the Sunset Park Diner. Sleek black countertops, extravagant chandeliers, and velvet-wrapped booths. It is the essence of elegance. When I was a kid, I didn’t even know places like this existed.
I still remember my first fine-dining experience. Shortly after my dad disappeared, divorce papers appeared in the mail. Within a few weeks, my mom was set to go to court over child support. I don’t remember much from those days, but I do remember my mom’s lawyer. She wore a navy-blue pantsuit and waltzed into the courtroom like a FiDi Wonder Woman. After the case was closed, she offered to take me and my mom out to dinner. I’d expected another round of donuts and grilled cheese, but instead, she took us to a Michelin-star private dining room in Soho. It was at that moment that my dream of opening my own restaurant was born.
Until that happens, I’m stuck at The Phoenix. Even though I don’t make much as a hostess, it’s worth it because I get to shadow different staff members, so my job doubles as both a source of income and a training course for restaurant management. The Phoenix provides a private, intimate space for everything from romantic dinners to business deals. The owner, Pierre, a French expat and Forbes Fortune 500 business owner, opened the place 25 years ago with the mission of creating a space where business, pleasure, and food meet. I admit that when I first started here, I resented the fancy attitude of the place. I’ve been here almost a year now and I can say with certainty that it’s something special. Just like the Sunset Park diner, there’s no place quite like it. Extravagant displays of wealth aside, the restaurant is cool, and Pierre, with his bright colored scarves and his sharp eye, is at least nice to look at.
Tonight is a busy, booming Friday night. We have back-to-back reservations booked until 2:30AM. Another thing that sets us apart from other fine dining, luxury establishments — we’re open late enough to accommodate video calls with Chinese partners or an after-work drink for those who work 100-hour weeks.
“Give me the run-through for tonight,” Ian barks from behind me. I have never seen Ian smile. He’s all business, but I don’t mind. I’m always up to the challenge and I'm used to it with him. He's friendly enough, but we've never been friends. I pick up my iPad and swipe it open, reading the details for tonight.
“Mr. Parker is meeting with the Deloitte team at table six. They’ve requested four bottles of Clicquot and are expecting a phone call at 11:00, so they'll need a private line. Ms. Stevens and Mr. Brighton are coming in for their weekly cocktail hour, but it’s Ms. Stevens’ birthday, so he’s ordered flowers and a soufflé, already confirmed with the florist and the kitchen.”
“Confirm again with chef.”
I nod and continue going through the reservations for tonight. Once I'm finished, Ian takes the iPad from my hands, swiping through to make sure everything is in order before we open the doors for the night.
“We just got a last-minute addition from a major VIP, so I’m moving Mr. Parker to table four up front.”
“But he prefers—”
“I know what he prefers, Quinn. Mr. Marks has an important business meeting tonight and he’s chosen us to host said meeting, so he’ll be getting six. It’s our most private booth.”
Samantha, one of the other hostesses, chimes in from behind me.
“Benjamin Marks?” she squeaks out.
“No, his son, Wesley,” Ian replies, hardly looking at Samantha.
Wesley Marks.
I’ve only heard his name tossed around this place like some urban legend, mostly drooled off the lips of female patrons. Not that I know any of the women he associates with — mostly models and actresses, according to the tabloid magazines that frequently write about him. Samantha has a habit of reading said magazines aloud to me during slow shifts, which is how I know a disturbing amount of information about the eligible bachelors of Manhattan. Broad-chested, chiseled jaw, perfectly tailored Tom Ford suits, Wesley Marks the embodiment of new money in New York. His father, Benjamin Marks, went from rags to riches when he founded the Marks Group, one of the largest hotel chains in New York.
“Oh my god. He’s so hot. He's like, a Greek God.” Samantha’s eyes are wide and she’s pulling her dress down and pushing her chest out. I roll my eyes and take the iPad from Ian, putting the finishing touches on the evening.
“Just keep it professional, Sam.” Ian's eyes cut down to her low-cut top and she smiles that sweet, saccharine smile of hers.
“Of course. I’m just, a little nervous. Aren’t you guys nervous? He’s like, Mr. Intimidation. I heard he doesn’t even eat. He just drinks whiskey and black coffee.”
I roll my eyes, “There’s no way that’s true.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “Just saying. I read it in like, Forbes.”
“If you two are done gossiping, it’s 5:00. Let the show begin.” Ian smiles his signature Cheshire cat grin, and we’re off.