Page 2 of Love Marks
* * *
Eight hours later, and I’m exhausted. My feet are killing me in these heels. It’s almost midnight and all the reservations have been seated for the night except for Mr. Marks. The asshole’s reservation was thirty minutes ago but of course, time doesn’t matter for the VIPs like him. When you're gorgeous, young, and rich, the world is your oyster.
If Ian can tell how tired I am, he doesn’t say anything. The servers are rushing around, eager to close. Most of the staff gets off at 12:30, except for the closers who can’t leave until the last patron leaves, which really could be anytime. Samantha left thirty minutes ago, much to her disappointment.
“I’m happy to close tonight, really. Please? I don’t even need to be on the clock. I’ll just sit at the bar — just one peak. Please?”
Instead, Ian and I are the lucky ones saddled with dealing with Mr. Marks and his confidential business meeting. Ian left me to finish the floor while he deals with office stuff with Pierre upstairs. I always wonder what it’d be like to get to Ian’s level — maître’d just has such a nice ring to it. Maybe then they’d let me wear flats instead of heels.
My eyes are half-closed when the door finally opens. I go to put on my award-winning smile, but it drops quickly from my mouth looking at the man standing in front of me. If the wobbly feeling in my knees is any indication, this is Wesley Marks. He waltzes in and oh god Samantha wasn’t kidding. I try to remain unfazed by his presence, but I swear I’m swooning a little bit and I never swoon. Never.
He takes up the whole room as he walks towards my podium, his sharp jaw jutted forward as his dark eyes sweep the room. Finally, his gaze lands on me, no hint of emotion behind his eyes.
“Marks,” he barks out, his voice gruff and hard.
I nod, as if I didn’t already know it was him. I manage to bring him over to his table without turning completely to mush, but each step feels like a mile. My legs feel like jelly as he slides into the hidden booth.
What the hell is happening?
“Whiskey neat and an old-fashioned.”
Please, I add mentally. He may be hot as all hell, but jeez, would it kill the guy to throw some manners into the mix? I don’t know why I expect it from any of them, honestly. My ass has been grabbed so many times at this job that I’ve learned to push down the anger. Deep down. For some reason, though, it grates me that he won’t meet my eyes when he commands me to serve him.
“Right away, sir.” I smile like it’s my greatest pleasure in life and swing by the bar before returning to my podium and swiping his name off my iPad. I take a deep breath. One (not so) short ride on the N train and I’ll be back in my apartment in my fuzzy pajamas with a cup of hot cocoa, extra marshmallows.
A few minutes later, a man in a suit sweeps into the room and asks for Marks and I walk him over to table six where the whiskey neat and old-fashioned sit, untouched.
“Anything else I can help you gentlemen with?” I ask, sugar coating my words.
“No. You’re dismissed.” Mr. Marks waves his hand, still hardly glancing in my direction.
The rejection stings in an unexpected way. Why did he have to say it like that?
You’re dismissed.
Next, he’ll be ringing a bell and I’ll be singing a ballad from Annie. Does that make him Daddy Warbucks? I suddenly have a new fantasy.
Frustrated, I head back into the kitchen, hoping for an opportunity to chat with our head chef and my favorite person in this place.
“Manny!” I call out.
“QT!” he calls back, smiling and bringing me in for a hug. QT is his nickname for me — Quinn Taylor. I’d never tell him, but I actually love it. Luckily, when it’s late like this, Manny lets me taste some of the gourmet dishes and even gives me copies of some of the simpler recipes to try at home.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he twirls me a little bit. “Isn’t she a stunner?” he asks Tina, one of the line cooks, who shakes her head and keeps clearing her station. He pulls me over to the dessert station to try the latest sorbet flavors and I nearly moan when they reach my mouth. I didn’t realize how hungry I was, but it’s been almost 8 hours since I ate anything. He makes me a little goodie bag of leftovers to take home as the kitchen finishes their closing routine.
When I get back to the host stand, Mr. Marks’ guest has left and he’s sitting alone, sipping the last of his whiskey. He’s the only one left here but he doesn’t seem to notice; his eyes are completely focused on the drink in front of him. Next to him, a folder rests on top of his briefcase. He knocks back the rest of his drink and swipes his belongings off the table. I’m about to wish him a goodnight and finally head home when he stops directly in front of the stand and for the first time tonight, he looks right at me.
“Hello.”
Again, his voice betrays no emotion. I stare into his dark eyes and find nothing there, either.
“Hello. I hope you enjoyed your evening,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as it feels.
“Yes, it was fine,” he answers. It’s quiet for a moment and the silence seems to stretch between us like a rubber band. I go to ask if he needs anything else, but he cuts me off before I get the chance. “What’s your name?”
The question sounds more like a demand coming from him and images rush through my mind, other demands he would make from me.
God, I need to get laid. How long has it been? Six months? Seven? A twinge of disappointment fills me remembering the last time I tried to have sex. Tried being the operative word, since I was so far gone inside my head that I was barely there at all.