Page 81 of Love Marks
I clear my throat. “Alright. I’ll be there.” I hope she can’t hear the dread in my voice.
“Sweetheart. I know you and your father have a difficult relationship, especially now with the company.”
That’s putting it lightly.
“He’s not happy about stepping down, but it’s for the best. He’ll see what an incredible job you’re doing.”
“Yeah, because he was always so good at handing out praise,” I mumble.
“Just play nice, please.”
“Why are you telling me? He’s the one who’s always picked on me. Relentlessly. I don’t know why you expect me to put up with it.” I rub my hand against my forehead.
She sighs. “I know, and I’m sorry. I should have stood up for you boys more when you were growing up—”
“That’s not what I mean—” I interrupt her. I don’t want my mom to feel guilty about my dad’s actions.
“No, you’re right. I heard the things he said to you and I…” She cuts off, sounding choked up, and I suddenly regret saying anything at all. “He’s difficult, your father. I thought that maybe he’d ease up on you once you took an interest in the business…and then once he started drinking…”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Forget I said anything. I’ll see you next Saturday. I have to go.”
I hang up before she has a chance to say anything else, hating the swirl of emotions building in my stomach. I lean back in my chair, tired. Just a few hours ago, I was riding high, elated, feeling Quinn’s gorgeous body in my hands.
I check my phone and see a text from her:
Home!
That’s it? What do I say to that? Should I even text her back or just ignore it? Maybe I should call her?
After a few minutes of panicking, I settle on a safe reply:
Great, thanks for letting me know. Can’t wait for our date on Friday.
I float my thumb over the screen for an embarrassing amount of time before finally pressing send. Once I do, I stare at the messages, waiting for those dreaded three dots, but nothing comes. I put my phone on the desk face-down.
It’s time to buckle down on this project and get the ball rolling. I’m sick of waiting around for George to get his shit together. I’m the boss now and it’s time to start acting like it.
Chapter 34
Quinn
It’s my day off from work and I am buzzing with energy. After my incredible two days with Wesley, I came home and broke down to my mother about everything. I told her about The Phoenix —the real reason I was fired, how Ian leaked the story and blamed it on me, how Wesley found out and I ended up working for him. And how I’ve fallen for him in the worst way.
We sat up for hours eating Rocky Road and shuffling between crying, laughing, and stuffing our faces with food. She told me all about Joe and how much she likes him, and we commiserated about our mutual lovestruck foolishness.
I’m glad I finally told my mom about Wesley — even if I did have to listen to her lecture me about him for 45 minutes. Between the two of us, we’ve got enough trust issues to last a lifetime, so her lecture isn’t really necessary, but she gives it to me anyway. Given how Wesley and I met, she’s probably right for me to be cautious, but some part of me knows it’s already too late for me.
The truth is it’s been a steady fall. From the first time I saw Wesley, I’ve been slipping and slipping further into his orbit. Maybe if I had stayed away, if I had never known what he felt like inside of me, I’d be able to resist him. But not anymore. Not now that I know how soft and wicked he is, how he makes me feel things I’ve never felt before.
Our date tomorrow night swirls through my mind, sending my nerves off. I have no idea what a real date with Wesley Marks implies. Sure, we got half a breakfast and rode a ferris wheel, but something tells me this might be the Wesley I always imagined. The Wesley that wears expensive suits and orders the most French-sounding bottle of wine on the menu.
I turn over in bed and decide to do something with all my pent-up energy besides stressing about my date with Wes. For me, that something means a baking fest. Luckily my mom is spending the day with Joe, so I have the apartment to myself. Our kitchen is tiny, so I make a mess of ingredients in the living room as I mix the dough for muffins.
I’m popping the last batch into the oven when my phone buzzes with a text from Wesley:
Thinking of you. Can’t wait for tomorrow night.
Butterflies dance in my stomach and I want to smack myself for the giddy feeling spreading through me at the simple text. I type out a few different messages, fiddling with my fingers as I finally settle on something.