Page 79 of Love Marks

“Tell me about your restaurant.”

She gets that little crinkle between her eyes, looking at me. “What do you mean?”

“Your restaurant. Your dream.”

She’s quiet for a long time. So long that I'm sure she's ignored me, that she won't answer at all. But then her soft voice cuts through the heavy silence.

“My mom taught me a love for food, and that good food can be found anywhere. We both used it as an escape, I think. Just from life. I feel like cooking kind of lost all joy for her when my dad left. Cooking was a love language for her, same way it is for me, and I think when he left…well, she lost a lot.

“But when we went to the diner, it felt like a lot of that stuff fell away. That first bite of pie, a late-night breakfast platter. Nothing can stop that feeling of pleasure, of trying something new. I just knew that I wanted to somehow make other people have that feeling. I love comfort foods, good old diner foods, that kind of stuff. My idea is to do a more elegant twist on classic dishes, a sort of elevated diner concept. I guess I dream of making a place that has that special feeling — of home, of comfort. I’m not sure about the full menu yet, but I know I want to name it after my mom. I just hope she’s around for it.”

I hear the sniffle in her voice, and I wrap my arms around her, inhaling her floral scent. The warm feeling in my chest grows, crashing over me like a wave.

“That’s a beautiful dream. I hope she’s there for it, too.”

* * *

A couple of hours later, we’re both dressed and standing near the elevator. My hands are in my pockets, because I know if I touch her, I’ll never let her go.

Quinn is buzzing. She’s looking anywhere but me, her eyes studying every inch of the elevator door as if she hasn’t stood in front of it every single day for the past few months. I can’t help but smile down at her, wishing she could stay longer. Unfortunately, I have work to do and she has a life of her own. One that I want to know everything about.

“Well,” she says, shifting. “This was fun! I’ll be back tomorrow reporting for duty!”

“Listen.” I take a deep breath, trying to figure out the right move. “Why don't you take tomorrow off? We can talk on Friday morning when you come, please? About what’s next. And text me that you’re home safe tonight too?”

Her eyes are almost as wide as saucers as she takes in my words. “Right. Yes. Okay.”

I suppress a chuckle and lean in, kissing her softly, exploring her lips with mine. She moans against my mouth and the sound goes straight to my dick.

I step back. “If you keep on with that, I’ll never let you leave.”

She stamps down her grin at my words and nods, pressing the elevator button. I feel a pang in my stomach at the thought of her leaving — like this place feels empty without her. I try to blink it back, feeling overwhelmed.

“Are you sure you can fend for yourself tomorrow? We left your room in quite a mess,” she smirks.

“I’ll survive,” I chuckle, reaching for her hand and rubbing soft circles on the back of it.

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the faint city sounds from the ground below.

“I had a really nice time.” She avoids my gaze, her signature blush growing on her cheeks.

I brush my thumb along the soft pink hue. “Me too. I can’t wait to see you again soon.”

Ding!

The elevator doors slide open, and she steps inside, giving me a little wave, still blushing. I hold the doors with my hand, leaning against the frame.

“Friday night, I’m taking you out on a real date. In case you need to bring something to change into.”

Her eyes widen as I step back and send her a wink, letting the doors close in front of me. When she’s gone, I lean against the doorway for far too long, waiting for the lump in my throat to go down. I step back and inhale. It still smells like her.

I go straight to my office, and I have 37 missed calls. I call my assistant and she gives me the important messages — mainly that George has called three times with updates on the Park Ave project. You’d think the man could handle running our company for a single day, but apparently not.

My phone rings with a call from my mother. I’m nervous to answer it because I know she’s going to ask me about Quinn, and I have no idea what to say to her. Lillian Marks can sniff out a lie faster than anyone I know. I don’t have time to debate the subject any longer, so I answer the phone.

“Hello, mother. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

My mother huffs. “You’re awfully formal today, son. What are you hiding?”

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