by Kelly Myers
“When I eat,” she clarifies. “I saw the label on your shirt and the last thing I want to do is get pizza sauce on a Tom Ford.”
“You can smear pizza sauce all over it, if it makes you happy,” I say and reach for her hand, snaking my fingers through hers. A soft smile curves her mouth.
Mike appears with a large pan pizza and places it in the center of the table on a rack. “Behold the Malnati Chicago Classic,” Mike says proudly. “It’s made with Lou’s lean sausage, extra cheese and vine-ripened tomato sauce all on our secret recipe buttercrust. Authentic Chicago!” he declares, and places a huge slice on each of our plates. “Just be careful, it’s really hot.”
“Thanks, Mikey,” I say.
“Thank you. This looks so good,” Ashley says.
I lift my beer, and feel another smile curving my mouth. Damn, my dimple has been busy tonight. “Welcome to the Windy City. It’s far more beautiful with you here,” I say. We clink our glasses together and, I swear, I see a blush rise in her cheeks.
She takes a sip, raises a brow. “It’s Miller-Lite,” I tell her. “Chicago’s favorite beer, hands down.”
“Why’s that?” she asks.
“MillerCoors is based here.”
“Oh, nice. Seems like there are a lot of good things here. Or, from here,” she adds and I feel my dimple deepen yet again. By the time this night is over, I’m going to have a permanent indentation.
The pie is thick, hot and gooey and we need to use a fork and knife. It’s been a long time since I last ate here, but it tastes just as great as always. “Well?” I ask, watching as she swallows her first bite.
“Mmm. Absolutely delicious,” she gushes. “Hands down the best deep-dish pizza I’ve ever had.”
Her bright smile tugs at my heartstrings. Seeing her happy makes me happy.
“So, you and Mike grew up together?” she asks.
“He lived a few houses down so we were always hanging out and causing some sort of trouble.”
“Tell me about it.”
Not gonna happen, I think. The night is going too well and the last thing I want to do is talk about my poor-ass upbringing and abusive stepfather.
“Tell me about when you were young,” I say, turning it around on her.
Ashley isn’t stupid and can clearly see I’m dodging talking about my childhood, but she nods, lets me off the hook and takes another bite of pizza. “Well, there were a lot of Barbie Dolls and I always liked to play imaginary games.”
“I can definitely picture you with a lot of dolls. What kind of games?”
“I always had a pretty active imagination so I just used to make things up. And, I liked to play dress-up, too. I have a brother, but we’re pretty far apart so I had to entertain myself. Because, trust me, he would never play Barbies with me.”
“If he was anything like me, he probably rode his bike all over with friends and did typical boy stuff.”
“And, what was that?”
“Oh, you know. Play video games, watch scary movies, get in fights. We used to swim and fish on the lake. Sneak cigarettes and Playboys from our Dads or the corner store.”
“You stole them?” she asks.
“Well, they weren’t going to sell either of those to a couple of 8-year olds so we had to do what we had to do.”
She laughs. And, it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. “Bunch of troublemakers.”
We talk for another hour and a half. I can’t believe how fast time flies or how comfortable I am with this woman.
After we finish, Mike tries to tempt us with dessert, but we are so full that we pass. I thank my friend again and promise to come visit the next time I’m in Chicago. “Don't be a stranger,” Mike says. He gives Ashley a nod. “Take care of this guy,” he adds.
“I will,” she promises.
We walk out the door and onto the sidewalk just as the sun is rising.
And, for the first time in a long time, I think today is going to be a really good day.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ashley
The sun bursts on the horizon, bathing the Chicago sky in hues of gold, yellow and orange. Caught in a heavenly beam, I see a church steeple rising up into the sky. I point to the old, Gothic-looking building. “Can we go in?” I ask Drew.
“Into the cathedral?” he asks in surprise.
“My family has this tradition,” I explain. “Whenever you see a new church, you’re supposed to go in and make a wish.”
“Then, let’s go make a good one,” he says and we cross Wabash Street.
We pass through massive bronze doors and enter Holy Name Cathedral. The ceiling soars 70 feet above us and huge abstract stained-glass windows surround us. An enormous crucifix hangs suspended in the air by the altar and the walls are adorned with the Stations of the Cross, all cast in bronze and framed in red marble.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper in awe. I pull Drew’s hand and he seems to hesitate. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
He gives me a sheepish look. “I’m scared I’m about to go up in flames.”
I shake my head. “You’re not the Devil despite what some people may say,” I tell him with a little smile.
“Believe it or not, I used to be an altar boy at one time.”
“Aww, I bet you were adorable.” I lead him over to a pew in the back and kneel down. Looking a little uncomfortable, he kneels down beside me and clasps his hands together.
“Now make a wish,” I say and bend my head. My wish is simple. More than anything in this world, I want to spend the rest of my life with the beautiful man beside me. I don’t know what his wish is or if he even makes one, but he looks out of his element and I find it absolutely precious.
I glance over at him. He brushes a hand through his dark hair then looks at me and grins. “Wish made,” he says. “Now, the question is will it come true?”
“If we’re very lucky,” I say and reach for his hand.
We leave behind the scent of incense and glow of candles and step back out onto the sidewalk. Drew leads us across Wabash Street, over a walkway and through Grant Park until we hit Lake Michigan. “This is Lakefront Trail,” Drew tells me. “It’s 18.5 miles long and where everyone jogs and walks. It connects to all the parks and beaches.”
“I love it,” I say. He holds my hand in his large, warm one and it makes me feel secure, protected. “A great place to walk a dog. Maybe a German Shepherd?” I ask, and raise a brow.
A smile curves his mouth. “Maybe.”
As we walk along, Chicago grows on me. It’s my first time here and I’m beginning to see why it’s such a great city. We pass piers, harbors, museums, beaches, skate parks, fountains. It’s lovely. “What a great place to grow up,” I say. “You’re lucky.
His face darkens. “It wasn’t always so great,” he admits.
I remember Tabitha’s comment about his stepfather and I wonder if that’s where his mind is now. “You didn’t always have money, did you?” I ask.
“No.”
I look over and study his hard, chiseled profile. He always seems so strong and confident. My heart hurts to imagine him as a scared little boy with an abusive stepfather. I want him to confide in me, but I know better than to push him.
But, then, something inside him seems to break open. Just a crack. “I grew up in a rough neighborhood on the South side. Just me and my mom. I never knew my real Dad.”
I squeeze his hand. “Did your Mom ever tell you anything about him?”
“My Dad?” He shakes his head. “Not really. Just that he was an asshole who knocked her up and took off.” I raise a brow. “Not exactly in those words, though.” He gives me a sardonic smile.
A breeze blows over us and I pull my jacket tighter. Even though it’s early September, it’s a lot cooler on the waterfront. He must’ve seen me shiver so he lays an arm across my shoulders and pulls me against him, into the curve of his warm body.
“I had to learn to take care of myself at a pretty ear
ly age since my Mom was always working. At one point, I think she had three jobs. She had a strong work ethic and always made sure we had everything we needed. The basics, anyway.”
“Does she still live here?” I ask.
His dark blue gaze swings out over Lake Michigan. “She died ten years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters so when she passed, I lost my whole family. Sometimes I wonder why the hell I work so hard. I have no heir, no one to leave the company or my money to…” his voice trails off. “Sometimes it all just seems so pointless.”
“Don’t say that.” I look up at him. “You have people who love you and I’m sure any number of women would die to be your wife. You’re still young and…and virile.”
A low, half-laugh bursts from his lips. “Virile? Gee, thanks.”
For a moment, we walk along in comfortable silence. Then, I decide to just ask him what I’m wondering. “Tabitha mentioned a stepfather…”
I feel Drew tense and see a muscle flex in his jaw. “Yeaaah,” he drawls slowly. “He wormed his way into my Mom’s life and was a first-class bastard.”
We stop walking, sit down on a bench and look out over the water. “He hurt you, didn’t he?” My stomach churns at the thought.
“I was eight and such a little punk. Like I said, my friends and I got into all sorts of trouble.” He sighs, clasps his hands together and leans forward as though a heavy burden lay on his broad shoulders. “I used to stay the night at Mikey’s a lot that summer.”
His friend from the pizzeria. I lay a hand on his thigh, hoping he can feel my support. Feel how much I care.
“Some of the time, I probably deserved it. His anger, anyway. Not his fist. No child should be hit.”
“No. Never,” I say.
He sighs again, gaze focused on some point far out in the water. “Maybe I should thank him.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“He’s the reason I pushed myself so hard. The reason I had to escape and the motivation that got me through school. The reason I was so determined to make a ton of money and be successful. So, I could flaunt it in his face. So, one day he would know my name and regret what he did.” His shoulders sag. “I’m not sure I’d be where I am now if Pete Kowalski didn’t beat the shit out of me.”
I lean into him, slip my arm through his and lay my head against his shoulder. “How long was he in your life?”
“Less than a year. When my Mom realized what was going on, she was done. She had a friend in San Francisco who came and helped sneak us out when Pete was drunk at the bar one night. We left with two small suitcases and never looked back.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?”
Drew scrapes a hand over his lower face. “I came back here for business school. Went to Booth. One night, I tracked him down. He was at a bar, completely wasted, and when he left, I planned to give him a taste of his own medicine. Wipe the street up with his fucking face.”
I place my hands over Drew’s, lace my fingers through his until I’m not sure which are his and which are mine.
“He looked so pathetic and got maybe two feet out the door before he fell over and smacked his head on the concrete. I walked over and he was already passed out. Right in the gutter where he belonged.” Drew turns and looks at me, those sapphire eyes full of pain. “I decided that he wasn’t worth it.”
I don’t know what to say so I turn and press my head against his. We sit like that, our foreheads together, until he sucks in a deep breath, stands and pulls me up with him. I’m not sure how long we’ve been out here, but I notice people walking, riding bikes and jogging down the trail now. The sun is high and the day feels warmer.
“I hope you’re not in any hurry to get back,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Good because I’m going to show you around.”
I can’t remember having such a good time with anyone like I’m having with Drew. He’s the perfect tour guide and is so enthusiastic about his hometown. He takes me on a scenic route along the lake through Grant Park and past some of its most iconic attractions. I think one of my favorites is the Clarence Buckingham Memorial Fountain.
Drew checks his watch, grabs my hand and hurries me over to the Art Deco style fountain and focus point of Grant Park. “It’s about to start,” he says. I love hearing that boyish excitement in his voice. It’s beyond adorable.
The huge fountain, surrounded by four seahorses, suddenly bursts to life and I give a little squeal. Drew pulls me close and I can feel the spray on my face.
“Every hour, it shoots 15,000 gallons of water through 200 nozzles each minute,” he says.
The fountain roars and splashes and tourists snap pictures. It’s an impressive display, but what I love most, what I’ll remember most, is the way Drew gathers me in his arms and kisses me thoroughly while the spray from the water show lightly mists us.
Afterward, we saunter along and pass gardens, museums, a planetarium and even an aquarium. Within Grant Park lies the smaller Millennium Park and Drew points out a 110-ton sculpture. “That’s Cloud Gate,” he says.
I walk over and lay a hand on the polished, mirror-like stainless steel surface that looks like liquid mercury. It reflects its surroundings and tourists walk through its central arch.
We continue walking along the edge of Lake Michigan and, eventually, we wander over to a cute spot with shops and restaurants right on the waterfront. A sign says Navy Pier and Drew points to a 150-foot tall Ferris wheel. “Wanna go for a ride?” he asks.
“Always,” I say with a suggestive smile.
“Vixen,” he purrs, his blue gaze hot.
Ten minutes later, we sit in the little car and begin to lift up into the air. I press into Drew and he squeezes my hand. “Are you scared of heights?” he asks.
“No. Just falling out,” I say and he chuckles.
When we reach the top, of course it stops turning and we hang suspended above the pier. As fantastic as the view is, though, nothing competes with the gorgeous man beside me and my thoughts turn a bit naughty. I pull my hand from his and lazily run it up his denim-clad thigh. He sucks in a breath and turns blazing blue-black eyes on me.
“Leigh,” he warns.
Too late, I think, and slide my hand over the front of his zipper and begin to stroke him.
“Fuck,” he hisses, and grabs my hand to stop its heated caresses.
“What?” I ask, all innocence and bat my lashes.
He lets out a low groan and pulls my hand away from his ever-straining zipper. “You just wait,” he promises. “I’m going to get you for this.”
“I hope so,” I whisper.
Luckily for Drew, we go around a few more times and a cool wind kicks up to relieve some of his, ah, discomfort. When it’s our turn to disembark, we step out of the car and Drew swallows hard, shifts awkwardly and follows me.
The breeze catches my blonde hair, blowing it up around my face, and I turn and toss him a saucy smile over my shoulder. “All good?”
“I think I need to cool off a little,” he says. “How about some ice cream?”
I nod and reach for his hand. “Poor baby,” I say, mindful that he’s still walking a little funny.
He shakes his head and tosses me a look that promises retribution later, and I can’t help but smile.
“I recall you saying something about mint chocolate chip ice cream and, since it’s my favorite, too, I know just the place.”
We head over to an ice cream/candy shop that Drew insists is the best. He knows all about the best of everything—whether it’s a venue, a jet, a suit, a club, a restaurant, a car, a deep-dish pizza or a scoop of ice cream. For a split second, I wonder if I’m good enough for him. But, then he’s pulling me into the shop and I see cases full of candy apples, fudge and ice cream. It smells like sugar and vanilla-deliciousness.
He orders each of us a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice
cream in a homemade waffle cone. And, of course, he’s right. It’s the best I’ve ever had. So sweet and creamy and the cone is still warm.
“Well?” he asks.
“Delicious,” I say and lick my lips.
“There are a few other things I want to show you, but we need the car.” He pulls out his phone and calls Raymond Whitaker. By the time we finish our cones, the driver arrives and Drew opens the Maybach’s back door for me.
I slide in and wave to Raymond who gives me a smile and a nod in the rearview mirror. Drew walks around and slips in beside me. “Raymond, take us to Willis Tower.”
“Yes, sir,” Raymond answers, and pulls the Mercedes away from the curb, heading west on E. Grand Avenue toward Lower North Lakeshore Drive.
“I wish we could go to Wrigley Field and see a game, but the Cubs are playing out of town tonight,” Drew says.
“Next time,” I say, fully enjoying his boyish enthusiasm.
The drive to Willis Tower is less than three miles and, lucky for us, traffic isn’t bad. Raymond pulls up to the front of the skyscraper formerly known as the Sears Tower and we hop out. “I’m taking her up to the top and then we need to go over to the Magnificent Mile,” Drew tells him.
“I’ll be right here waiting,” Raymond promises.
Drew places a hand at my back and guides me into the huge building. “Did you say the top?” I ask in a wary voice.
“That’s right, honey. We’re going up to the Skydeck. Good thing you aren’t afraid of heights,” he adds, and presses a kiss to my temple.
I don’t feel quite as confident as I did on the Ferris wheel when the elevator door glides open and we step off on the 103rd floor. I tangle my hand through his and he chuckles. “C’mon,” he says, and guides me over to the window.
The view is stunning and I forget my earlier fear. According to the placards around the room, the Skydeck is the highest highest observation deck in the United States with views of up to 50 miles and four states including Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin and, of course, Illinois.
“There’s the best part,” Drew says and leads me over to the Ledge.