Curling my hair takes far less effort than applying the right shade of lipstick, which gives me two extra minutes to find my leather jacket, strap up the shoes, check my look once more in the mirror and throw my cell phone, the MicroTracker, a notebook, my wallet, and breath mints into my fake Louis Vuitton purse.
I let out a deep sigh. Five minutes to eight.
Onyx shoots me one last look to remind me of how pathetic I am as I close my apartment door and step into the hallway. Alex Hartfield, the eccentric old guy down the hall, turns his head when he sees me approach the elevator. Does a full-on double-take.
“Damn, Hailey, you clean up nice.”
I fight the blush of embarrassment and smile as confidently as I can muster, given the circumstances. “Thank you, Mr. Hartfield.”
Nervous energy shakes through me. I have three minutes to get downstairs and through the lobby before Duke picks me up. I imagine the look on everyone’s face as the Duke Kingston swoops up to the curb in an expensive Town Car and gets out to open the door. He’ll stare at me in wonder, murmur something about how beautiful I look… Or maybe we’ll be in a limousine. A white stretched limo with champagne and strawberries, soft music playing in the background.
Cool it, Hailey.
It’s obvious my neighbor can’t stop staring at me and I’m suddenly uncomfortable being the center of his attention. “How long have you been waiting for the elevator?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Five minutes?”
I groan. I’ve got less than two to get my ass downstairs.
Tick. Tock.
My pulse speeds up.
I can’t wait. I untie my heels, slip out of them, and dangle them in my right hand, and head for the stairs. The concrete is cool on my skin. By the time I reach the landing I’m sweating and freezing.
I slip on my shoes and take tentative steps toward the front entrance. With one minute to spare, I reach the door and stare out onto the busy street. Chicago’s skyline sparkles in the distance.
I moved to this city five years ago, leaving behind the safety net of parents who doted too much, and friends who think I’ve sorely underestimated the charm of Mystic, Connecticut. Going home is nice, but I’ll take towering skyscrapers and Navy Pier over quaint seaside village any day.
At the end of my street, a dark limousine weaves through traffic and pulls up alongside the curb. My stomach flips end over end as a driver gets out, circles the car, and opens the door for me. I exhale deeply. Show time.
I paint on my biggest smile, and thank the man as he takes my hand to help me into the car. My thighs stick to the taupe leather seats. Champagne cools in the center console, but there’s only one crystal flute.
The driver leans in and smiles. “Mr. Kingston invites you to enjoy a glass of champagne. We’ll be arriving at the restaurant in about twenty minutes. Enjoy the ride.”
“Thanks,” I say, but my voice is flat, monotone. Maybe it’s silly, but I assumed Duke would be in the car. That we’d go to dinner together.
His absence is another stark reminder that this isn’t a date.
Chapter 5
ALINEA is not only the most expensive restaurant in Chicago, it’s one of the most famous in North America, and as the limo pulls up to the building, my breath hitches.
This place has been on my foodie bucket list since I moved to the city, but with its recent multi-million-dollar renovation and world-famous menu, I thought I’d never have the chance to come here. One reviewer claims he spent more than two hundred bucks per plate. That’s almost a third of my rent!
The chauffer opens my door and I step out onto the sidewalk like some kind of movie starlet. It’s surreal how the exterior lights turn the brick sidewalk yellow—like they’re leading me straight to Oz.
I resist the urge to kick up my heel.
“Just ask the hostess for Mr. Kingston’s table,” the driver says. “Enjoy your evening.”
I nod, unable to speak. He winks at me, like he can read my mind, but it doesn’t do anything for my nerves.
My phone pings.
I glance at my texts. There are two—one from Jake, the other from Forrest. For a brief second, I consider sending them a picture of the building—they’ll never believe I’m about to dine at ALINEA—but they’re already jealous that they weren’t invited. I flick off the phone instead, vowing to text the second anything significant happens, and open the door.
The scent of herbs and spices and things I can’t name greets me as I enter, making my mouth instantly water.
Music and the white noise of animated chatter floats through the simple, clean lobby that’s accented by cherry wood floors and cream-colored furniture. A blonde hostess smiles at me. “Do you have a reservation?”