“Apparently, architectural appreciation works up an appetite,” she says with a sheepish smile. “Ready for the next essential Chicago experience?”
“More architecture?”
“Better.Foodarchitecture.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she leads me toward the car. “Time to introduce you to deep-dish pizza.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m staring down at the thick, towering creation the server has placed before me, studying it with the same wariness I once reserved for unfamiliar weapons in the arena.
“This is soup in a bread bowl. Not like the flat circles they serve us at the Sanctuary.”
Nicole’s laughter bubbles up from across the small table at Giordano’s, and I realize I’ve never seen her this relaxed. The deep-dish monstrosity defies every concept of bread and cheese I’ve known, but her delight in my confusion is worth it.
“In Rome, bread was bread. Cheese was cheese.”
“In Chicago, we do things differently.” She takes a bite, eyes closing in bliss.
Despite my best efforts, sauce drips on my shirt. Nicole dabs at it, then pulls back, flustered.
“Sorry. I just—”
“I like it.” After catching her hand before she can pull away, I bring it to my lips and taste her fingertip instead of the sauce. “Take care of me all you want.”
Her breath catches, and I see heat flicker in her eyes despite the public setting. “You’re going to be the death of my good intentions.”
“What good intentions?”
“The ones that involve keeping my hands to myself until we’re alone.”
A middle-aged couple at the next table has been not-so-subtly eavesdropping on our conversation, and the woman elbows herhusband with obvious approval of our affection. Nicole notices and flushes pink, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Everyone’s watching us,” she whispers.
“Let them. They’re seeing what happiness looks like.”
Her laugh is pure music.
“Mmm,” I murmur. “Perhaps the sweetest course waits until we are alone.”
The pizza improves as I learn to approach it like combat—strategic planning, proper tools, acceptance that victory requires getting messy. By the time we finish, I understand why the people of this city defend their food with such passion.
“Verdict?” Nicole asks as we prepare to leave.
“It is delicious—like much in this age that unsettles all I thought I knew.”
“Such as?”
I stand and offer my arm, noting how naturally she accepts the gesture. “Women who topple gladiators in practice. Students who choose their own tutors. Towers of glass that climb higher than Rome ever dreamed.”
Her smile could power the entire city.
We wander until the lake swallows the skyline, and the boardwalk unfurls ahead—a ribbon of lights and laughter. Navy Pier glows in the falling sun, and what Nicole calls the Ferris wheel lifts its bright crowns against the evening sky.
“Heights,” I admit. “Not my strength.”
“The great gladiator afraid of heights?” Her teasing is gentle, affectionate rather than mocking.
“In the arena, I trusted the earth beneath my sandals.” I study the turning wheel with unease. “How high does it climb?”
“High enough to see forever. Trust me?”
