“Why do they think that, or why am I depressed?”
“Areyou depressed?” he asked.
I refrained from pinching myself as an outlet for my discomfort talking about this. “They think I am because of . . . Davena. She’s the woman who—”
“I know who she is.” David frowned. “You didn’t seem very pleased with Lucy’s toast.”
“It was silly of me to run out. Melodramatic.” I balled up the ice cream wrapper and ran the back of my hand over my mouth.
He leaned closer. “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?”
I took a step back, my heart suddenly pounding. It’d beenhellish—but what good would it do admitting that to David? It would only be another transgression on my part. And it might give him the wrong idea. I’d hurt each of us enough.
“I have to get back to work,” I said.
“These past few months,” he said, ignoring me, “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Thanks for the ice cream,” I said.
“Olivia—”
I spun around before he could say another word, hurried through the lobby, and booked it up to the fourteenth floor.
* * *
When dusk fell, I was still in my office. With a soft sigh, I flipped some of my hair over my shoulder. The computer screen blazed bright, but the entire floor was dark. I could almost feel myself burning out from another long day.
But with a deadline in the morning, I couldn’t leave until I’d hammered out the last few paragraphs in front of me. It had been impossible to concentrate all day. Butterflies perched in my chest, threatening to explode into a kaleidoscope of a million fluttering wings if I let my mind wander. It was the reason I was the only person left in the office: I couldn’t stop daydreaming.
How was it that Bill left the apartment in a suit every day, yet I barely noticed? David, in all his charcoal pinstripe glory, was far more distinguished than the rest of us plebeians who walked the planet. He was perfection in slacks, a blazer, and a vest. And somehow,Ihad his attention. His heavy brows joined when he watched words fall from my mouth, as though he might have to reach out and catch one.
Our short walk had been like a bookmark in the dark chapter I’d been living—a moment to come up for air when I’d been stuck just beneath the surface. It was like a dream that had never happened, except that it had.
I bit the inside of my cheek and leaned over to the bottom drawer of my desk. I rifled through it until I saw the issue ofChicago MI knew back to front, except for the page I’d been avoiding.With a short breath, I opened the magazine and flipped through until I found him.
Chicago Metropolitan Magazine
Most Eligible Bachelor #3:
David Dylan
Senior Architect, Pierson/Greer
Age: 34
Lives in: River North
David Dylan is the epitome of cool. From his made-for-Hollywood name to his devilish good looks, he holds more clout than a varsity quarterback dating the homecoming queen. To complete the package, Mr. Dylan comes from a nuclear family of four, owns a sailboat, and has a vacation home in Spain. This highly sought-after architect, who was recently profiled forArchitectural Digest, spends what little free time he has in the water—no small feat for an Illinois native. From surfing to swimming to sailing, it’s no wonder his friends nicknamed himFishyears ago.
Looking for:Someone to settle down with. His well-known father’s greatest accomplishment, David says, is marrying the woman he fell in love with almost forty years ago. Oh, and his weakness: big, green eyes. “Cliché as it sounds, eyes truly are the windows to a woman’s soul,” says Dylan. “Business has taught me to be tough, but when ‘the one’ bats her eyelashes at me just the right way, I will be putty in her hands.”
Topic of interest:The Revelin—he’s the lead designer on the hotel that’s set to open at the end of this year.
I closed the magazine.
Oh, he . . . is . . .good.
How would Chicago-ettes recover after reading that? No—my pity was for the male population. They’d have a hard time stacking up to someone like David Dylan. David Dylan and his affinity for “big, green eyes.” At the time of publication, he hadn’t yet met Dani. I knew it was narcissistic, but I couldn’t help clinging to the thought that maybe he had added that part for me.
