I turn around and face the woman who seems to haunt my every waking thought. My face splits into a grin as I take her in. After we left, she changed out of her work clothes. Though her usual everyday attire compliments her immensely, I wasn’t prepared for how attractive Whitney could be in a pair of dark wash jeans and a silky, flowytop.
“You look great,” I say, my voice breathy as my gaze returns to her eyes.
She ducks her head as though my compliment embarrassed her. “Thank you.”
I’m dressed similarly, in my nicer pair of jeans and a blue, button-down shirt. It is a relief sometimes to have more casual events. Though professional, wearing a suit and tie can be highly uncomfortable day after day.
After finishing the rest of our pleasantries, I motion to the door. “Shall we?”
We walk into the restaurant and up to the podium, where the hostess watches us approach. I had arrived about ten minutes early to put my name on the list so we’d have a table ready for us right when Whitney arrived. I give her my name, and she grabs some menus, leading us back to a corner table in the restaurant.
As soon as we’re seated, someone swings by, dropping off glasses of water and getting our orders for any other type of beverage. Between getting our drinks and ordering our dinner, Whitney and I briefly discuss the day’s events and our weekend plans.
Finally, once our pizza is ordered, I ask, “Have you always lived in Chicago?”
Her eyes fly to mine in surprise, but she nods. “Yes, all my life.”
“Have you ever wanted to go somewhere else?”
Her eyebrows furrow just a bit, but she shakes her head. “No, I have no plans to leave. I mean…why do you ask?”
“I’ve lived lots of places. I find it interesting that someone would just choose to stay in one place when there’s a whole world to be explored.”
“I can respect that,” she says with a smile and a shrug. “Ilove that you got to experience all of that. But for me, I don’t even know where I’d go. All I have is here. Leila, my job.”
There’s something that bothers me about how short that list is, but I don’t make a big deal of it. “This job really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” I muse.
“It does. Especially now, I feel like it’s the last piece of Mr. Peterson that I have, besides pictures or memories. I want to see the company do well, for him.”
Anxiety bubbles in my stomach at the knowledge that her hero wasn’t all that he said he was. I still haven’t given her any indication that there may be something amiss with him and his books. I stomp down the worry, saving it for another day.
“Are you still happy, with the job?” I ask. I hope she’s still happy working under me. I know how much the old CEO meant to her, and I sometimes feel like a consolation prize. All my life, I’ve felt like I’ve been running up hill, trying to be the best version of myself for everyone else. And now, sitting here, staring into Whitney’s alluring eyes, I want to be enough for her more than ever.
“Of course,” she says, her voice going soft. “I’ve loved working with you.”
I note how she saysworking withand notworking for. Something about that minute detail makes me happy. Technically, on paper, she does workforme, but I’ve always strived for more of a team-like environment.
“I’ve enjoyed working with you, too,” I tell her. “Honestly, I think it’s one of the best things about taking over this position.”
“Really?” Her eyes glitter in the low lighting of the restaurant.
I nod my head. I’m about to say something further when the waitress swings by, delivering a pan to our table, along with utensils and many napkins. We both give her our gratitude and then look down at our dinner.
“This is it?” I ask, trying to fight off the disgust lacing my tone as I observe the massive pie smothered in sauce before me.
Whitney laughs and reaches for the spatula they delivered with this monstrosity. “Yes, haven’t you ever had deep dish before?”
“Apparently not,” I mutter. I grimace when she cuts into the pizza and pulls out a slice. Gallons of cheese ooze from the middle and coagulate onto the plate the second the piece settles. Whitney hands it to me, and I look at my dinner warily. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.
“Come on. You’ve got to at least try deep dish if you’re going to live in Chicago,” she teases.
“Maybe I should just turn in my resignation. I’m not sure how I will stomach all of this.”
“Oh, you’re being dramatic.”
I give her a wary look but then reach for my fork and knife, opting for bravery. I cut off a piece and ignore how my stomach is already rejecting the dairy before I’ve eaten it. I pop the piece into my mouth and chew. Whitney is watching me, pure amusement etched on her features. After I force myself to swallow, I reach for my beer and take a big gulp to wash it down.
“So?” she asks and arches her eyebrow, almost like a challenge.
