“Morning.”
“Lovely. We’ll meet here at . . . eight?”
“Seven.”
Jesse would have said six, if only to get the whole stupid meeting over with, but that would have even pushed his own limits, especially since he would have needed to pray for one of the horse-cars to show up, rather than catch a cable one.
“Seven it is. Do you need a key?”
“Already have one. I come in early on Saturdays as it is.”
He had come in early on Saturdays for over a year now. Someone needed to create the formes for Sunday’s papers. And Mr. Stevenson no longer worked on weekends.
“Great.” Mr. Hughes’s smile broadened. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. O’Connor. Thank you for being willing to teach me what I’ll need to know for my upcoming meeting with the fair’s organizers. In fact, I’ll be meeting with Mr. Burnham himself sometime soon.” He lifted his eyebrows a few times in a playful (and, frankly, juvenile) manner and then leaned in, smiling in that overly enthusiastic, boyish way again. “He’s the fair’schieforganizer, you know.”
What a ridiculous man this Arthur Hughes was.
“Wow, that’s . . .”
“Exciting,” Mr. Hughes finished for him, his eyes popping. “It’sincrediblyexciting.”
Ridiculous and ridiculously charming.
Jesse’s muscles tensed.No.No, herefusedto think of this pompous man as charming. Because Percy had been charming.Charming had shattered his heart. Charming had obliterated his future. Charming had been the very thing that had prevented him from ever making as much money as he knew he was worth.
Charming was adisaster.
Jesse forced a false smile in return, and then Mr. Hughes left to chat with Mr. Stevenson, clapping Jesse on the shoulder as he passed. Once Mr. Hughes became engaged in another conversation, Jesse let out a long breath and looked over at the clock. Still four more hours left of work. Four more hours of continuing to think about those piercing blue eyes before he could have enough beer to banish them from his mind. Until Sunday, anyway.
Until Sunday platonically. Until forever romantically.
I would have remembered you.
Jesse shook his head to silence Arthur Hughes’s words.
Even if there was the tiniest wisp of a chance that Mr. Hughes liked men, Jesse wouldn’t let himself care. Because when Jesse Wolff had left his pathetic little neighborhood behind the Union Stockyard, he had sworn off Arthur’s type forever. And Jesse O’Connor wouldnothave his heart broken by some terribly handsome, obviously snobby, charmingly ridiculous and ridiculously charming member of Chicago’s elite. Even one as infuriatingly intriguing as Arthur Hughes.
Chapter Three
Arthur
Arthur had finally made it to dinner on time. After a whole week of forced socializing—outings that had entailed frequenting a series of small parties thrown by a few of the fair’s organizers and financial backers with the hope that that he might curry their favor—he was once again present with his family for the evening meal. Unfortunately, his parents were present for this one as well.
Wineglass in hand, Arthur tried to stay focused on the conversation between his mother and Emma, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. Instead, his mind kept returning to the short time he had spent visiting his new business, Putnam Press. More specifically, it kept returning to the even shorter time that he had spent watching Mr. O’Connor print flyers with the Gordon Jobber. To Arthur’s knowledge, none of his employees at Hughes Press had been to college. And, of course, Arthur knew that his shop had printed their fair share of newspapers with minor typographical errors over the years, precisely because creating those mirror-image “formes,” as Mr. O’Connor had called them, could be so tricky.
After Arthur had finished watching Mr. O’Connor work that morning, he had confirmed with Mr. Stevenson that Mr. O’Connor had been sincere when speaking about his level of skill. Mr.O’Connor rarely, if ever, made mistakes. Apparently, even requiring a second test sheet was somewhat of a rarity for him, occurring only once every week or two. Clearly the man had a sharp mind. And Mr. O’Connor’s temperament—the fact that he had spoken to Arthur with such obvious irritation or perhaps even contempt—oh, that had stirred something in Arthur’s very soul. Something that excited him and infuriated him and thrilled him all at once. Consequently, Arthur couldn’t help but be intrigued by thisMr. O’Connor. Especially since the man was so handsome to boot.
Handsome.Arthur could hardly believe that he was letting himself think such a thing. Never before had he let himself linger on a man’s looks like this. At least, not for a long time. Back when Arthur had first started becoming interested in sexual intimacy, he had realized, to his confusion and horror, that he found both men and women captivating. In fact, if Arthur was being honest with himself, he sometimes found himself being more intrigued, on the whole, by men, though of course certain women had caught his eye over the years. Like Ella. And even Charlotte for a time. But being with a man was forbidden, so much so that Arthur hadn’t ever considered pursuing one (even despite his penchant to break society’s social rules here and there). On a few occasions, hehadlet himselfimaginefucking or being fucked by one, but even those instances had been rare. Indeed, Arthur had somehow managed to snuff out nearly every flicker of interest he had in men. He had extinguished the flames of desire so completely that he rarely even entertained sordid fantasies featuring men when he was in private now.
But, dearGod, Mr. O’Connortrulyfascinated him. Arthur hadn’t even caught the man’s full name, and still, he was practically besotted by him. Oh, the confidence that Mr. O’Connor exuded was so inspiring, especially when coupled with the intelligencehe seemed to possess. And the hint of vitriol in Mr. O’Connor’s voice, even when speaking to someone like Arthur, someone who was both his employer and a member of one of Chicago’s most prominent and influential families, nowthathad been especially intriguing. After all, Arthur knew full-well the reputation that his family had. He knew the respect that his name typically commanded. Or, well, the respect it typically commanded from those who hadn’t witnessed his rebellious years.
Just then, as though on cue, Arthur’s father caught Arthur’s eye, and Arthur’s stomach sank.
“When will Mr. Burnham name the exhibitors?” he asked.
Arthur proceeded to throw back as much wine as he could manage. He was nearly finished emptying his wineglass when his father raised one of his spindly eyebrows, silently chastising him for his rudeness. Arthur’s eyes flitted to the bottom of the wineglass, and he eyed the splash of liquid that remained. In one fast motion, he tilted his head back, taking the last of wine into his mouth with an impolite gulp.
He set his wineglass back on the table.
