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“And you did?”
“I did.”
I shift in my seat, feeling exposed. A flight attendant looks our way and walks over.
“Do you need anything, sir?”
“Can we order drinks?”
“Yes, sir. What can I get you?”
Perks of flying first class. I don’t have to wait for the drink cart to get to my aisle.
I look at Indie. “What sounds good to you? Needs to be at least eighty proof.”
She meets my eyes and I wink.
“Nervous flyer?” the flight attendant asks.
“Yes,” Indie answers.
“We have good mimosas. And I can bring you a blueberry or apple muffin if that might help.”
Indie smiles gratefully. “A mimosa and a blueberry muffin would be great, thank you.”
“I’ll have a Maker’s on the rocks if you’ve got it,” I say.
“Muffin?”
“Just the drink, but thanks.”
The flight attendant departs and Indie gives me a serious, brows-drawn-together look.
“How much longer ’til we get there?” she asks.
“About three hours and fifteen minutes.”
She groans and pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head.
“That’s dope,” I say, pointing at a small 3D picture of a fox at a downtown Chicago gallery.
It’s really just a fox’s head, but he’s wearing a fedora and looks like a boss.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like it?” Indie asks me.
“Nine.”
“I think we should mark it as a maybe.” She breaks out her notebook and pen and starts jotting down the item and the store we’re currently at.
“Are you always so organized?” I ask her.
She laughs. “I’m a really weird mix. Half organized, half deadbeat. With my schedule, I’m great. Dental cleanings, every six months on the dot. But I usually only do laundry when I’m out of clothes, and I have no idea when I last got my oil changed.”
I groan loudly. “You have to get your oil changed! That’s the number one thing you can do for your car to keep it running. You’re killing me.”
“I know, I really need to be better about that. But it’s not a financial priority when you live paycheck to paycheck.”
“It adds to the life of your car, though.” I lower my brows, concerned. “You’re getting paid better now than you were at the coffee shop, right?”
“I am, but I spent a lot of my first paycheck on clothes. I was tired of borrowing stuff from my sister. She tells me I can’t eat anything when I’m wearing her suits because she’s afraid I’ll stain them. I’m only allowed to drink water.”
I arch a brow, surprised. “She sounds nice.”
“Rue is just…Rue. You have to know her.”
“Are you guys close?”
She smiles, and I can tell just by that look that she’s very fond of her sister. “Very. Sometimes a little too close. I live with her actually.”
“Ah. And who’s older?”
“She is.”
We’ve walked around the gallery in a big loop and are now back at the entrance of the gallery. It’s the second one we’ve visited, and I don’t remember the details of anything we’ve seen, other than the fox. My attention is almost entirely focused on Indie.
The more I get to know her, the more I like her. And also, the worse I feel about my bet with Kingston. I don’t care about the bet anymore; I’d really rather just forfeit and forget we ever even made this bet.
Indie can never find out about it. If she does, any chance I have with her will go up in smoke.
“Want to get lunch?” she asks me.
“Definitely.”
“There’s a Chipotle around the corner.”
I frown at her. “We’re not eating at Chipotle when we’re in downtown Chicago.”
“We’re not?”
“Well, we could, but I’d rather get some authentic grub, like Chicago-style dogs or pizza.”
Indie gives me a puzzled look. “What makes a hot dog Chicago style?”
“Are you serious? You’ve never had one?”
“No.”
I put my hands on my head, making myself look like that guy from the painting called The Scream. Indie laughs, getting it right away.
“That’s just wrong,” I say firmly. “We need to right this wrong immediately.”
“Tell me what’s on it first. I’m not a big fan of ketchup.”
I take out my phone and start looking for a good hot dog place as I answer. “No ketchup on an authentic Chicago dog. You take an all-beef hot dog and put it on a steamed poppy seed bun. Then top it with yellow mustard, sweet relish, tomatoes, onions, pickles, and peppers.”
“Tomatoes on a hot dog?”
I put a hand up to stop her. “Ah-ah. Do not judge until you’ve tried one. An authentic Chicago dog tastes the way sex feels.”
Indie laughs. “That may depend on who a person has had sex with.”
“True.” I turn my phone around to show her the screen. “This is the place. I’m calling an Uber right now.”
“Okay. You’ve got me. I’m intrigued.”
I shake my head and grin. “I hope you’ve got a ring in your pocket, because after you taste one of these, you’re going to want to propose to me.”
