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The front windshield and wide windows allow for a panoramic view. Below, Chicago unfurls in a symphony of dazzling lights reflecting off the skyscrapers. Mick is an excellent tour guide, pointing out the John Hancock building, Wrigley Field, and the Lincoln Park Zoo. I watch as veins of traffic circulate through the knot of downtown and the river glints like a golden ribbon winding far beneath us.
Mick links our fingers, our grins huge. I feel weightless. Giddy.
When we land, Bernard is there to whisk us off to where the next surprise awaits. Fusion—a swanky Asian-inspired restaurant that I’d read about inWine and Dinemagazine but had no idea Mick was one of the silent partners.
As soon as we’re escorted through a concealed side entrance and ushered up via private elevator to the exclusive VIP dining room on the rooftop, we are treated to five-star service. Ownership definitely has itsprivileges. The waiter is expert, never allowing our glasses to empty. Mick drinks sparkling water, while the wines I receive are paired to complement the dishes on the tasting menu. From succulent tempura lobster, savory leg of lamb slow cooked in sake-infused soy sauce, to pan-seared ahi tuna topped with wasabi pesto—every bite is divine.
Mick eats with gusto, whereas it’s second nature for me to battle myself. I’ve lived so long categorizing foods as good and bad, using them as comfort or denying myself as punishment, that I haven’t often allowed myself to eat just for the sake of pleasure. Tonight, I do. It’s hard not to around Mick. He’s such a foodie, his delight evident and contagious.
Aside from the meal, Mick is a charming, attentive companion. I like the way he listens, the way he makes me laugh. I like learning anything about him to add to what I already have stored. I like that he’s a coffee snob and thinks no self-respecting caffeine drinker would settle for instant. I like that despite his wealth he prefers the simple things in life, except for fast cars, good food, and expensive watches. I like that he still remembers the first story he ever wrote at age six about a superhero boy and his magic dog.
I like the way he looks at me, touches me—drawing circles on the nape of my neck, keeping the intimate connection throughout dinner.
Just when I can’t imagine the experience could get any better, acclaimed Executive Chef Kit Nakamura appears with a portable cooking table. She and Mick share a business-friendly exchange and she is professional and courteous to me. Once we get through the pleasantries, it’s fascinating to watch a gifted artisan at work. She flambés the dark cherries with a healthy dose of liqueur, making an impressive show of flames. Next, she pours the warm sauce over a gold-dusted chocolate dome for a lava-melting effect. The reveal is an elevated sundae, this one she tells us is made of ganache brownies and candied-ginger ice cream. Every indulgence I usually try to avoid.
She takes a reverent bow at our applause before she departs with the cooking table and server.
I really shouldn’t, I think, when Mick scoops up a spoonful and brings the dessert dripping to my lips. But impossible to resist, I open for him and let the decadent taste of rich dark chocolate and sweet cream slide over my tongue. Leaning in, he brushes his mouth across mine.
“Mm. Delicious.”
Though heat throbs between my legs, a shiver moves through me as I imagine Mick licking chocolate off my body.
“Such a response,” he teases and looks into my eyes.
“Eating with you is sexy. It’s never been that way for me before. I can’t help my reaction”
“I don’t want you to help it.” Under the table his palm caresses my knee and starts to inch up.
“Behave.” I cover his hand, pausing its ascent and smile at the wicked flash in his grin. We feed each other a few more bites before I force myself to stop and let Mick finish. “I have something for you,” I say when he puts his spoon down.
“Oh yeah?”
“Close your eyes.”
He obliges. “When I open them will you be naked?”
“Not yet,” I playfully taunt, feeling brazen and happy. I get the ring from my purse and set it down in front of him before I eagerly lift the lid. “Now open.”
My excited reaction wanes at his sharp intake of breath. He doesn’t move. Hardly blinks. The moment is still except for the compulsive ticking in his clenched jaw.
I twist my napkin, kicking myself for ruining our light, flirty mood with my impetuous gift. “I…um…wanted to give you something meaningful, but if it’s too much—”
“It’s not too much. It’s perfect.” He slides the black diamond band on his right finger and cups my cheeks, the metal of the ring is cool on my skin. “You’re perfect.” He kisses my lips, my nose, and my eyes when they close. “Dance with me.”
Pleasantly buzzing on wine, Mick, and the wealth of emotion spiraling between us, I rise with him and he leads me onto the glass-enclosed balcony. Stars illuminate the sky like twinkling snowflakes and sultry jazz music floats through ceiling speakers.
Pulling me close, he aligns our bodies and we move together. Our dance is slow and sensual. As if a prelude of what’s to come. And I can’t wait.
Later, when we exit therestaurant, the limo is parked at the side entrance. Mick settles in beside me, shutting the door and locking us in. The partition behind Bernard is closed. There’s a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket and a silver platter of strawberries. I appreciate the thoughtful gesture, but I’m too amped up to eat or drink anything else.
As we pull away from the curb, Mick takes my hand and holds it on his thigh. The simple act makes me achingly aware of just how much I want him. I meet his gaze in the powdery blue light. “I remember the first time we were alone in your Mustang.”
Affectionate amusement glitters in his eyes. “We drove out to the lake. You were wearing this long skirt with a blouse buttoned all the way up to your neck. And over that a sweater with another million buttons. You were locked up tighter than Fort Knox.”
I laugh at his analogy, which isn’t far off. “I was nervous.”
“There was no reason to be.”
