3. This is Not a Pizza
3
This is Not a Pizza
Daisy
I decided to wait for Asher outside his hotel. He offered for me to tag along, but I need a reset. His musky cologne and the way his light caramel-brown eyes hold me hostage is making me heady.
Half an hour later, he’s back and ready to go. The sun is setting over the city, and every building is gleaming in the dying rays of dusk. Perfect. Nothing beats the Chicago riverfront at night.
“Are you ready?” I ask as he swaggers out of the building. Yes, this man doesn’t simply walk like the rest of us. It’s a fact.
“I am. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
We start toward the river and fall into easy conversation. It doesn’t feel forced or awkward. Chatting with Asher feels natural. We reach the sidewalk that hugs the river, and I suck in a breath. The city's jagged skyline looms against the murky sky, rows of windows glowing like fireflies. This truly never gets old. “What do you think?” I ask, glancing up at him.
“Wow.” He nods a few times. “I see what you mean. It’s gorgeous.”
“My favorite view is a bit further down. You’ll see.”
We keep walking for a while, and he breaks the silence. “So, what did you do to get stuck with me?”
I blush, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”
“I’m guessing you didn’t volunteer for the job? Especially if you’re a work junkie like I am.” He winks.
I swallow hard, averting my eyes. “I am, but I wasn’t going to say no to an all-expenses-paid week of touring Chicago. I love this place.”
He nods absently. “So, I take it you’re not from here originally?”
My eyebrows furrow. “Why would you say that?”
“Because if you were, you’d p robably have played tour guide for so many people, you’d be sick of it by now. I love New York, but if I step foot on Liberty Island one more time, I’m going to lose it.”
I laugh. “You’re right, I’m not from here. But I do love this city. I fell in love on my first night out. I hope you will too.”
His forehead wrinkles.
My eyes widen as I realize what I just said. “With the city, of course.”
The corners of his lips twitch into a grin. “Yeah, I got that.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “I hope you’re hungry, because you’re about to have the best pizza of your life. One slice, and you’ll sign your contract without thinking twice.”
He shoots me a smirk. “Highly doubt it. I lived in Rome for a year during my college days. And I live in New York.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve never been to New York, but I don’t think anything can beat our deep-dish pizza. Now, the place we’re going to isn’t my favorite spot in the city, but—”
“Wait. You’re not taking me to your favorite spot? I don’t get it.”
“The best deep-dish restaurant is north of the city, but it’s too far out. I thought it’d be easier to eat close to your hotel tonight. It’s really good, though. A close second.”
He shakes his head, sending out whiffs of his intoxicating cologne. “Here I thought the entire point was to discover the city like a local, not a tourist.”
“It’s a bit of both. Besides, I don’t share my secret deep-dish haven with just anyone. But who knows? Maybe you’ll prove yourself worthy.” I wiggle my eyebrows, feeling more confident.
As we stroll toward the restaurant, I show him the first few buildings of Michigan Avenue, including the famous Wrigley Building. “I’ll tell you more about it in a second. The restaurant is always crowded, so we should get on the waiting list ASAP.”
As soon as we cross the threshold, the smell of fresh tomato sauce, sizzling beef, and Mozzarella makes my mouth water. We register with the hostess before walking back outside.
Asher’s stomach growls, and he lets out a groan. “A thirty-minute wait? This pizza had better be worth it.”
Asher
“So .” Daisy clasps her hands, suddenly more animated as she raises her head to admire the massive white building above us. “The Wrigley Building, one of my favorites in Chicago, was built in 1924 for the candy company of the same name. It was probably the first building that began to define what we now know as the Magnificent Mile, which was, of course, part of Burnham’s ‘Plan of Chicago.’ I’m assuming you’re familiar with it?” she asks. Her eyes are shining so bright, they compete with the street lights around us.
“Asher?” she prods, and I focus back on the building.
“Yes. I’m familiar with the Plan of Chicago. It was a bid to beautify the city and improve efficiency of commerce,” I blurt out in a single breath, as if I just swallowed Wikipedia.
“Exactly. And that’s how the Magnificent Mile was born. Now, it’s an eclectic mix of Parisian, Gothic, Neoclassical, and Art Deco styles, this one being a mix of Spanish Colonial Revival and Beaux-Arts. The architects used the shape of the Giralda bell tower of Seville's Cathedral and combined it with French Renaissa nce ornamental details.”
“It’s in very good condition,” I say, admiring the building. “Still very white.”
“It’s incredibly well-maintained. It’s actually formed of six shades of gleaming white terracotta, the color getting lighter toward the top. And with the face being illuminated at night, it shines even brighter. You do know that Chicago was called ‘The White City,’ right?”
“I’ve heard that.”
“And not because of the snow,” she jokes. I’m guessing she’s used that one before, and I offer a quiet laugh. “For the 1893 World’s Fair, held here in Chicago, Burnham wanted a cohesive look among the buildings. While they weren’t built to be permanent, the architects used the grandeur of Beaux Arts classicism to convey solidity and prestige. All the buildings were made of white terracotta and featured extensive illumination displays at night. Wrigley, who visited the fair, loved the architecture so much that, when it was time to build the headquarters for the Wrigley Company, he used it as inspiration.”
I study the building that towers before me. “Yeah, I can see that. And there are so many details on the facade too. Cherubs, animals . . . It’s incredible.”
She twirls the end of her braid around one finger. “It is.”
“So, does anything remain of the original exhibition? Most fair buildings are destroyed shortly after the event wraps up, with only a few famous exceptions like the Eiffel Tower in Paris or the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.”
“Actually, yes!” She flashes her signature blinding smile. “We have two. The Art Institute and the Museum of Science and Industry. But of course, you can see inspiration in many other buildings in the city. Jackson Park was also built for the expo, and it’s still standing.”
I nod, finding her explanations genuinely interesting. I’ve always loved history, and when it’s so intricately tied to architecture, it’s even better.
“Should we walk to the bridge while we wait?” she asks, tilting her head. “I love the view from there at night.”
“Sure.”
We wander toward the bridge and lean against the stone, admiring the spectacle in front of us. This is why I love architecture. It’s not just buildings. It’s art.
“What do you think?” she asks, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. “Pretty spectacular, right?”
I almost laugh at her obvious attempts to draw out my compliments about the city. As if she expects me to agree to the job every passing second. “It’s breathtaking,” I say, trailing my eyes over the buildings. “But I do love watching the New York skyline from Brooklyn. Can’t beat that.”
She chuckles, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why Chicago has been named Best Big City in the US. Again .”
I laugh hard. I love how she gets all defensive about the city. It’s kind of endearing.
“So, are you from New York?” she asks. “You seem pretty attached to the city.”
A gust of wind blows off the river, and I adjust the scarf around my neck. “I am. What about you? Where are you from?”
“Born and raised in Winter Heights, a small ski resort town in Colorado.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Cold weather is your thing, huh?”
She smiles, her soft expression warming me up. “I guess. Though you don’t really get used to it. Chicago winters are brutal, especially since you’re not wearing ski gear around the city.”
“Yeah. It’s rough in New York, but definitely not as cold as Chicago. Hard to believe it’s supposed to be spring right now.” I rub my hands together. Even if I am wearing gloves, the cold and the wind whipping against my face still sting. “I like to be outside, walking, running.”
“Me too.” She nods. “It’s actually not that bad right now. It just feels cooler at night without the sun to warm you up. And Chicago is a very walkab le city. The Lakefront Trail is my favorite place to run or bike, and the beautiful beaches are salt and shark free.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. I doubt anything can beat Central Park,” I tease, but she doesn’t respond, focusing instead on the view.
She shakes her head, a quiet laugh escaping her. “We’ll see. Give me a few days, and I’ll prove to you that Chicago is infinitely better than New York.”
I cough out a laugh. “Oh, really?”
“Absolutely.” She checks her phone. “Speaking of, I just got a text. Our table is ready. Let’s go get some pizza.”
I ordered the original deep-dish pizza, per Daisy’s recommendation. And I must say, it’s not half bad. “I wouldn’t really qualify this as a pizza, though. More like a savory pie, or lasagna with a crust.”
Daisy’s jaw drops, and I press my lips together to hold in a smile.
“What? It’s true. You can’t even hold a slice in your hand!”
Her silver eyes dart around the r oom. “Shh. You’re going to get us kicked out.”
Is she serious? I glance around, suddenly worried, but Daisy puffs out a laugh.
I roll my eyes. “Very funny.”
She shifts topics, reciting the history of that particular building, and her entire body becomes animated again. She gestures wildly with her hands, almost jumps in her seat, and those gray eyes . . . like some precious gemstone. Is it hematite, moonstone? Both and neither at the same time, because Daisy’s eyes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. They captivate me just as much as the wealth of information she holds. I ask questions, and she answers each one with ease, like she knows everything about any given place in this city.
She pauses to eat, and despite my desire to keep chatting about history, I seize the opportunity to switch subjects. “So, how long have you been working at Hackett Studios?”
She dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Five years. It’s a great company.”
I smile. “I’m sure. But there are tons of architecture firms in Chicago, across the US even. Why is this one so special?”
She pushes a st rand of red hair behind her ear. “Where do I even start? Great team. Nice environment. Easy commute. Exciting projects. Cutting-edge technology.”
Those three words send a rush of adrenaline through my veins. I take a sip of my drink, trying to keep it casual. “Technology? Like what?”
Her phone vibrates on the table, so she flips it to check the screen. In a flash, her face transforms from elated to . . . scared? Or angry? I’m not sure, but I don’t like this new look on her.
The phone vibrates again, and she just stares at it.
“What’s wrong?”
She swallows hard, turning her screen off. “Nothing.”
I open my mouth to press further, but then, I mentally slap myself and proceed to finish my pizza pie. I’m not here to make friends, or to worry over a girl I just met. I’m here to dig up information so I can get back to my life.
With a sigh, I lean back in my chair.
“Stuffed?” she asks, a faint smirk on her lips. “For someone who didn’t like it, you sure left a clean plate.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I just said it wasn’t pizza,” I tease, my words wiping that smug look off her face.
She chuckles, then glances at her phone again.
“You can pick up, if you need to. It might be important.”
She scoffs. “Trust me. It’s not.”
I steal a peek at her screen and quirk an eyebrow. “Thirty-seven missed calls isn’t important?”
She breathes a heavy sigh. “It’s my ex. I changed my number, but apparently, he tracked me down again. It’s fine.”
“Okay.” I’m not the type of person to pry, so I keep quiet. Even if it does set all of my alarms off, I know it’s none of my business. There’s only one kind of business I’m in town for.