7. Close Call
7
Close Call
Asher
Immediately after Daisy and I part ways, I wait a few minutes before wheeling back around and creeping up to the Hackett Studios office building, my heart hammering with every step.
I slide my pass against the reader outside, and it unlocks the large oak door so I can slip inside. The narrow hall is quiet, and there’s no one in sight. I slide my pass again on the elevator reader, and it works. The pounding in my ears grows louder, and I keep glancing over my shoulders, afraid I’ll miss the sound of someone approaching.
But I know I shouldn’t be worrying. There’s no one here. I ride the elevator up to the sixteenth floor and tiptoe into the dark lobby. Pausing, I listen for any late-night workaholics—I know Doug practically sleeps in his office—but I don’t hear a peep, and all the lights are out.
I make my way down the corridor until I reach Daisy’s office. Unlocked.
As I push the door open, the delicate scent of her perfume takes over, as if she was here, and it’s like a slap in the face. What am I doing? This is all wrong. I feel like a thief, sneaking in during the night.
Then, Doug’s warnings resonate in my head, and I force myself to keep going. I rummage through her files and search her desk drawer, but there’s nothing interesting. Booting up her computer, I launch the software. A hunk of lead sinks into the pit of my stomach as I try a few passwords, but none of them work.
“Hey!” A voice barks, startling me.
I swing around, coming face to face with a security guard who’s holding a flashlight. His other hand is propped on his hip as he fixes me in a menacing stare. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, hi.” My blood pumps so h ard in my veins, I’m afraid it’s going to burst out. “My name is Asher Forbes,” I say, hoping to buy myself some time. I flash him my visitor’s pass.
“What are you doing here?” he repeats, clearly not looking for introductions.
I clear my throat. “I forgot a folder here yesterday, and I needed it tonight, so I came back to get it.”
He arches an eyebrow. “At 10 p.m.?”
“I’m working on something rather urgent, so it couldn’t wait.”
He pauses for a moment. “Did you find it?”
My arms fall. “No, actually.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you hang around here at night,” he says, stepping aside and inviting me to leave Daisy’s office. “Come back during office hours.”
“Of course. I totally understand.” I plaster on a big smile. “My boss will just have to wait. What kind of life is that anyway, working through the night?”
His frown seems to say, Is this guy for real?
“Right.” I nod, hurrying out of the office. This guy does work through the night. I take a deep breath, hoping to calm my racing heart. I’ve never been this tense in my entire life.
He guides me out of the office, s taying with me until my feet are firmly on the sidewalk.
“Thanks.” I wave. “Have a good night.”
“Uh-huh,” he says simply, closing the door behind me.
I walk casually to the end of the block, then lean against the stone building, catching my breath as if I just ran a 5K. That was close. Too close. And if that guard breathes a word of this to Jan, I’m dead.
Daisy
This morning, I’m taking Asher on a long overdue tour of the Magnificent Mile. I showed him some of the buildings already as we passed by, but not all of them, including my favorite building in Chicago.
“Here it is,” I say, stopping in front of the building. “The Tribune Tower.”
He nods in appreciation while taking in the sight of the gorgeous 1925 Gothic Revival building.
“I briefly mentioned it during the boat tour, but this one deserves a second look,” I say, shuffling sideways to let a man who’s walking his dog pass by. “Today, these walls house luxury residences, but it kept the name Tribune Tower because it was the headquarter s of the Chicago Tribune for so long. The story behind this one is interesting. In 1922, the Chicago Tribune hosted a big design competition to mark its seventy-fifth anniversary. They lost their previous headquarters during the Great Chicago Fire, and they asked contestants to design the ‘most beautiful and distinctive office building in the world’ with a fifty-thousand-dollar cash prize for the winner.”
“Really?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up. “That’s clever. A great publicity stunt, and a way to gather plenty of designs to choose from.”
“Exactly.” I smile. “They received two-hundred and sixty entries.”
“Who won?”
“John Mead Howells and Raymond Hood. But that’s not what’s interesting about it,” I add quickly. “What sets—”
“Were they from Chicago?” he asks, the corners of his lips quivering.
I sigh. “No, they were from New York.” I roll my eyes, waving him on. “Go ahead, gloat.”
He belts out a laugh, the addictive sound stirring to life the butterflies sleeping in my belly. “I just like to know all the facts, that’s all.”
I roll my eyes again. “Anyway, what sets the tower apart—aside from its ornate buttresses at the peak and its intricate gargoyles and carvings—is the collection of fragments from famous buildings that are incorporated in the lower part of the building.”
“Ah, yes. Here it says ‘Edinburgh Castle,’ he says, nodding to the piece of stone built into the tower.
“Yup.” I flash a big smile. “Pretty cool, huh? And there are more, each brought back by a Chicago Tribune correspondent. There’s the Notre Dame in France, the Taj Mahal in India, the Great Wall of China, and even a piece of steel recovered from the World Trade Center.”
“No way!” His eyes widen.
I nod, growing even more excited. I never thought I’d find someone as ecstatic as me about this building—or architecture in general—but Asher and I clearly have that passion in common. He understands how special this is. I continue to show him all the cool pieces of history embedded in the walls, and we linger there for a while, just soaking in the amazing history and beauty of the tower, chatting about all the things that make this building so unique.
Finally, we manage to tear ourselves away and continue our walk up Michigan Avenue, which is dotted by the colorful tulips that adorn th e sidewalk planters. Another reason why I love spring in Chicago.
After pointing out a few more buildings that make the Mag Mile so special, I get an email from Andrew asking for some help with the Olion project.
“We have to swing by the office, if that’s okay?” I ask Asher. “I need to send our client something, and we’re so close, it’d be faster than explaining to my colleagues where to find the file.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Of course. That’s no problem at all.”
We head to the office, and Asher takes a seat next to me while I write the email. He shrugs off his coat, and with the thin sweater he’s wearing today, his arms and pecs are practically begging to burst from their fabric constraints. I swallow hard, trying to focus on the task at hand. I could pretend it’s confidential and ask him to wait outside, but having Asher’s musky scent permeating my office brings an odd sense of comfort.
Finally finished, I exit my mailbox, ready to turn off my computer.
“Oh, what’s that?” Asher asks, pointing to an icon at the bottom right corner of my desktop.
The Archi7000.
I clear my throat. “Um. Sorry, it’s confidential. I can’t talk about that.”
“Oh, come on,” he urges. His eyes darken, pinning me with their intensity, yet there’s a flicker of mischief in them that makes my heart flutter. If he keeps looking at me like that, I’ll give this man anything he wants.
I avert my gaze, focusing on my screen as I shut down my computer. I’m a professional, after all. “I’d be happy to tell you about it,” I say, and his eyebrows shoot up just a notch. “As soon as you join the company and sign our NDA forms.” I smirk.
He chuckles. “Nicely played.”
“So, are you ready for lunch?” I ask, rubbing my hands together. “I know a great place on the Riverwalk.”
“Is it Chicago ‘pizza’ again?” he asks with air quotes, and I shake my head.
“Come on.” I stand up, grabbing my coat. “You’ll love it. The Riverwalk is such a fun space too. I love hanging out there, especially in the summer, but the weather is so nice today. It’s the perfect opportunity to check it out.”
As we make our way out of the building, we chat about architecture and his favorite buildings in the world. We cross the bridge, then trudge down the long flight of stairs to reach the Riverwalk.
“Oh, wait. You have something h ere,” he says, removing a stray lock of hair that had fallen in front of my face.
I turn to look at him, getting lost in his tantalizing caramel eyes. So lost, I miss a step. My ankle twists on the edge of the stone step, and the next thing I know, I’m rolling down the stairway toward the Riverwalk.