“Yes, sir.”
“Cool, cool.” I nod. “And you like driving?”
“Of course, sir.”
Right. Okay. Not a great conversationalist.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask as he heads toward downtown.
“I do, sir.”
“Uh… where are we going?”
“The Timeworks Building, sir.”
“Right. Of course.”
What the fuck is the Timeworks Building?
Getting the hint that this guy isn’t going to tell me anything, I slink into my seat and close my eyes.
The car comes to a halt, and my eyes pop open. I push myself up and look out the windows to see downtown Chicago.
The car is pulled into a drop-off loop of a tall building I do not recognize. I don’t spend a lot of time in Chicago though—why would I? There’s nothing for me out here. I’m not a businessman, I don’t have any money to shop with or sight see with, and I’m not the kind of person to walk around and window shop because that shit makes me angry. Not only because I can’t afford anything I see, but why the hell is everything so expensive in the first place?
The door opens, and I move to step out, only to realize I still have my seatbelt on. I laugh it off as I go to undo it, and don’tmiss the annoyed expression on the driver’s face. Okay, so he doesn’t think I’m cute. Whatever.
I step out of the car, the sounds of the city assaulting me. I swipe my hands down my shirt and glance up at the giant building. There has to be at least fifty floors… crazy. I’ve never been in a building so big before, and I’ve never considered myself afraid of heights, so this is going to be the test.
Highest I’ve ever been is on the fourth floor of the hospital when Chrissy gets admitted. That’s nothing compared to this.
The driver walks with me to the door, but stops as they slide open to allow me in.
“You aren’t coming?” I ask.
“No, sir.”
“Then how will I—”
“You must be Mr. Cassius,” someone says, pulling my attention inside the building.
It’s a young guy, maybe about my age, a few years older? His hair is more blond than brown, messy in an artistic way with curls that only come naturally. Beneath the collar of his cream sweater is a white button up and moss green tie that matches his pants.
Interesting color palette, but it works… for him. He has those big round glasses that are suddenly cool again, that make him look smart but also attractive in a nerdy way. He’s too short for my tastes though. Around five-nine, if I had to guess.
Not that I’m huge at six foot—okay, five eleven and a half—but I do like my men taller.
Like this guy I’m about to meet. He had to be at least six-two.
“That’s me,” I say, giving him an awkward wave.
“Wonderful. Do you prefer I call you by your surname or is Mr. Cassius okay?” he asks as he moves toward the elevator.
“Oh, uh, Cassius is fine.”
“That’s not proper,” is all he says.