“A wedding cake topper,” I replied humorlessly. “But her son’s the only one on it.”
“Monster-in-law?”
“Not mine,” I clarified. “I can’t be more thankful for that.”
Jonathan chortled before growing serious. “I wanted to apologize to you.”
I turned toward him and suddenly remembered how disarming his smile was. “For what?”
“When I saw you at Rodolfo’s yesterday—”
“With your father.”
“Yes,” he said tightly. “I’m not sure what he told you, but we don’t have the best relationship.”
“That’s what he told me.”
Jonathan fiddled with a loose button on his sleeve. “I limit my interaction with my father to preserve the state of my mental health. I didn’t mean to act rude toward you.”
From the way he stood—shifting nervously from one foot to the other—and the fact that he wouldn’t look me in the eye, I could tell he wasn’t in the habit of having to apologize to other people.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
Absolved, he met my gaze and smiled. “Can I make it up to you? Do you have dinner plans?”
Technically, I was supposed to meet Evelyn for dinner, but the Godfrey family’s mysterious feud pulled the puppet strings in my brain and made my mouth say different words.
“Luckily for you, I’m free. What time?”
He offered his arm. “What about now? Are you hungry?”
I linked my arm in his. “Positively starving.”
To my great relief, Jonathan didn’t suggest we eat at the Saint Angel. Despite the hotel’s size, I was beginning to feel like a trapped bird. The rest of Chicago beckoned, and Jonathan knew the city well.
“I grew up here,” he said as we made our way down the street toward an unknown destination. “I’ve never wanted to leave. I consider myself lucky. Not everyone feels that way about their childhood home.”
“I had to get away from mine for a while,” I told him, bowing my head against the brisk breeze. “Bad memories.”
“Sorry for that.” The drop in his voice sounded genuine. He moved to walk slightly in front of me, shielding me from the worst of the wind. “Do you ever go back?”
“I visit,” I said. “My grandmother still lives there, but my best friend and I live in a different part of the country.”
“London, I’m guessing?” He glanced at me and smiled. “I picked up the accent.”
“Whitechapel, specifically.”
“I’d love to visit sometime.”
“You’d have to leave Chicago for that.”
Jonathan smirked and nodded. “You got me there. Are you too cold? The restaurant’s not far. Another block or so, but I can call a car instead.”
I shook my head. “This is fun.”
Jonathan beamed.
We arrived at a red brick building with a green roof, but the restaurant wasn’t the upscale establishment I’d expected Jonathan to take me to.
“A hot dog place?” I asked skeptically as he opened the front door for me.
“Portillo’s is a Chicago classic,” he informed me. “You can’t leave the city without trying Italian beef or a Chicago-style hot dog.”
Mismatched decorations—colorful signs, bizarre figurines, and a huge iron clock face—hung from the ceiling. Indoor streetlights and a facade of old Chicago building fronts added to the chaotic anachronistic design. Red-and-white checkered clothes draped the tables, and the wooden chairs creaked and wobbled beneath the weight of their occupants.
Jonathan and I joined the long line that snaked toward the order counter. The smell of hot grease and pickle juice settled in my nostrils. I stared up at the enormous menu above the cash registers, overwhelmed by the choices.
“Let me order for you,” Jonathan offered. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”
I nodded, more than happy to let him do the talking as we stepped up to the counter.
“Can we get two hot dogs with everything, a Polish, and a Big Beef?” Jonathan said to the cashier. “I’d also like cheese fries and a chocolate shake.” He turned to me. “You’re not allergic to dairy or anything, right?”
“No, but you ordered four things!” I said. “How are we going to eat all that?”
“You have to try everything,” he insisted. “What kind of tour guide would I be if I let you leave this restaurant without sampling the best stuff on the menu?”
“He’s right,” said the cashier.
With a half-hearted eye roll, I gave in. Jonathan finished ordering, collected his receipt, and steered me away from the counter. He scanned the busy restaurant for an open table.
“Be on the lookout,” he said. “Anyone who looks like they’re almost finished eating—there!”
He darted around me, startling an older couple as they gathered trash off their table. Another couple, who had also made a beeline for the free seats, frowned at Jonathan as he swept a napkin across the checkered surface.
“There we go,” he said, pulling out the chair for me. “Stay put. I’ll pick up the food.”
A few minutes later, I bit into my first Chicago-style hot dog. Jonathan watched me expectantly.
“Well?” he prompted. “What do you think?”
I wrestled with my mouthful of beef, pickles, and relish. My tongue began to tingle. “Are there peppers in this?”
“Hot peppers,” he answered happily, unwrapping the other items. “Try this one next.”
I obliged and took half of the Big Beef, a sandwich full of meat and mozzarella. “Tell me more about yourself. What do you do?”
“I used to be a surgeon,” he said.
“Wow, I was not expecting that.”
“Just because I’m blond and handsome doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” he said.
I laughed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it,” Jonathan playfully accused. He wiped mustard from his hands. “Anyway, I finished med school and was lucky enough to get placed at a hospital in Chicago for my residency.”
“You work there still?”
“No,” he said shortly. “I quit. Working there made me realize how many people suffer because they can’t afford good medical care. Or if they need medical care, they might bankrupt themselves to get it. The system is corrupt. I couldn’t stay there in good conscience.”
I nodded in agreement. “What do you do now?”
“I run a not-for-profit medical clinic for less fortunate populations.”
“How noble of you.”
He didn’t pick up the slight sarcasm in my tone. “Yeah, I guess
