I let my jaw hang. “Haven’t you been listening? I’ve been hogging the conversation.”
But she’s not wrong on calling me out. I’ve lost a bit of my luster as of late. If I want to dig at the root, this streak of bad luck began after my cousin’s wedding last spring. That was over a year ago. Since then, it’s been a gnarled string of letdowns. Giving spotlight to the source might offer some sense of closure, but focusing my attention on that surly asshole is more than he deserves. A muffled groan rips from the back of my throat. I still don’t know his name.
Ignoring his negative influence has made me weak. My friend is right, whether I willingly admit that aloud or not. This Debbie Downer mood needs to quit. Enough with the overplayed song—changing the channel only requires a slight flick of my wrist. I paste on a smile, internally yank on my big girl panties, and forget this frou-frou trouble. “I’m an independent woman. Who needs a significant other? Not me.”
Presley doesn’t appear convinced in the slightest, if the wrinkle of her pert nose is any indication to go by. Clea, on the other hand, is nodding with an enthusiastic bounce. “That’s the best attitude to have. Guys are intimidated by bold, successful women.”
“I hate that misogynistic crap. It’s a lame excuse,” I mutter.
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
The server arrives with our fresh drinks and I treat myself to a greedy slurp. I exhale a cleansing breath as the crisp mimosa washes away the bad vibes. “Okay, enough. My pity party has come to an end. Thanks for listening to me whine for five minutes.”
“Try ten,” Clea laughs. I frown at her and she raises both hands in protest. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. It’s not a bad thing to discuss our troubles. That’s why we’re all such great friends.”
“Be that as it may, I’m positive there are more important matters to discuss than my horrendous love life. Or lack thereof,” I mumble. I’ve managed to excel in the professional department. Why can’t my romantic aspirations follow suit?
Presley smacks her lips after a long sip of juice. I’d assume she’s imagining something other than a straw in her mouth with that kind of enthusiasm. “Do you want me to set you up with someone?”
All thoughts of who’s been keeping her occupied flee with a whoosh. “You’re offering now? I just swore off men seven seconds ago.”
She lifts her shoulder in a lazy shrug. “As if your hopeless romantic spirit will stick to that plan.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time. “Who are these specimens? Have you been holding out on me?”
“Not really, but they fit your new standards.”
I huff, sending red strands off my forehead. “Put a pin in that. I’m determined to get out of this funk, one way or another. The male population is conspiring against me.”
“At least you’re about to be promoted.” Presley’s positive outlook brings a grin to my face.
“This is true. I have little to complain about.”
She pats my hand again, her motherly traits bleeding through. “It’s all right to be frustrated with the lack of good prospects. We’re well aware that your golden heart is searching for its match.”
My smile wobbles at the edges. “It really sucks that I care so much.”
“If you didn’t, we’d all lose faith in love. You need to stay dedicated for us.” Clea winks at me.
Before I can respond, a wince crosses Presley’s features. She bands an arm across her chest and hunches over. “Shit.”
I whip my gaze from left to right, searching for potential reinforcements. “What?”
Her features crumple further. “I need to go. My boobs are about to resemble concrete.”
That has empathy kicking in with a hiss. “Ah, lovely. How’s breastfeeding going?”
She stands, passing over some cash for her meal. “Very well, thanks for asking. Being a milk machine makes these outings more complicated, but I always appreciate a good challenge.”
I prop my chin on a closed fist. “You make motherhood look really swell.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Really?”
“Hell yes, Press. Archer just popped out a few months ago and you’re already kicking single parenting’s ass.”
Her eyes get a bit misty and she blinks at the pooling moisture. “I really appreciate that. Chad does his fair share, though.”
“As he should,” Clea mumbles.
I nod at her. “He probably could’ve made this easier by—”
“Hey! None of that.” Presley points an accusatory finger from Clea to me. “It takes two to make a baby.”
Properly reprimanded, I beam at her with fluttering lashes. “Certainly does.”
“Now that we’ve covered basic reproduction, I’ll be seeing both of you soon.” She sends us air-kisses and darts out the side gate.
“And on that note,” Clea sing-songs.
I clink my glass against hers. “We drink in her honor.”
Afternoon traffic crawls along Wacker Street below my towering fortress. Two of the walls are made entirely of glass, providing an excellent vantage point for meaningless spectating. Cars resemble toys from this high up. Downtown Chicago during rush hour is a bitch even I don’t fuck with. From the perch of my leather chair, I can watch people struggling to gain an inch of leeway. I could almost grant an ounce of sympathy for the pitiful saps if it weren’t such a predictable routine. Giving a shit would also be a requirement—and I simply don’t care.
The view from my corner office is worth millions. Having the lake and river within range cranks that amount to an astronomical figure. I rarely spare a second to appreciate the bustling sights. Why bother? It’s always the same. Honking taxis carrying impatient tourists. Street vendors trying to make a quick buck. Congested sidewalks streaming with frustrated pedestrians. This entire section is a bottleneck. Stoplights block any attempt at a consistent flow, causing disarray at every intersection. The crowds grow thicker each day. Yet this city claims my roots, so I remain firmly planted.
My heritage is sunk deep into this concrete metropolis, clinging to the core that built these skyscrapers. Some of my ancestors fled to the east, settling into New York City. Those that stuck to the Midwest still call them weak for abandoning our history and namesake. I see it as a wider range of power.
With a deep inhale, I imagine the stale smog filtering into my lungs. All that I’m really ingesting is filtered air that reeks of lemon. Whoever’s responsible for choosing such an offensive odor will be reprimanded appropriately.
I wrench my gaze off the picturesque scenery that’s stamped onto every other postcard available for sale at the local Quick Mart. The distraction is worthless. Getting back to the grind is imperative. Time is money, especially in my case. Wasting it would be better spent on properly aged bourbon and custom suits. Stacks of spreadsheets litter my desk, demanding that I regain focus. I’m nothing if not disciplined.
“Sir?” A muted knock follows the formal title my pesky assistant insists on using. I’m certain he gets a rise out of defying me. That mockery doesn’t fly for many, and ignoring him is my natural response.