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.
I continue glaring at the lists of numbers scattered out in front of me, refusing to acknowledge this inconvenient intrusion more than necessary. Walt seems compelled to trample into my office at least twice a day. It’s most likely to check that I haven’t morphed into a demon or something more sinister. “Better be good, kid.”
“Isn’t it always?” That take-no-shit attitude is how he manages to keep his job. Not many can put up with me on a daily basis, regardless of our blood relation. I applaud those willing to try.
“Then spit it out.” I make a forward motion with my hand, still avoiding his presence.
Walt thumps his shiny loafer on the carpet, the rapid beat searing into my skull. I flick my gaze up to his with a sneer. He gives a wide grin in return. If this little shit wasn’t my cousin, he would’ve been fired months ago. Not that I’m willing to overlook incompetence. One misguided step and I’ll easily forget his so-called ability to deal