curved wickedly at the corners. “Indeed, I do.” He tugged her by the hand, toward the street corner. “Come on.”
While they waited for the light to turn, Victoria looked around. “Where are we going? There aren’t any restaurants this way.”
“Sure there are. Seventy of them.”
Seventy restaurants? It took her a moment, then she realized they were heading in the direction of Grant Park. “Oh, no. We are not going to the Taste.”
Every July, the city hosted the Taste of Chicago, an outdoor food festival with musical bands that brought in over two million people. Chicagoans tended to fall into two camps about the annual bacchanalia, viewing it either as a time-honored tradition or something to be avoided like the plague.
Generally not the biggest fan of teeming masses of sweaty people, Victoria considered herself among the latter.
“It’ll be fun,” Ford said.
“Famous last words,” she grumbled.
But she allowed him to lead her across the street anyway.
* * *
IN FAIRNESS, THE scene at Grant Park wasn’t as bad as Victoria had feared. Food vendors in brightly colored tents stretched along both sides of the street. Surrounded by green parkway, and with the Chicago skyline an impressive backdrop against the gorgeous blue summer sky, she and Ford grabbed some food and strolled leisurely while they ate.
She looked over and caught him eyeing her Lou Malnati’s pizza. “I told you that you chose poorly.” He’d given her a big speech about trying something new in the spirit of the festival—hence the smoked alligator hot dog in his hand.
When he grumbled something about it being part of the experience, she smiled and decided to take pity on him. She held out her pizza. “Here.”
He leaned down and took a bite straight from her hands. “Mmm.”
She felt a flutter in her chest, momentarily caught off guard by the playful intimacy of the moment. “I’ve been meaning to ask: how did it go the other night, when you babysat Zoe?”
“Total disaster.” He proceeded to tell her all about Zoe’s volcano-like throwing up and him lying half-naked on the floor outside her room.
She laughed at the story. “Aw, the mighty Ford Dixon, taken down by a four-month-old.” Looking at him as they walked side by side, she was curious. “Volcanic vomiting aside, you do seem to have a way with Zoe. Is that something you want someday? Kids of your own?”
He considered this. “I’m not sure. I like kids, but there’s the obvious issue of who I would have one with. Not all of us have stockpiles of frozen eggs lying around.”
“You know, if you settled down with some nice girl, she just might give you access to her eggs,” Victoria teased.
He nudged her arm playfully. “Well, if it were that easy, it probably would’ve happened already. And then I wouldn’t be here, walking with you on this nice summer day, eating this . . . disgusting alligator hot dog.” He made a face, looking down at it.
She chuckled. “Just throw it away. I’ll split the rest of my pizza with you.” As he jogged over to a garbage can to get rid of the hot dog, she couldn’t help but think about the intriguing comment he’d dropped in there.
If it were that easy, it probably would’ve happened already.
“So why isn’t it easy for you?” She passed him her pizza when they were walking again. “Relationships, I mean.”
He shrugged. “I already told you why I’m single.”
“Ah, yes. I heard the laundry list of thirtysomething male commitment angst. But I think there’s more to it.”
“Hmm. Do you now?” He handed back the pizza.
She took a bite, saying nothing further. Naturally, she was curious. She’d slept with him, she was working with him on a case, and, oddly enough, they were sort of becoming friends. But if this was something he didn’t want to talk about, she wouldn’t pry.
She, of all people, could respect someone’s need to keep certain things private.
“For the record, there are some very valid reasons on that laundry list of male commitment angst.” He paused. “But it’s also been theorized, by some, that my ‘intimacy’ issues have something to do with growing up with an alcoholic parent.”
As someone who knew all about having a complicated relationship with a parent, she treaded lightly with her next question. “And what do you think?”
“I think . . . that we need funnel cake.” He slowed to a stop in front of a tent with a yellow-striped awning.