A quick glance, and he’s back to the road. “You’re a photographer?”
“I’m not a professional, but I’ve worked with enough of them to fake it.”
“We can hire a professional photographer if we need to.” He pulls us into the parking lot of what looks like a tavern.
My brow lines. “Where the hell...?”
“City Tavern.” Keys out, he gives me a wink before climbing out. “It’s on everybody’s best new restaurant list.”
He’s opening my door just as I’m reaching for it, holding a hand down to help me out. I can’t help teasing. “Aren’t you the gentleman?”
“I’ve heard it’s what women like most about me.”
“No credit to your poor mother?”
Something flickers in his eyes, almost clouding his cheery mood, but he recovers fast. “No, actually.”
Curious. I’d like to know more about that, but I’ll save it. “Well, if you don’t trust me, I’ll happily find a professional to reshoot—”
“I already said I trust you. Just say the word, and we’ll set it up.”
Stopping at the hostess’s stand, Marcus gives our names while I glance around the interior. Elegant wooden armchairs with expensive, fabric-covered cushions are arranged around weathered dark-wood farm tables.
“We have to wait at the bar,” he says, taking my elbow and escorting me into a side room.
Blue leather and brass-studded barstools line a long, wooden bar. The entire place is rustic and cozy, yet elegant, from the white-painted brick walls to the blue and white striped wallpaper. “This place could be attached to your law office.”
“Portage Park is up and coming, and they’re supposed to have the best house-made charcuterie.”
My eyebrows rise at his perfect accent. “You speak French?”
“Not very well.” He pauses to order us each a vodka rocks. “The person who told me about this place pronounced it.”
I can’t help being curious. “And who was that?”
“My father.”
That makes me laugh. Our drinks are back and he hands me a short tumbler. Before he can do anything, I clink my glass against his. “Skal.”
That gets me a smile. “You beat me.” He takes a sip and continues. “Dad recommends the ribeye. They dry age it in-house for up to three weeks.”
“Sounds delicious.” Sipping my drink, I can’t help but notice how much fun I’m having. My earlier flight-mechanism forestalled.
He leans against the bar, and I sit on a high stool, and for a moment, we only consider each other.
“I can’t hold you forever,” he finally says, and my insides tense. “We only have so many marketing needs.”
Relaxing, I exhale. “Are you saying updating the firm’s website wasn’t a top priority before now?”
“In all honesty...” He takes another sip and clears his throat as I laugh. “Any idea who you’d like to work with? I’ll let you know if they’re worth a damn.”
Thinking back over the week, I recall one email. It was a less than desirable offer, but I have to consider all options. “I got a query from Dickerson, Cox, and Broadhead—”
“No.”
“Sorry?” His abrupt response catches me off guard.
“Troy Cox is an ass, and Roland’s not much better.”