3. Autumn

Chapter 3

Autumn

T he Art Institute’s employee lounge offered little comfort during lunch breaks, but the coffee made up for the stiff chairs and fluorescent lighting. I stirred cream into my cup, breathing in the rich aroma while reviewing acquisition proposals on my tablet. My navy pencil skirt shifted against my legs as I crossed my ankles, trying to find a comfortable position in the institutional furniture.

“Must be important paperwork.”

Marcus Richardson’s voice drew my attention from the screen. He stood by the coffee machine, his brown skin rich against the crisp white of his dress shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. His black slacks and burgundy tie marked him as part of the administrative team - always polished, always professional.

“Proposals for the spring exhibition.” I set my tablet aside. “Though right now, the words are starting to blur together.”

“Sounds like you need a break.” He poured himself a cup, his cologne - subtle notes of cedarwood and grapevine - drifted over as he moved closer. “Maybe you need dinner?”

My heart stuttered – brows rising. Over the past few months, our coffee machine conversations had grown longer, warmer. His smile carried hints of interest I’d pretended not to notice.

“Dinner?” I smoothed my silk blouse, suddenly aware of every detail - the gold buttons, the way it draped, the single strand of Pearl’s at my throat. “Is that your way of asking me out on a date, Marcus?”

His smile was warm, and hopeful. “Yes. Will you go out on a date with me, Autumn - tomorrow night? I know this great Ethiopian place on Division Street.” He leaned against the counter, confident but not pushy. “Unless you’re busy?”

Tyson’s face flashed in my mind - his smile last night when he’d kissed my cheek, the warmth in his eyes at brunch. But we weren’t... we had never...

“I’d like that.” The words surprised me even as they left my mouth.

Marcus’s smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. “I can pick you up at seven o’clock if that works for you.”

“I’ll meet you there.” At his raised eyebrow, I added, “I like to drive myself on first dates.”

“Smart woman.” He pulled out his phone. “Let me get your number.”

As we exchanged contact information, Latisha Harrison from my department appeared in the doorway. Her eyes darted between us, and I knew the gossip would be all over the building by the end of the day.

“Ms. Williams.” Her voice carried a hint of amusement. “The Stevenson collection representatives are here early.”

“I’ll be right there.” I gathered my things, very aware of Marcus watching me. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven, Autumn.”

“Looking forward to it.” His fingers brushed mine as he handed me my tablet.

In the elevator, Latisha bumped my shoulder with hers. “Finally! I’ve watched him make excuses to get coffee whenever you’re in the lounge.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“With the finest corporate lawyer this side of Michigan Avenue.” She straightened her geometric print dress. “Have you seen his pro bono work with South Side artists? The man’s got substance to match those looks.”

The elevator doors opened to the gallery floor, where afternoon light played across marble floors. My heels clicked against the stone as we walked.

“Don’t start planning the wedding,” I warned.

“Girl, please. We all know your heart’s been booked since college.” At my sharp look, she held up her hands. “Just saying, a certain hotel mogul might have opinions about you dating other men.”

“Tyson doesn’t get opinions about my dating life.” The words came out sharper than intended. “We’re friends. Business partners now, with this new project.”

“Mmhmm.” Latisha’s skepticism was evident. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Before I could respond, the Stevenson representatives approached, all handshakes and portfolios. I pushed the thoughts of both men aside, focusing on the familiar rhythm of negotiations and artistic value assessments.

But later, alone in my office, I found myself staring at Marcus’s number on my phone. He was handsome, successful, and committed to the community—the kind of man my mother would love. He asked for what he wanted instead of dancing around decades of friendship and unspoken feelings.

My phone buzzed with a text from Tyson: “Dinner at the hotel site tonight? I need your eye on the gallery space.”

I looked at Marcus’s number again before replying: “I can’t tonight. I have a deadline for the spring exhibition.”

A lie. Well… it wasn’t entirely a lie. But it was a half-truth and a step away from whatever was building between Tyson and me. Maybe that was for the best. But it didn’t rest well in my soul.

I placed my phone face down on my desk and turned to the window. Chicago stretched out before me, all steel and stone. Tomorrow, I would wear my favorite black dress - the one that hugged every curve - and have dinner with a handsome man who hadn’t known me since childhood. Who didn’t carry twenty years of history in every look, and every touch.

It was time to stop waiting for presents I wasn’t sure I’d ever be brave enough to unwrap.

My phone buzzed again. Tyson: “Miss you already, partner.”

I closed my eyes, breathing in the silence of my office. Outside, winter wind whipped between buildings, carrying snowflakes in a whirlwind – while inside, the whirlwind was inside my head and my heart.