A/N: Sorry about the delay...this one isn't that long, but I will try and get the next one out much fast. I've been looking for a new Beta, and it's a little difficult. Enjoy. -Rachel
Their conversations had been lean, indicating that neither was willing to wander from the subject of business into the murky waters of their personal lives. There was so much to say, and the floo network didn't seem the way to say it.
A receptionist came on the line at the Arour Headquarters and switched Hermione to Harry's office. Hermione tired to picture him there, sitting behind a desk, working with reports. Her Harry. Her Harry? Where had that come from.
"Harry Potter speaking. May I help you?"
"It's me, Harry. I'm here."
His tone changed from efficient courtesy to genuine warmth. "I though it might be you. I've been watching the clock. How was the drive?"
After their straight forward conversations last week she hadn't expected this intimate kind of greeting. "Fine," she stammered. "No, not fine, crazy. I should have driven a hippogriff up here so that I could intimidate some of those kamikaze nuts on the Outer Drive."
Harry laughed. "Is the truck parked now?"
"And for the next five days, thank you. I placed the keys in the gloved hands of the valet. I doubt he's ever driven such a vintage model into the parking garage of the Palmer House."
"Probably not"
"Anyway, it's show leather and taxis for me."
"Or my Mustang. In fact, I'd hoped to chauffeur you to some galleries this afternoon, but the boss called a sales meeting."
"That's okay. I'll walk to the ones close to the hotel. No problem." She hoped her disappointment wasn't evident in her voice. Of course he had a job, and she shouldn't have expected that he'd pop over the minute she called.
"Dinner, than? Let me take you out somewhere."
"That would be nice but certainly not necessary if you-"
"I thought we were going to get to know each other while you're here?"
"Uh, yes, I suppose we did say that."
"Changed you mind?"
"No. I'd...I'd love to have dinner."
"I'll be there at seven."
"Great." She hung up and immediately ran for her suitcase. This was definitely the night for the black slinky thing she'd found at the last minute during her Paris shopping spree. She'd shown her mother everything she's picked out except that dress. One look at that black number and her mother would have wondered what Hermione had in mind for this Chicago trip. Until Hermione had decided about Harry, she didn't want her mother getting funny ideas.
She checked this black dress for wrinkles before hanging it and everything else on the attached wooden hangers in the closet. No wire for this place. Then she checked her watch and discovered she still had several hours to kill before seven o'clock. She might as well spend them doing what she'd told Harry she'd be doing- touring the nearby art galleries. She grabbed her purse and room key and left.
Three hours later, as she limped along in the deep shadows of Thornwood Avene in the late afternoon, she cursed herself for hiking around in her new boots before they'd been broken in. By the time she'd realized her problem, it was too late. She debated taking a cab for the last six blocks and decided that was a foolish waste of money.
Back in her room, as she eased the boots from her battered feet and peeled off her nylons, she wished she'd taken the cab. Maybe then the blisters wouldn't have broken.
The bathwater stung her feet, but she hoped somehow to salvage the situation enough to put on the black high heels that went with her dress. Fresh from her bath and feeling a little better, she dressed in black panties and a bra and applied her makeup. Then, as a last test before putting on her dress, she gathered the left leg of a pair of black patterned panty hose and tried to ease the material over her foot.
Hermione wasn't a real fan of physical pain. With a yelp she removed them from her foot. If she couldn't stand the stockings, what hope was there for three-inch sling pumps? None, that's what. She couldn't go to dinner tonight, unless Harry favored places that allowed the patrons to dine in bare feet. And she had been so determined not to be a hayseed here in the big city. She was willing to bet that a London woman wouldn't march twenty-five blocks in a new pair of boots.
She tried to call Harry at his apartment, but he'd apparently already left. Se could do nothing but tell him when he arrived that she'd taken a rain check on his offer. Should she admit the truth or invent some excuse about a headache? She was debating the issue when the telephone rang.
"Hermione?"
"Hi, Harry. I was trying to call you."
"I'm in the lobby. Should I come up, or would you rather meet me down here?"
She'd intended to put him off with the headache excuse, but the sound of his voice filled her with yearning, Dammit, she wanted to be with him, blisters or no blisters. "Well, to tell you the truth...." She stalled, searching for a way out of her dilemma. Then her gaze fell upon the leather-bound menu on the walnut writing desk.
"To tell you the truth, Harry," she said, making her decision, "I think it might be more fun to order room service tonight, don't you?"