Matteo ushers me through the glass doors of Osprey, one of Chicago's most exclusive restaurants. It normally takes six months to get a reservation. I'm a little stunned when we walk right in, and the maître de practically throws himself at Matteo, gushing about how delighted he is to see him. We're immediately escorted to a table right in the middle of the dining room.
Feeling conspicuous, I glance around from beneath my lashes. All eyes are trained on the man I'm sitting with. A few female ones size me up as well. I feel woefully underdressed. I'm in a white blouse and navy-blue dress pants and a pair of low heels. I'm on my feet all day, giving tours of the museum, so comfortable shoes are a must contrary to what Jonathan thinks. This is the kind of place where women are draped
