The simple statement hangs between us. I don't have a ready response.
"People don't understand me," I finally say, hating how vulnerable it sounds. "They find me cold or intimidating or?—"
"Too intense," Kate finishes. "I know. But that's because you never let them get close enough to see past that first impression. You decide they won't understand, so you don't give them the chance."
I think of Camille Montclair, how she met my gaze without flinching. "Not everyone is worth the effort of explaining myself."
"Raquel is," Kate insists. "Just one dinner, Tris. If it's terrible, I'll never set you up again."
"You're lying."
"Fine, I'll wait at least six months before trying again." She laughs. "Come on. Friday night. That new place on 57th. I've already made the reservation."
"Of course you have." I shake my head, knowing when I'm beaten. "Fine. One dinner."
"Yes!" Kate's victory cheer is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. "You won't regret it. Raquel is perfect for you."
"Lower your expectations," I warn her. "I'm agreeing to dinner, not marriage."
"Baby steps," she says cheerfully. "Now, tell me more about this designer who has you so distracted."
"Goodbye, Kate."
"Her name, at least?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Love you too, little brother!"
I end the call, setting my phone down on my desk. Kate means well. She always does. But her vision of what my life should be—balanced, social, normal—feels like a suit tailored for someone else. I've tried to wear it, but it never fits quite right.
My thoughts drift back to Camille Montclair, to that flash of something in her eyes when I mentioned Alex. I shouldn't care about their history. It's irrelevant to the project, to our working relationship.
Yet I find myself wondering.
I turn to my computer, telling myself I'm checking her references, verifying her portfolio. Professional due diligence. Nothing more.
But even as I type her name into the search bar, I know I'm lying to myself. And that realization is more unsettling than any lecture from Kate could ever be.
Chapter 13
Julian
Isit with my scotch at the corner of the bar, watching New York's elite mingle beneath string lights and starless city sky. The Apex—members only, naturally—sits thirty-five floors above Madison Avenue, providing the perfect perch for Manhattan's finest peacocks to strut. Alex is late. Tristan, chronically early for everything else in life, is apparently making an exception tonight.
The bartender slides by, raising his eyebrows in silent question. I shake my head. I'm nursing this drink until reinforcements arrive. Last time I showed up early to meet Alex and Tristan, I ended up three sheets to the wind before they arrived, then humiliated myself trying to explain an offside trap to a Victoria's Secret model. Not my finest hour.
It’s been ten years since I walked away from professional football, aka soccer in the States, and still people recognize me. Not everyone—thank Christ—but enough. Enough that I can't completely disappear into anonymity the way I sometimes crave. England still remembers Julian Fairfax, the "golden boy" midfielder who helped bring home Premier League glory before a knee injury cut everything short at twenty-nine. America remembers less, which is precisely why I moved back here.
Now I build community centers and youth sports facilities instead of scoring goals. Less glamorous, infinitely more satisfying. Though I miss the pitch sometimes—the smell of grass, the roar when the ball hits the back of the net—I don't miss the spotlight. Don't miss nights like these, surrounded by people who want a piece of something I no longer am.
"Oh my God, you're Julian Fairfax."
Her voice hits me before I see her—husky with that particular brand of affected disinterest that takes years of practice to perfect. I turn, pasting on what Tristan calls my "public smile"—just enough warmth to be polite, not enough to encourage.
She's stunning in that Manhattan money way—sleek dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, a black dress I’m sure she paid way too much money for. Perfect teeth flash as she extends a manicured hand.
"I'm Chelsea. I absolutely had to come say hello. I watched you destroy Manchester United in the FA Cup final. Twice." She laughs, the sound practiced to the point of artifice. "My ex was obsessed with you."
