An hour later, I'm stepping out of a taxi in front of a sleek building in downtown Brooklyn. My portfolio feels unusually heavy, and the late April humidity isn't helping my nausea. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and walk into the building with as much confidence as I can muster.
The receptionist directs me to a large conference room. When I push open the door, I'm greeted by sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the smell of fresh coffee. And standing by those windows, silhouetted against the morning light, is Julian Fairfax.
He turns at the sound of the door, and I understand immediately why he has such a following. He moves with an easy grace that makes even the simple act of crossing a room seem sexy. Unlike Tristan's cool detachment or Alexander's intimidating intensity, Julian radiates warmth.
"Camille," he says, his voice carrying a hint of a British accent left over from living in England. He extends his hand with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Brilliant to finally meet you."
His hand engulfs mine, warm and calloused. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Fairfax."
"Julian, please." His grin widens. "Mr. Fairfax makes me sound like my father, and trust me, no one wants that."
There's something disarming about him that puts me instantly at ease. Maybe it's the lack of pretension, or maybe it's just that he seems genuinely pleased to see me.
"Coffee?" he offers, gesturing to a carafe on the conference table.
The thought makes my stomach flip uncomfortably. "Just water, please."
He studies me for a moment, and I worry he's noticing my pallor. But he just nods and pours me a glass from a pitcher. "Alex said you were talented, but he failed to mention you’re also stunning."
The compliment catches me off guard, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks—a welcome change from the clammy coolness I've been feeling all morning. Then I feel my heart rate pick up at the thought of Alex. "That was very kind of him."
Julian laughs, a warm, rich sound. “His exact words were 'exceptionally talented' and 'perfect for the project.' But the stunning part—that's all mine."
He's flirting. Openly, unabashedly flirting. And despite everything—my lingering heartache over Alex, my physical discomfort, my professional concerns—I find myself responding to it. There's something magnetic about Julian's presence, something that makes me want to lean closer, to see if his easy charm extends beyond surface-level interactions.
"Let me tell you about the community center," he says, spreading architectural plans across the table. As he leans forward, I catch his scent—clean, with hints of sandalwood. "This isn't just any building to me. These kids deserve something special, something that feels like it was built just for them."
The passion in his voice is obvious. This isn't a vanity project or a tax write-off; he genuinely cares about the impact of this space. As he describes his vision, his hands move expressively, occasionally brushing against mine as he points to differentareas of the blueprints. Each accidental touch sends little electrical currents through me.
"So," Julian says, eyes sparkling with something that might be mischief, "think you can handle it? Fair warning—I’ve been told I can be quite demanding."
The way he says "demanding" makes my pulse quicken. "I've worked with demanding clients before."
"Ah, but were they as charming as me?" He winks, and it should be cheesy, but somehow it's not.
Despite my exhaustion, despite the churning in my stomach, despite everything that's happened in the past week, I find myself smiling back at him. "That remains to be seen, Mr. Fairfax."
"Julian," he corrects again, his eyes never leaving mine. "We're going to be working closely together, Camille. No need for formalities."
The way he says my name—soft emphasis on the second syllable—sends a shiver down my spine. This is dangerous territory. The last thing I need is another complication, especially one connected to Alexander Kingsley.
Julian walks toward the window as he talks about the community center's location, sunlight catching on his profile. I try to focus on the blueprints in front of me, but my eyes keep drifting to him. There's an ease to the way he moves—confident but without Alex's razor-sharp edges or Tristan's careful restraint.
"The neighborhood kids already use this corner lot for pickup games," Julian explains. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing forearms decorated with intricate tattoos. "But they deserve better than cracked concrete and rusty hoops."
I nod, forcing my attention back to the plans. "Have you considered creating separate zones for different age groups?Younger kids might feel intimidated in spaces dominated by the older teenagers."
Julian turns to me, eyes brightening. "That's exactly the kind of thinking we need. Most designers focus on the structure—you're focusing on the experience."
The praise warms me, but it's immediately followed by a cold whisper of doubt. Not that long ago, I was in Alexander's bed, believing I was special. And now I'm sitting here, responding to another man's smile like a flower turning toward the sun.
What does that say about me?
"You alright?" Julian asks, his head tilting slightly. "You went somewhere else for a moment."
I blink, pulling myself back to the present. "Just thinking about flow patterns between spaces."
It's a lie. But I can't exactly tell him I'm wondering if I'm the kind of woman who bounces from one man to another without pause. Or worse—if I'm the kind of woman Alexander Kingsley "shares" with his friends.
