Is that why Alexander referred me? As some kind of... hookup for his friends? The thought lands hard. Did he tell Julian about our time together? Were they laughing about it? About me—the naive woman who fell for his certain brand of seduction?
I study Julian's face, looking for signs of expectation. But all I see is open interest in what I have to say.
"Tell me about your vision for the main gathering space," I say. "What feeling are you hoping to create?"
Julian's face lights up as he describes wanting a space that feels both energizing and safe—somewhere kids can be loud and themselves but also feel protected from the harsher realities waiting outside. As he talks, I watch his hands—strong and expressive.
"Sorry," he says suddenly, catching himself mid-explanation. "I'm rabbiting on. Bit of a passion project, this one."
"Don't apologize," I tell him, surprised by the warmth in my own voice. "Passion is good. It gives me more to work with."
His eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. "I've always had an excess of passion. Gets me in trouble sometimes."
The double meaning hangs in the air, neither of us looking away. My heart picks up speed, and I'm suddenly aware of how close we're sitting, how easily he could reach out and touch me if he wanted to.
And I think he wants to.
This is madness. Julian is sitting across from me right now, looking at me like I'm something precious.
"Did you always want to be a designer?" Julian asks, mercifully breaking the moment.
“Yes, from really early on. I used to move the furniture in my house around whenever I got the chance. Drove my mother crazy.”
"What about you?" I ask. "Did you always know you'd play professionally?"
Something shifts in his expression—a glimpse of vulnerability perhaps. "Since I was six, kicking a ball against the side of the garage. Football was the only thing that made sense to me."
"And when you couldn't play anymore?" I ask gently, remembering reading about his career-ending injury.
Julian runs a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking less like a celebrity and more like a man who lost his dream. "Had to find something else that made sense." He gestures to the blueprints. "Still figuring it out, to be honest."
The admission touches something in me. Julian seems comfortable with his imperfections, his ongoing journey. It's refreshing. Attractive in a way I wasn't prepared for.
We return to discussing the project, but the connection remains—a subtle current running beneath our professional conversation. Every time our hands brush over the blueprints, every shared laugh at a comment, every moment our eyes meet for a beat too long—it all adds up to something I can't deny.
The chemistry with Julian is undeniable, and he doesn't seem to be fighting it. But I am. Because everything is still too raw, too fresh. Because I'm afraid of being a fool twice in the span of a month. Because any relationship with Julian would inevitably involve Alexander in some capacity, and I'm not sure my heart can handle that.
A feeling of dizziness washes over me as we stand to examine larger renderings pinned to a board. The room suddenly feels too warm, the smell of coffee too strong. I grip the edge of the table, trying to steady myself.
"You alright?" Julian asks, concern clouding his features. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," I insist, though the churning in my stomach suggests otherwise. "Just a bit warm in here."
Julian studies me with those penetrating eyes, clearly not believing me. But before he can press further, I force myself to straighten up and gesture toward the renderings, determined to maintain professionalism despite the growing discomfort in my body.
"Let's talk about material choices," I say, willing my voice to remain steady. "For a space that needs to be both beautiful and indestructible."
But even as I speak, I feel something shifting inside me, a warning that my body is about to betray me in the most humiliating way possible.
The nausea that's been threatening all morning suddenly surges, impossible to ignore. I swallow hard, trying to push it down, but my mouth floods with saliva—that telltale warning. Oh god. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Julian Fairfax.
"...and these warmer tones could create a sense of—" I stop mid-sentence, the wave of nausea intensifying. "Excuse me, I need to..."
I don't finish the sentence. Can't finish it. My body knows what's coming before my mind fully processes it. I push back from the table so abruptly that my chair nearly falls over.
"Bathroom?" I manage to gasp, already moving toward the door.
Julian's brow furrows with concern. "Down the hall to the left, but are you?—"
