Tooeasy.
“So,” he says finally, resting his forearms lightly on the table, attention fully on me. “How did you end up in event planning?”
I blink. The question catches me off guard, and so does the weight of his attention.
“I sort of fell into it,” I admit. “I needed flexible work when my mom got sick. Something I could scale up when things were good and pull back when they weren’t.”
“And you stayed,” he observes.
“I stayed because I’m good at it,” I say, a little defensive without meaning to be. “And because I like being a part of things that bring people together.”
His mouth curves slightly. “You like control.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “I likepreparation. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” he asks, not challenging, curious.
I consider it. “Maybe not.”
He nods, like that answer confirms something.
“What about before that?” he asks. “Before your mother was sick.”
I hesitate. Not because it’s painful, but because no one ever asks.
“I danced,” I say finally. “Ballet. Contemporary. A little modern. I hadn't decided what I wanted to do with my life, and I thought I had time..." I take a sip of my wine and give myself a minute. "I wanted to travel. See the world, figure out who I was.”
“That explains the posture,” he says calmly.
My heart stutters. “I... what?”
“You hold your body like someone trained not to waste movement,” he replies. “Like balance is second nature. Like you have control over every inch of you.”
I stare at him, at the sharp lines of his jaw, his high cheekbones, almond eyes, the perfectly straight line of a nosethat has never been broken. “Do you say unsettling things on purpose, or is that just a talent?”
A flicker of something like amusement crosses his face. “Occupational hazard.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I stopped dancing before we moved to Chicago.”
He doesn’t ask me to elaborate.
That, too, feels intentional.
“What about your sister?” he asks instead. “Emily.”
It should feel unnerving that he knows so much about me. I can't imagine this is the typical background check they run on all contract employees. But something in me has loosened since sitting with Julian. My shoulders relax without permission, and I find myself wanting to answer him.
“She’s in med school,” I say, pride warming my voice. “First year. Northwestern.”
“Impressive.”
“She’s brilliant,” I say, with fondness. “And stubborn. And determined to fix things she shouldn’t feel responsible for.”
“Like you,” he says quietly.
I still.
The comment isn’t accusatory. It isn’t patronizing.
