Chapter 14 #2
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—"
I don't hear the rest. I'm moving as fast as I can without running, one hand pressed against my stomach, the other clamped over my mouth. The door seems impossibly far away.
I'm three steps from the door when my body betrays me completely. There's no stopping it, no holding back. In a desperate move, I lunge for the wastebasket beside the door.
I make it. Barely.
The sound I make as I vomit into the metal bin is horrific—a guttural, animal noise that echoes in the conference room. My body heaves, rejecting everything I've eaten this morning. Tears spring to my eyes, partly from the physical strain, partly from the crushing mortification.
This can't be happening. Not in the middle of a meeting. Not in front of a potential client. Not in front of someone like Julian Fairfax.
But it is happening. My body convulses again, and I grip the trash can tighter. I'm vaguely aware of movement behind me, of Julian saying something, but I can't focus on anything except the nausea and the horrible reality of what's occurring.
When it finally stops, I remain frozen, hunched over the wastebasket, unable to turn around and face the humiliation. My throat burns. My entire body trembles.
"Here."
Julian's voice is gentle, close to my ear. I turn my head slightly to see him kneeling beside me, offering a glass of water and—bless him—a tissue.
I take both with a shaking hand, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice raw. "This is... I've never... "
"No worries. It happens sometimes," he says, and there's no disgust in his voice, no judgment—only concern. "Are you okay?"
I dab at my mouth with the tissue, then take a small sip of water to rinse the bitterness away. "I don't know what happened. I felt a little off all morning, but I thought I could push through it."
Julian reaches out slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender.
"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable," he says, gently helping me to my feet. His hand is steady on my elbow, supporting without controlling. "My office has a sofa."
I let him guide me through a door at the back of the conference room into a smaller space—his private office. Unlike the sterile feel of the conference room, this space feels lived-in. Framed jerseys on the walls, books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a well-worn leather sofa against one wall.
"Sit," he instructs, his hand still on my elbow. "I'll be right back."
I sink onto the sofa, still clutching the water glass. My professional dignity is in tatters and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Julian returns moments later with a damp cloth and a small trash can, which he places discreetly beside the sofa. "Just in case," he says with a gentle smile.
"I'm so, so sorry," I murmur, pressing the cool cloth to my forehead.
He sits beside me, leaving enough space that I don't feel crowded. "Please don’t apologize. We'll reschedule when you're feeling better."
"I can continue," I protest weakly, even as my stomach gives another threatening lurch. "I have all my materials here. We could—"
"Camille," he interrupts, his voice firm but kind. "You need to be at home resting.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. Julian's warmth feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.
“I have to say, this is one of the more memorable first meetings I've had." There’s a hint of amusement lightening his tone.
Despite everything, I find myself smiling weakly. "Not the kind of memorable I was going for."
"You made quite an impression before the dramatic finale," Julian assures me. He stands, moving to his desk to retrieve his phone. "I'm calling you a car to make sure you get home safely."
"That's not necessary," I begin, but the look he gives me stops my protest.
"Non-negotiable," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "I'd never forgive myself if you passed out in the back of some taxi."
I should insist on my independence. Should maintain some semblance of professional boundaries. But truthfully, the thought of Julian seeing me home is strangely comforting.
"Thank you," I say simply.
Twenty minutes later, we're in the back of a black SUV, Julian having insisted coming with me just to make sure I’m okay.
"We'll reschedule for next week," Julian says, his voice a low rumble beside me. "No rush."
I turn to look at him, studying his profile. There's genuine concern in the lines of his face. "You're being very understanding about all this."
He meets my gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It happens to the best of us. I once vomited on the pitch during a televised match against Manchester United. Worldwide audience of millions."
The unexpected confession startles a laugh from me. "Really?"
"Absolutely. Food poisoning. Played the full ninety minutes anyway." He shrugs. "We're all human, Camille."
There's something in the way he says it—so matter-of-fact, so accepting—that eases some of the tension I've been carrying. Not just about today's humiliation, but about everything. About Alexander. About my fears of not being good enough.
The car pulls up to my building, and Julian insists on walking me to my door. In the elevator, he keeps a respectful distance, but his presence fills the small space.
"I'll have my assistant call you to reschedule," he says as we reach my door. "And Camille?"
I look up at him, suddenly aware of how awful I must look—pale, makeup ruined, hair disheveled.
"Take care of yourself," he says, his eyes soft. "The work will wait."
As I watch him walk back toward the elevator, I'm struck by the realization that maybe—just maybe—there are good men in the world.
And maybe Julian Fairfax is one of them.