Chapter 1: The Sartorial Sin

The golden afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new Manhattan apartment should have been the perfect backdrop for my triumphant arrival in New York. Instead, I found myself squinting at the boxes scattered across the pristine hardwood floors like fashion casualties after a particularly brutal sample sale.

"Right then," I muttered to myself, hands on my hips as I surveyed the chaos. "Elara Finch, you've officially made it to the big leagues."

The apartment was everything the magazine had promised—sleek, modern, with a view of the city that made my London flat look like a broom cupboard. The assignment that had brought me here was equally impressive: a three-month contract with Metropolitan Style to write an "Englishwoman in New York" column. Finally, a chance to prove that my fashion blog's wit and observation could translate to the big stage.

I'd been unpacking for exactly seventeen minutes when I heard it—a sound that made my interior design sensibilities recoil in horror. Someone was actually whistling show tunes in the hallway. Badly.

Curiosity got the better of me, as it always did. I padded to the door in my stockinged feet and pressed my eye to the peephole, fully expecting to catch sight of some theatre-obsessed neighbor I'd need to diplomatically avoid.

What I saw instead made my breath catch in my throat.

The man standing at the apartment across from mine was... well, he was absolutely gorgeous. Tall, with that effortlessly tousled dark hair that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed but in the most appealing way possible. Broad shoulders filled out a simple black t-shirt, and when he bent to pick up what appeared to be a package, I caught a glimpse of muscles that suggested he did more than just sit behind a desk all day.

I found myself leaning closer to the peephole, my journalist's eye cataloguing details with embarrassing thoroughness. Strong jawline, the hint of stubble that was perfectly imperfect, and when he straightened and turned slightly in my direction, I could see he had these intense, almost brooding eyes that—

Oh, dear God.

My gaze had traveled downward, and what I saw there made my fashion-trained brain short-circuit like a computer virus had just infected my visual cortex.

Grey sweatpants.

Not just any grey sweatpants, mind you. These were the particularly offensive variety—faded, shapeless, and worn with the kind of casual indifference that suggested their owner had completely given up on the concept of public decency. They hung off his frame like a surrender flag in the war against proper attire.

I actually gasped. Out loud. Like a Victorian maiden confronted with a flash of ankle.

The man—this walking sartorial disaster—heard the sound through my door and turned fully toward my apartment. Our eyes met through the peephole, and I realized with dawning horror that from his angle, it probably looked like I was... well, like I was checking him out.

Which, technically, I had been. But for entirely different reasons than he was likely imagining.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. Not the sheepish grin of someone caught in unflattering loungewear, but the confident smirk of a man who thought he'd just caught his new neighbor ogling him through her door like some sort of desperate housewife.

I jerked back from the peephole so quickly I nearly gave myself whiplash.

Brilliant, Elara. Absolutely brilliant.

The whistling resumed, but now it had a distinctly smug quality to it. I pressed my back against the door and slid down until I was sitting on the floor, my face burning with mortification.

This was not how I'd planned to make my New York debut. I was supposed to be the sophisticated British journalist, offering witty observations about American culture from my position of effortless superiority. I was not supposed to be caught gawking at my neighbor like some sort of peeping Tom.

Even if said neighbor was committing what could only be described as a crime against fashion in broad daylight.

I waited a full ten minutes before daring to check the peephole again. The hallway was mercifully empty, though I could swear I caught a whiff of expensive cologne lingering in the air—which only made the grey sweatpants situation more baffling. The man clearly had some means if he lived in this building and wore what smelled like Tom Ford, so why on earth was he dressed like he'd raided a prison laundry?

The whole encounter had thrown off my unpacking rhythm. I found myself distracted, wondering about my mysterious neighbor as I arranged my carefully curated wardrobe in the walk-in closet. Each piece I hung up—the structured blazers, the perfectly tailored trousers, the silk blouses in jewel tones—felt like a small act of rebellion against the sartorial chaos I'd witnessed across the hall.

By evening, I'd managed to transform the apartment into something resembling a home. My laptop was set up at the sleek dining table, ready for me to begin crafting the column that would make or break my American adventure. I'd even treated myself to takeaway from the trendy bistro downstairs, determined to embrace the New York experience.

That's when I heard the whistling again.

This time, I was prepared. I tiptoed to the door and peered out carefully, ready to document this fashion disaster for potential future use. My blog followers would eat up a post about American men's apparent inability to dress themselves in public.

He was there again, this time fumbling with what appeared to be grocery bags. From this angle, I could see that the grey sweatpants were even worse than I'd initially thought—they were actually pilling. The fabric had given up the ghost of its original texture and now resembled something that belonged in a charity shop's reject bin.

But then he dropped one of the bags, and when he bent to retrieve the scattered contents, I found myself momentarily forgetting about the fashion catastrophe occurring below his waist. The way his t-shirt pulled taut across his shoulders, the easy grace of his movements despite his considerable size, the concentration on his face as he gathered up what looked like fresh vegetables...

Focus, Elara. The man is wearing sweatpants in public. Grey sweatpants that have clearly seen better decades.

As if sensing my presence again, he glanced up at my door. This time, instead of that knowing smirk, he looked... amused. Like he was in on some joke I wasn't quite getting.

"You know," he called out, his voice carrying that distinctly American confidence that always made me feel simultaneously impressed and irritated, "if you want to introduce yourself, the traditional method involves actually opening the door."

I froze. He was talking to me. Directly to me. Through the door.

"I'm not—" I started, then stopped. How exactly did one respond to such an accusation? Especially when it was entirely accurate?

"I'm just unpacking," I called back, cringing at how prim I sounded.

"Right." The amusement in his voice was even more pronounced now. "Well, welcome to the building, Just Unpacking. I'm Julian. Your probably-not-actually-stalking-you neighbor."

Julian. Even his name sounded frustratingly attractive.

"I wasn't stalking," I protested, then immediately regretted engaging. "I'm Elara."

"Elara." He repeated my name like he was testing how it felt in his mouth, and something about his tone made my skin feel warm. "British?"

"Astute observation."

"The accent was a dead giveaway." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Also, the fact that you're hiding behind your door instead of just saying hello like a normal person. Very proper."

Cheeky bastard.

"I am not hiding," I said, knowing full well that I was absolutely hiding.

"Prove it."

The challenge hung in the air between us, separated by several inches of steel and my rapidly crumbling dignity. I could hear him shifting in the hallway, probably still standing there in those offensive grey sweatpants, waiting to see if I'd take the bait.

Every rational part of my brain told me to ignore him, to go back to my unpacking and pretend this entire interaction had never happened. I had work to do, a career to build, and the last thing I needed was to get involved with some American who thought appropriate public attire was something you'd wear to clean out a garage.

But something about his tone—playful rather than mocking, confident without being cruel—made me reach for the door handle before I could talk myself out of it.

I opened the door just wide enough to peer out at him, keeping my body safely hidden behind the frame.

Julian was even more attractive up close, which was deeply unfair given his current state of dress. Those dark eyes held flecks of gold, and when he smiled—really smiled, not that knowing smirk from before—it transformed his entire face.

"There she is," he said softly. "Mystery solved."

"Hardly mysterious," I replied, proud of how steady my voice sounded. "Just cautious. One can never be too careful in a new city."

"Very wise." He shifted the grocery bags in his arms, and I caught a glimpse of organic produce and what looked like expensive wine. "Though I should probably mention that the building has excellent security. Background checks, references, the works. Very exclusive."

Of course it does. Which makes your fashion choices even more baffling.

"Good to know," I said aloud.

We stood there for a moment in what should have been awkward silence but somehow wasn't. Julian seemed perfectly comfortable just looking at me, taking in what he could see of my carefully chosen evening attire—a silk blouse in deep emerald that I knew brought out my eyes, paired with tailored black trousers that had cost more than some people's rent.

His gaze was appreciative but not leering, which I had to admit was refreshing. Most men looked at women like they were cataloguing potential purchases. Julian looked at me like he was genuinely interested in what he might find beneath the surface.

Too bad about the sweatpants.

"Well," I said finally, starting to close the door, "it was lovely meeting you, Julian."

"Likewise, Elara." He paused, then added with that maddening smile, "Enjoy your unpacking. Try not to strain yourself watching the hallway."

Before I could formulate a suitably cutting response, he'd turned and disappeared into his apartment, leaving me standing there with my mouth slightly open and my cheeks burning.

I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart racing in a way that was entirely inappropriate given that I'd just met a man whose idea of acceptable public attire belonged in a gymnasium.

Get it together, Elara, I told myself firmly. You're here to build a career, not to get distracted by some attractive American who's clearly given up on the basic principles of adult dressing.

But as I returned to my laptop and tried to focus on drafting my first column, I found my thoughts drifting back to Julian's smile, to the way he'd said my name, to the confident ease with which he'd called me out on my peephole surveillance.

And despite every fashion instinct I possessed, I couldn't quite shake the feeling that my time in New York was about to become far more interesting than I'd planned.

Even if my neighbor was a walking advertisement for the decline of American sartorial standards.