Chapter 2: An Unflattering Proposition

The universe, I decided three days later, had a particularly twisted sense of humor.

I'd spent the morning crafting what I thought was rather brilliant opening to my first "Englishwoman in New York" column—a witty dissection of American men's apparent belief that athletic wear qualified as street clothes. I'd been particularly pleased with a line about grey sweatpants being "the sartorial equivalent of giving up on life," when the sound of rushing water from my kitchen made me look up from my laptop.

At first, I thought perhaps I'd left a tap running. Then I noticed the water wasn't staying in the sink.

"Oh, bollocks," I muttered, watching in horror as a steady stream began pooling across my pristine hardwood floors.

Within minutes, my kitchen had transformed into a small lake. I frantically searched under the sink, trying to locate the source of the deluge while water soaked through my favorite cashmere loungewear—an ensemble that had cost more than most people's monthly grocery budget.

Twenty minutes of increasingly desperate attempts to stem the flow had left me drenched, frustrated, and facing the uncomfortable reality that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The building's concierge had informed me that maintenance wouldn't be available until the following morning, which left me with two options: let my apartment flood, or swallow my pride and ask for help.

From my fashion-challenged neighbor.

I stood in my doorway, dripping wet and clutching a towel, staring at Julian's door like it might bite me. The sound of water still rushing behind me finally overcame my reluctance.

Just this once, I told myself. Emergency situations call for desperate measures.

I knocked, trying to ignore how my soaked silk camisole was clinging to me in ways that left very little to the imagination.

The door opened almost immediately, and Julian's eyes widened slightly as he took in my bedraggled state. He was wearing—and I truly shouldn't have been surprised—another pair of grey sweatpants, this pair even more faded than the ones from our first encounter. Today's ensemble was completed by what appeared to be a Princeton t-shirt that had seen better decades.

"Well," he said, and I could see him fighting back a smile, "this is unexpected."

"My kitchen is flooding," I said without preamble, water still dripping from my hair. "The concierge says maintenance won't be here until tomorrow, and I'm fairly certain my downstairs neighbor won't appreciate a waterfall through their ceiling."

Julian's expression immediately shifted from amused to concerned. "Show me."

He followed me into my apartment, and I tried not to notice how his presence seemed to fill the space, or how he moved with surprising grace for someone so large. His attention was entirely focused on the kitchen disaster, and within seconds he was on his knees, peering under the sink with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserved for analyzing particularly offensive outfit choices.

"There's your problem," he said, his voice slightly muffled. "The connection here has come loose. Hand me that wrench from the counter."

I blinked. "What wrench?"

He glanced back at me, eyebrows raised. "The adjustable wrench. It should be in that toolbox you probably got from building management."

"I... there's no toolbox."

Julian sat back on his heels, studying me with those disconcertingly intelligent eyes. "Right. Wait here."

He disappeared into his apartment and returned moments later with what appeared to be a professional-grade toolkit. Within minutes, he was back under my sink, working with the kind of competence that was frankly unsettling given his current attire.

"So," he said conversationally as he worked, "fashion journalist?"

I nearly choked on my own saliva. "I'm sorry?"

"The laptop's open to an article about American men's clothing choices. Specifically, their apparent fondness for athletic wear." His voice held that same note of amusement from our hallway encounter. "The phrase 'sartorial equivalent of giving up on life' was particularly creative."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "You read my work?"

"Hard to miss when it's displayed in seventy-two-point font." The sound of metal on metal punctuated his words. "Though I have to say, your thesis might be flawed."

"How so?"

"Well, you're assuming that comfort and style are mutually exclusive." He shifted under the sink, and I found myself staring at the way his t-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of tanned skin and muscle. "What if some of us simply prioritize different things?"

"Such as?"

"Functionality. Comfort. The freedom to move through the world without constantly worrying about whether our clothes are sending the right message."

I scoffed. "Clothes always send a message. The question is whether you're intentionally crafting that message or accidentally broadcasting one."

"And what message do you think mine broadcasts?"

The question hung in the air as he continued working. I studied his form—the easy competence with which he handled the plumbing, the expensive toolkit, the way he'd immediately known exactly what was wrong and how to fix it.

"That you're..." I paused, reconsidering. "That you're someone who doesn't care what others think."

"Exactly." There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Mission accomplished."

"But surely you must care somewhat. I mean, you live in this building, you clearly have means—"

"Do I?" He slid out from under the sink, sitting up to face me properly. His dark hair was mussed from his work, and there was a small smudge of something on his cheek that only made him more attractive, which was deeply irritating. "What makes you so certain about my means?"

"The building, for one. The organic groceries I saw you carrying. The fact that you have professional-grade tools and actually know how to use them."

"Maybe I'm a handyman who got lucky with housing."

Something in his tone suggested he was testing me, though I couldn't figure out why. "Are you?"

"Does it matter?"

The question caught me off guard. "I... no, I suppose not. I'm grateful for the help regardless."

"Good answer." He turned back to the sink, and I heard the satisfying sound of the water shutting off. "There. Should hold until you can get a proper repair."

I stared at him in amazement. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He began packing up his tools with the same efficiency he'd shown in using them. "Though you'll want to call a plumber tomorrow to make sure everything's properly sealed."

"I don't know how to thank you," I said, meaning it. "You've saved my apartment, possibly my sanity, and definitely my security deposit."

Julian stood, wiping his hands on a towel. "Actually, there might be something."

"Anything."

"I'm curious about this column of yours. What's the angle? British woman judges American fashion choices?"

I bristled slightly. "It's more nuanced than that. I'm exploring cultural differences in personal presentation, the way clothing choices reflect broader social attitudes—"

"Relax," he said, and that maddening smile was back. "I'm not criticizing. I'm genuinely interested. Do you plan to interview actual Americans for these cultural observations?"

"Well, yes. Eventually. I'm hoping to speak with people from various backgrounds, different social circles—"

My phone rang, cutting me off mid-sentence. The caller ID made my stomach flutter with nervous excitement: Margaret Chen, my editor at Metropolitan Style.

"I should take this," I said apologetically.

Julian nodded and continued packing his tools while I answered.

"Elara, darling," Margaret's voice was crisp with excitement. "I have the most incredible opportunity for you."

"Oh?"

"Julian Vance. You know who he is, yes?"

I nearly dropped the phone. Everyone knew who Julian Vance was—the tech billionaire who'd revolutionized cloud computing before disappearing from public view. Notoriously private, famously reclusive, and according to Forbes, worth somewhere in the neighborhood of three billion dollars.

"Of course," I managed.

"He's agreed to give his first interview in three years. Exclusively. And I want you to get it."

"Me?" My voice came out as something approaching a squeak.

"You're perfect for this. He specifically requested someone who wouldn't fawn over him, someone with a fresh perspective. British, witty, unimpressed by American excess. Sound familiar?"

I glanced at Julian, who was now standing by my door, toolkit in hand, looking like he was trying not to eavesdrop on my conversation while wearing what appeared to be the same type of sweatpants that had started this whole mess.

"What's the catch?" I asked, because there was always a catch.

"He's apparently impossible to pin down. Lives like a hermit, refuses most interview requests outright. But his publicist owes me a favor, and I managed to get you on his radar. If you can land this interview, Elara, it'll make your career. Think cover story, think major recognition, think—"

"I'll do it," I interrupted, my mind already racing with possibilities.

"Brilliant. I'll send over his contact information and what little background we have. But Elara? This is your chance to prove you belong in the big leagues. Don't waste it."

The call ended, leaving me staring at my phone in shock. Julian Vance. The Julian Vance wanted to give me an interview.

"Good news?" Julian asked from the doorway.

I looked up at him—my neighbor who'd just saved my apartment while dressed like he was about to hit the gym in 1995—and felt a sudden surge of gratitude mixed with determination.

"The best," I said. "I've just been offered the interview of a lifetime."

"Congratulations." He paused at the threshold. "Anyone I'd know?"

"Julian Vance. The tech billionaire? Apparently he's finally ready to talk to the press."

Something flickered across Julian's face—surprise, maybe, or amusement. It was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Sounds like quite an opportunity," he said carefully.

"It is. He's supposed to be brilliant but completely impossible to reach. Lives like some sort of modern hermit, from what I've heard."

"Hmm." Julian's expression was unreadable. "Well, good luck with that."

"Thank you. And Julian?" I called as he stepped into the hallway. "Thank you again. For everything. You've saved me in more ways than one today."

That smile was back, the one that made my pulse quicken despite every rational thought in my head. "Anytime, neighbor."

As I closed the door behind him, I couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened. Not just the plumbing disaster or the career-making phone call, but something in the way Julian had looked at me when I'd mentioned the interview.

But I didn't have time to analyze it. I had research to do, an interview to land, and a career to build.

Even if my rescuer had done it all while wearing the most offensive pair of sweatpants I'd ever seen.