Chapter 4: An Acquired Taste

"The condition is non-negotiable."

Julian stood in his doorway the next morning, looking infuriatingly attractive despite wearing what appeared to be the most offensive pair of grey sweatpants I'd yet encountered. These had achieved a level of fade that suggested they'd been through multiple natural disasters, and there was definitely a new hole near the right pocket.

"Let me understand this correctly," I said, notepad clutched in my white-knuckled grip. "You'll give me the interview that could make my career, but only if I spend an entire day with you, and I'm not allowed to comment on your clothing choices?"

"That's the deal." His smile was maddeningly confident. "Take it or leave it."

I should have left it. Every professional instinct I possessed was screaming warnings about blurred lines and compromised objectivity. But Margaret had called twice already this morning, her excitement about the Julian Vance exclusive reaching fever pitch, and I couldn't afford to walk away from the biggest opportunity of my career.

Even if said opportunity was currently dressed like he'd raided a homeless shelter.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "One day. Your life, your rules."

"Excellent." Julian grabbed keys from a small table by his door. "We start in an hour. Dress comfortably."

"How comfortably are we talking?"

His gaze traveled over my carefully chosen outfit—a structured blazer in royal blue, tailored trousers, and heels that had cost more than most people's weekly grocery budget. "More comfortably than that."

An hour later, I found myself in dark jeans and trainers, feeling simultaneously underdressed and overdressed as Julian led me toward a sleek black car that was definitely not what I'd expected a billionaire to drive. It was nice—expensive, even—but understated in a way that seemed to match his sweatpants philosophy.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked as he held the passenger door open for me.

"You'll see."

The first stop was in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood that seemed worlds away from our Manhattan high-rise. Julian parked outside a community center that had seen better decades, its brick facade covered in colorful murals that spoke of hope and resilience.

"After you," he said, gesturing toward the entrance.

Inside, the building hummed with activity. Children's laughter echoed from somewhere down the hall, mixed with the rapid-fire clicking of keyboards and animated discussions about code and algorithms. Julian moved through the space like he belonged there, greeting staff members by name and accepting enthusiastic hugs from teenagers who clearly adored him.

"Mr. V!" A girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen bounded up to us, her purple hair catching the fluorescent light. "You brought a friend!"

"Maya, this is Elara. Elara, meet Maya, one of our most promising programmers."

Maya beamed with pride. "I just got accepted to MIT! Full scholarship!"

"That's incredible," I said, meaning it. "Congratulations."

"Mr. V helped me with my application essay," Maya continued, then stage-whispered conspiratorially, "Don't let the sweatpants fool you. He's actually really smart."

Julian laughed, and the sound was warm and genuine in a way that made something flutter in my chest. "Thanks for the character reference, Maya. How's the new project coming along?"

As Maya launched into an enthusiastic explanation of her latest coding endeavor, I found myself watching Julian with new eyes. Here, surrounded by these kids, he wasn't the mysterious billionaire recluse. He was simply someone who cared, who listened with genuine interest to teenage concerns about college applications and career dreams.

"This place," I said quietly as Maya disappeared to show off her work to another instructor, "how long have you been involved?"

"About five years." Julian's tone was casual, but I caught something deeper underneath. "I was walking through the neighborhood one day and saw a sign asking for volunteer coding instructors. Figured I had some time to kill."

"And now?"

"Now we've sent forty-three kids to college on full scholarships, placed dozens more in tech internships, and last year we had three students start their own companies." He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Turns out giving kids access to technology and someone who believes in them can change everything."

I stared at him, this man in his ridiculous sweatpants who was quietly revolutionizing young lives, and felt something shift inside my chest. "The press doesn't know about this, do they?"

"No." His voice was firm. "And I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"Why?"

Julian was quiet for a moment, watching as Maya helped a younger student debug a piece of code. "Because the moment this becomes a story about Julian Vance the billionaire philanthropist, it stops being about the kids. It becomes about me, about my money, about whether I'm doing enough or the right kind of charity or whatever angle the media wants to take." He looked at me directly. "These kids don't need that kind of attention. They just need someone to believe they can do extraordinary things."

The casual way he said it, like quiet heroism was simply a Tuesday afternoon activity, made my throat tighten unexpectedly.

We spent another hour at the center, with Julian patiently explaining coding concepts to curious teenagers while I tried to reconcile this version of him with everything I'd thought I knew. He was a good teacher—patient, encouraging, able to break down complex ideas into understandable pieces. And the way the kids looked at him, with genuine affection rather than the calculating interest most people showed around wealth, spoke volumes about who he really was.

Our next stop was even more surprising: a small park tucked away in Greenwich Village, the kind of hidden green space that only locals knew about. Julian produced a basket from the car's trunk, and I raised an eyebrow.

"A picnic? Really?"

"You said you wanted to see my real life." He spread a blanket under a large oak tree with the kind of efficiency that suggested this wasn't his first time. "This is where I come when I need to think."

The basket contained an impressive array of food—artisanal cheeses, fresh bread, wine that probably cost more than my rent, and chocolate that looked like it had been imported from some exclusive Swiss chocolatier.

"Let me guess," I said, settling onto the blanket and trying not to notice how the late afternoon light caught the gold flecks in his dark eyes. "You have this catered."

"I made it myself, actually." Julian's smile was self-deprecating. "Cooking is one of my hobbies. Turns out having money doesn't automatically make you less lonely, so you either learn to take care of yourself or you spend a lot of time eating expensive takeaway alone."

The simple honesty of the statement caught me off guard. "Is that what this is about? The sweatpants, the privacy, all of it?"

"Partly." He poured wine into two glasses with practiced ease. "When you have what I have, everyone wants something. A job, an investment, a donation, a connection. People perform for you, tell you what they think you want to hear." He handed me a glass, his fingers brushing mine briefly. "But when you look like someone who's given up on trying to impress anyone..."

"People show you who they really are," I finished, remembering his words from the day before.

"Exactly." His gaze held mine. "Like a certain British journalist who had no qualms about telling me exactly what she thought of my fashion choices."

Heat crept up my neck. "I'm still sorry about that."

"Don't be. It was refreshing." Julian leaned back against the tree trunk, and even in his casual pose, there was something undeniably attractive about the way he moved, the unconscious confidence that no amount of faded fabric could disguise. "Do you know how long it's been since someone was genuinely, unfilteredly honest with me?"

"Probably not since before you became a billionaire."

"Try not since I was twenty-five and my parents were still alive."

The quiet pain in his voice made my chest tighten. "They kept you grounded?"

"They kept me human." Julian's smile was wry. "My mother would have absolutely agreed with your assessment of these sweatpants, by the way. She was constantly trying to get me to 'dress like the successful businessman you are, Julian.'" His impression of what I assumed was his mother's voice was fond and heartbreaking.

"She sounds wonderful."

"She was. They both were." He took a sip of wine, and I caught a flicker of old grief crossing his features. "After they died, I threw myself into work. Built the company, made the money, became the person everyone thought I should be. But somewhere along the way, I realized I'd lost sight of who I actually was underneath all of it."

"So you decided to find out."

"So I decided to stop caring what anyone else thought." His eyes met mine again, and there was something vulnerable in them that made my breath catch. "Turns out, when you stop performing for other people's expectations, you get a much clearer picture of who you really are."

"And who are you, really?"

Julian considered the question seriously, swirling the wine in his glass. "Someone who believes in giving kids opportunities I never had. Someone who thinks comfort shouldn't be sacrificed for appearances. Someone who values authenticity over everything else." He paused. "Someone who's been waiting a very long time to find another person who values the same things."

The weight of his words settled between us, and I felt that dangerous flutter in my chest again. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was here for an interview, for my career, for a story that would prove I belonged in the big leagues. I wasn't supposed to be falling for the subject of that story.

But looking at Julian—really looking at him, past the sweatpants and the carefully cultivated image of not caring—I saw someone who'd chosen authenticity over easy approval, substance over surface, genuine connection over convenient performance.

And God help me, it was working.

"Julian," I said carefully, "why did you really agree to this interview?"

"Honestly?" He set down his wine glass and turned to face me fully. "Because from the moment I saw you through that peephole, looking absolutely horrified by my clothing choices, I was intrigued. And then you spent a week complaining to me about not being able to reach Julian Vance while I was standing right there, and I realized I'd found someone who could see past all the noise to what really mattered."

"My journalistic integrity?"

"Your complete inability to pretend you thought I was anything other than a fashion disaster." His smile was warm and devastating. "It was the most honest reaction I'd gotten from anyone in years."

"Even though I was being horrible?"

"You were being real." Julian reached over and brushed a strand of hair from my face, the same gentle touch as the day before. "Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

I leaned into his touch despite every professional warning bell in my head. "This is a terrible idea."

"Probably."

"I'm supposed to be interviewing you, not..."

"Not what?"

Instead of answering, I found myself studying his face in the golden afternoon light. The strong jawline that was even more appealing with that hint of stubble, the intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through my carefully constructed professional facade, the mouth that had kissed me senseless just yesterday.

"Not wondering what those sweatpants would look like on my bedroom floor," I admitted quietly.

Julian's intake of breath was sharp and audible. "Elara."

"I know. I know it's complicated and inappropriate and probably career suicide, but—"

He kissed me before I could finish the sentence, and this time there was nothing tentative about it. His hands tangled in my hair as he pulled me closer, and I could taste wine and possibility on his lips. When his tongue traced the seam of my mouth, I opened for him with a soft sigh that seemed to echo through the quiet park.

This was madness. Complete, utter madness. But as Julian's hands skimmed down my sides and I felt the solid warmth of him against me, I couldn't bring myself to care about professional boundaries or career implications or anything beyond the way he was making me feel.

"We should stop," I whispered against his mouth, even as my hands fisted in his t-shirt.

"We should," he agreed, but his lips were trailing down my neck now, finding that sensitive spot that made me arch against him.

"Someone could see us."

"Mmm." His teeth grazed my collarbone lightly, and I had to bite back a moan.

"Julian."

Something in my tone made him lift his head, and I saw my own conflict reflected in his dark eyes. Want warring with wisdom, desire fighting with reality.

"You're right," he said quietly, but he didn't let go of me. "This is..."

"Complicated."

"That's one word for it." His thumb traced my cheekbone gently. "But Elara, I need you to know—this isn't just about physical attraction. What I feel for you, it's..."

"I know." And I did know, which was the most terrifying part of all. "I feel it too."

We sat there in the fading light, holding each other and trying to navigate the impossible situation we'd created. Eventually, practical considerations forced us apart—the park would close soon, and we both had reality to return to.

As Julian packed up the picnic with the same careful efficiency he'd shown all day, I watched him and tried to imagine going back to seeing him as just a story, just another interview subject to be analyzed and written about.

I couldn't do it.

"The interview," I said as we walked back to the car.

"What about it?"

"I can't write about this. About today, about the community center, about..." I gestured helplessly between us. "Any of it."

Julian stopped walking and turned to face me. "Because it would compromise your professional integrity?"

"Because it would compromise you." The realization surprised me with its clarity. "You're right—once this becomes a story about Julian Vance the secret philanthropist or Julian Vance the surprisingly normal billionaire, it stops being real. It becomes performance again."

"And that bothers you."

"It bothers me a lot." I looked at him standing there in his ridiculous sweatpants, this man who'd quietly revolutionized young lives and kissed me like I mattered and shared wine and vulnerability in a hidden park, and felt something settle into place in my chest. "I think I'm more interested in protecting the man than getting the story."

Julian's smile was radiant. "In that case, Elara Finch, I have a proposition for you."

"I'm listening."

"Forget the interview. Forget Julian Vance the billionaire. Forget everything except this: would you like to have dinner with Julian, your neighbor who makes excellent coffee and has questionable taste in loungewear?"

I pretended to consider it seriously. "Will there be more of those sweatpants involved?"

"Almost certainly."

"Then yes," I said, rising up on my toes to kiss him softly. "I would very much like to have dinner with my neighbor Julian."

And for the first time since arriving in New York, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged.