If I became Julian’s girlfriend, the arrangement would be practical. Sure, there’d be sex—but that, too, would feel like overdue compensation for the emotional damage I’d endured. And to be honest, I’d been secretly attracted to Julian for years.
I still remembered the first time I visited his penthouse to deliver some urgent documents. Julian had just stepped out of the shower, a towel slung loosely around his waist.
I could never unseen it—his chiseled chest, those broad shoulders, the sculpted V-line abs that could make any woman weak in the knees. From that moment on, I was hooked.
But there was one glaring problem: after three years of working for Julian, I still couldn’t figure out his type.
His dating history was as diverse as it was baffling. He’d been with slender women, curvy women, cheerful extroverts, and shy introverts. Some were drop-dead gorgeous; others were so plain you wouldn’t notice them in a crowd.
Sometimes, I wondered if Julian was conducting some kind of personal research project on the variety of women in the world.