The Allure of Julian Lefray

  “Okay, listen,” I said, spinning on the balls of my feet and meeting his eyes.

  He leaned back against the futon and spread his arms out along the back.

  Perfect. He looked edible.

  “You can’t bring me pizza late at night,” I said, trying to get my brain back on topic. “Pepperoni is foreplay to me.”

  He laughed. “Good to know.”

  “Also, I think we should set up some other ground rules.”

  “Rules?” he asked, with one dark brow arched in defiance.

  “To prevent future problems like this from occurring.” I pointed at his pants. “Exhibit A.” Then, I pointed to my bra-clad chest. “Exhibit B.”

  “I think we should discuss exhibit B first. Maybe let the jury get a closer examination,” he said, leaning forward with a devious smile.

  “Julian! C’mon, this is serious. Throw me my freaking sweatshirt already.”

  He laughed and shook his head, clearly disagreeing. I didn’t give him time to voice his opinion though. I grabbed my sweatshirt and tugged it over my head as quickly as possible. When I was done, I held up my hand and started counting out rules on my fingers.

  “Rule number one: no pizza.”

  His brown hair was ruffled from our make out and his shirt was missing another button or two up top. What the hell?

  “Second rule: we can’t hang out in my apartment alone. It’s too tempting.”

  “Do I get any say in these rules?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered quickly as I continued to pace around the room.

  “Just to be clear, what are these rules in place for?” he asked, trying to catch my eye as I continued to move.

  “It’s to prevent the inevitable demise of our friendship,” I said. “And to ensure that I still have a job in a few weeks when you’re bored of hooking up with me.”

  “And why would that happen?”

  I paused and stared over at him to see if he was being serious.

  He looked hopeful and innocent, with his light eyes trained on me as if he actually expected me to believe he was looking for something serious. He hadn’t once asked me out on a proper date. He’d never even hinted at it. We were friends who pushed the limits when it was convenient. Nothing more.

  I groaned. “The odds are not in our favor. This is a straight up Hunger Games situation. I need to keep my job with you and I’d prefer to keep our relationship somewhat platonic.”

  His brow quirked. “Don’t you think that ship has sailed?”

  I shook my head. It couldn’t have sailed. If it’d already sailed then that meant I was already screwed.

  “Nope. That ship is going back to the marina. To a nice, safe spot.”

  He frowned.

  “Honestly, what do you think my mom and dad will say when I explain to them that I’m banging my boss in New York? I was supposed to move up here and start a life for myself, not shack up with the first guy who befriended me.”

  To drive the point home, I reached to pull my hoodie down so it overlapped with my pajama pants.

  “You and I are friends, Julian. Friends who don’t kiss anymore.”

  Even as I spoke, I scanned his face, trying to decipher his reaction to my rules. His dimples were hidden away behind a confused scowl. His lips were slightly pouted, just enough that I got hung up on them for a moment before meeting his eye.

  For a few minutes neither of us said a word. I waited on tenterhooks, trying to prepare for his reaction, and then he nodded once and leaned forward. He clasped his hands between his legs and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “Fine. Do friends go to dinner?” he asked with a curious tone.

  “What? We just ate.”

  I pointed to the open box of pizza on the ground. Our half-eaten slices lay splayed out on the floor, probably soaking grease stains into my rug. Classy.

  “I’m talking about sometime next week. Dean and I are going out on Wednesday and you could tag along with us. As a friend.”

  Oh. Dinner with the guys. Right, maybe I could do that. Maybe it would be good to be around Julian when we had a third person present, someone to act as a sexual-tension buffer. Although, was Dean really the person for the job? Maybe we needed a buffer who looked a little less like Ryan Gosling.

  And then I remembered my new job and my heart sank. If everything went as planned, I’d be working next Wednesday night. There’d be no time for dinner, with or without Julian.

  “I don’t think I can,” I answered.

  “Why not?” he asked, piercing me with a hard stare.

  Why not?

  Why not?

  I hadn’t expected him to ask that and I hadn’t decided whether or not I was prepared to tell him that I’d had to get a second job, especially when I had no clue what that second job actually entailed. The friend Beth had called helped coordinate the shows for New York Fashion Week; I figured that was a good sign, but I was trying hard not to get my hopes up. For the time being, I was employing the “less is more” approach, at least until I knew what the hell I’d be doing.

  “Prior commitment,” I said, averting my eyes toward the pizza box once again.

  I could see him frown out of the corner of my eye and I wanted so badly to throw away the rules and finish what we’d started. I knew he’d easily be the best lay of my life—he’d already won the best kiss category by a landslide. I knew Julian had the ability to obliterate every guy that had come before him. All the quick, cheesy sex I’d had in college, the bad kisses, the lackluster dates—they wouldn’t compare to one night with him.

  I studied him as he gathered his things. He pulled his tuxedo jacket back on without a word, shoved the pizza slices back into the box then crumbled it in his hand. He looked so devastatingly handsome, and yet, so defeated. His dimples were tucked away behind a reserved frown. His eyes were downcast, trained on the ground near his feet. He rubbed his jawline as he walked to the door and I followed after him.

  He stepped into the hallway, turned over his shoulder, and met my eye. I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest, rip right out from inside of me.

  “I’ll see you at work,” he said, offering me a small smile before turning down the hallway.

  My mouth opened, but there was nothing I could say to make it better. My words were jumbled in my mind, lost somewhere between “I want you, please stay” and “I’m sorry, you have to go”.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Josephine

  I’ll be honest, I’d assumed the job Beth had secured for me would involve being a high class call girl…or at the very least a low class call girl, based on the stinginess she displayed with my dresses.

  Luckily for me, the job ended up being much, much cooler than expected, and bonus: I got to wear normal non-stripper clothes. Albeit, a pair of black pants and a t-shirt wasn’t high couture, but for two weeks, I’d get to be behind the scenes of New York Fashion Week. I’d get to be up close and personal with all the top models, designers, and bloggers.

  The only problem? I’d be holding a broom or a mop at all times.

  Yup. That’s right. Josie Keller would henceforth be known as Night Janitor. Jealous yet?

  For ten days, I’d have to bolt from Julian’s hotel at 5:00 PM on the dot and book it to Lincoln Center. I’d have to sneak in the back doors with the rest of the event staff and change into my alter ego, Clark Kent style. There was a small locker room for staff where I’d kick off my heels and slip into converse, slide on a black hat with “NYFW STAFF” embroidered across the front, and grab the broom least likely to break on me.

  The pay was terrible, but I didn’t care. I could use the extra money while I continued to hunt for a more permanent night job. I saved every penny I earned except for the $5 I used to splurge on a fresh green smoothie every afternoon on the way from Julian’s hotel to Lincoln Center. (And by green juice, I of course mean chocolate cupcake.)

  “Ladies! Ladies, line up, the show is starting in ten minutes!?
?? a stagehand clapped her hands, trying to get everyone’s attention—a nearly impossible feat.

  I paused my sweeping and stepped to the back of the room to give the models space to run around me. It was only my fourth day on the job and I’d already learned a lot. No matter how organized the event coordinators thought they were, there was always a mad rush ten minutes before the fashion shows started. Fake eyelashes, sticky boob tape, hairspray bottles, high heels—all flying in the air, trying to find their final destination. I’d been hit in the head by enough bras on my first day to realize that I needed to stay as far away from the madness as possible.

  And yet, I still loved every second of it.

  I watched a designer waltz through the room with her nostrils flaring. She paused in the center, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled at the top of her lungs.

  “Models. Get in line now, or I’m going to rip your hair extensions out. So help me god!”

  Some of the designers were a tad more pleasant than others…

  “You!” a stagehand pointed at me and then waved her hand at the row of salon chairs near the back wall. There was a mess of hair scattered across the floor beneath the chairs. Minutes earlier, a team of stylists had chopped away at extensions to give all the models a similar hairstyle. “Can you pah-lease sweep all that up already? I nearly broke my neck a second ago.”

  I nodded and jumped into action, pushing my broom out in front of me. I worked quickly to push the multicolored hair into a neat pile, working my magic on the mess. Unfortunately, just as I was about to sweep the first pile up into my dustpan, a model shoved past me on her way to the runway and scattered the hair in every direction. She’d been a force of nature on my small hair mountain.

  “Dammit,” I hissed as the model waltzed off without a care in the world.

  She hadn’t even noticed.

  I had the least glamorous job in the most glamorous setting and I was still having trouble wrapping my head around that fact. At times, I got swept up in the excitement of the shows, as if I was somehow a part of them.

  After I’d collected all of the hair once again, I swept it into the nearest trashcan and then tried to finish off the rest of my duties as quickly as possible. The sooner I finished, the sooner I could peer out and catch a glimpse at the finale of the show—when all the models paraded down the runway one after another with their dazzling gowns and gorgeous faces. Every time I snuck a glimpse at a fashion show from behind the scenes, I wanted to pinch myself.

  Next season’s trends were right at the tips of my fingers. Granted, my fingers were sticky and gripping an old broom, but still, it was the closest I’d ever been to my dream world.

  I wanted to share my experience on What Jo Wore, but I couldn’t figure out how to share details without admitting to my readers how I was actually getting my behind-the-scenes look. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Just a few months ago, I’d attended a major fashion gala. The glamorous people from that night were out in the front rows of all the NYFW fashion shows, and where was I? Sweeping up hair.

  I found a tiny gap in the curtain off the side of the room and pulled it to the side just a centimeter. I peeked through and held my breath, completely in awe of the show. Strobe lights danced overhead, illuminating each model as they strutted down the runway.

  I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and snapped a quick picture so I could send it to Lily.

  Josephine: This is my current view.

  I clutched my broom and peeked back through the slit in the curtain. The show was in full swing and the photographers at the end of the runway were firing away, snapping hundreds of photos per minute.

  I glanced back to my phone after it buzzed.

  Lily: What is that? It looks like a cat wearing a top hat.

  I smiled.

  Josephine: Put your glasses on. It’s a fashion show. You can’t really see it because the lights are dimmed.

  Lily: Hmm, I still see a cat.

  Josephine: It’s not. You’re blind. Go see a doctor.

  Lily: How’d you get invited to a fashion show?

  Josephine: Turns out that janitors get backstage passes.

  Lily: Oh yeah, I forgot about that job.

  Josephine: It’s still pretty cool though, I must admit.

  Lily: Any hot dudes?

  Josephine: Just skinny bitches.

  Lily: And yet you want me to move there.

  Josephine: YES. Gotta go. They’re all coming back.

  I pocketed my phone and rushed back to work. The shows weren’t very long—fifteen, twenty minutes at most. I could usually manage to watch at least five minutes of them before someone noticed.

  Once the mess of hair was swept up near the back wall, I went back to my list of duties I had to get done every night. If the models didn’t come back and trash the place after the show, I could usually get my work done in about an hour after the show was finished.

  That night, I wasn’t quite so lucky. The makeup artists had used some kind of glitter eye shadow on each of the twenty-four models. That meant there were twenty-four sets of eyes that left the entire floor of the backstage a glittery mess.

  C’est la vie.

  …

  The next morning, I found myself fighting with my eyes to stay awake. I sipped on my third cup of coffee and stared at the email I’d opened ten minutes earlier. It still sat completely blank as the blinking cursor taunted me. I was supposed to draft an email to a general contractor to set up an initial meeting between him and Julian. What had I done? Tried really, really hard not to fall asleep with my eyes open.

  “How’s it going, champ?” Julian asked.

  I blinked and glanced up to see him watching me with a private smile. Clearly, my lack of typing had alerted him that something was off.

  “Do you think they’ve come up with an IV hookup for caffeine yet?” I asked, tapping the inside of my elbow like a junky.

  He laughed. “Why are you so tired? Have you been going out without me?”

  I yawned and then blinked my eyes a few times, willing away the tiny barbells pulling them down.

  “I wish,” I said with only a slight layer of bitterness.

  I hadn’t left Lincoln Center until 1:00 AM the night before. The janitor who was supposed to clean the front of the house had bailed and I’d offered to stay and help with the cleanup. The extra hours of minimum wage pay were hardly worth the ache in my back this morning, and best of all, I had to go back that night. Yippee.

  “You look pitiful,” Julian said, drawing my attention back to his lazy smile. He’d dressed down for work that day, foregoing shoes for bare feet. He had on dark jeans and a white button-up. His hair was still styled impeccably, split to the side and combed away from his face. Just a little bit of pomade held the dark locks in place all day. Not that I paid attention or anything. I mean, the man looked edible even on an off day, but right now? All I wanted was my bed and an extra day in the week called LetJosephineSleepday. It’d come between Wednesday and FreeDonutday. (These days would be added if I were President. Just saying.)

  “All right, get up. This is unacceptable,” he said, setting his laptop down on the couch beside him and standing up.

  “No! Don’t fire me. Look, I’m typing right now.” I started kneading my keyboard with balled up fists, creating gibberish sentences that read something like: ERhwerjkhwejkrhkejryy.

  Julian shook his head and held his hand out for me to take.

  “I’m not firing you. Why would I fire you?”

  “Because I won’t let you sleep with me,” I answered, shrugging.

  He pinched his eyes closed, clearly trying to keep from laughing.

  “Yeah, well. I can’t exactly fire you for that.”

  “Look Julian, I like you a lot. I think that's pretty obvious to both of us. I just have a lot riding on this one opportunity, whereas if things don't work out between us, you just have to post another ad on the Internet to replace me.”

  "Joseph
ine, it's not l—"

  "Jul—”

  He waved his hands in front of his body so that we’d stop cutting each other off. “Okay. Yes. I get it. I’m not firing you because you’ve spurned my advances. We’re going to see my sister.”

  “Your sister?” I asked.

  “Yes. She wants to meet you and you clearly can’t focus on work at the moment. Consider it a little paid field trip.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Julian

  As we walked the few blocks to Lorena’s rehab center, I filled Josephine in as much as possible.

  “How much longer does she have in the program?” Josephine asked.

  “A little over a week.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe she’s already almost done.”

  I nodded. I was proud of Lorena for completing her entire recovery program without any relapses. She’d struggled with substance abuse issues her whole life. In high school she’d dabbled in cheap drugs to pass the time with other rich kids. In college and beyond, it had gradually gotten worse. She lied about it for the longest time, trying to convince herself that she didn’t need help. Then one night, she called me crying after watching one of her friends nearly overdose. It had been a wakeup call for Lorena. She entered rehab two days later and I’d moved to New York to help her out.

  “She’ll always be a little more lost in the clouds than down here on earth with the rest of us,” I explained. “But this program has really helped her focus on her career. I haven’t seen her this passionate about her clothing line in years.”

  Even when she first started her brand, it seemed to take the back seat to her addiction, but things were changing. I’d wake up in the morning to an inbox full of emails from Lorena. She wanted to know everything, from how the rental property was coming along to when we’d know the cost of manufacturing for next season’s clothing line.