Page 60 of Julian

“It has its moments,” he says. “But I don’t think it compares to you tonight. That dress is lovely. It’s more than lovely—it’s stunning, and so are you.”

I think I blush from head to toe. It’s not that I haven’t been complimented before by men, but this man has me feeling like a schoolgirl.

This isn’t a rare, once-in-a-lifetime experience for him. This is simply his world. This is one of those occasions he can create without thinking twice, and somehow, he’s chosen to share it with me. All his power and wealth harnessed… toward me.

And I’m completely out of my depth.

Before I can linger there too long, a server appears, professional and unobtrusive, placing menus in front of us before disappearing. The interruption provides relief, a tangible to focus on.

This is where I’m expecting to scan the menu, desperate to decipher things I can’t pronounce, calculate what I can justify ordering, and land on a safe option.

I pick up the menu, bracing myself slightly as I open it.

And then I stop.

My eyes move across the page once. There’s no list of unpronounceable dishes, no exotic ingredients or artfully described preparations. There’s just… one thing.

I tilt my head, trying to make sense of it, before looking up at him. “Julian…”

There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression.

I glance back down at the menu, my brow furrowing as I read it again.

“Hot dogs?” I say, the disbelief slipping into my voice before I can stop it. Not just any hot dogs, either. Authentic hot dogs from the Metropolitan Museum of Art vendor reads the one bold-faced item on the menu.

I look back up at him. “You’re serious?”

“I am,” he says simply.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head as I glance around the room again, at the view, at the sophistication of everything around us. “You brought a hot dog cart into… this?”

“I arranged for it,” he corrects, clearly satisfied, as he should be.

“That’s insane,” I say, but there’s no criticism in it, only disbelief and relief.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” I say quickly, still smiling as I look back down at the menu, then up at him again. “It’s just… I was fully prepared to pretend I knew what I was ordering tonight.”

“I can appreciate how you might feel that way, but one thing you need to know…” He leans slightly across the table. “You don’t ever need to pretend with me.”

The tension that followed me up the elevator finally eases. “I appreciate you saying that. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“No need to be,” he assures. “It’s just two adults getting to know each other.”

“You’re making it easy,” I admit, nodding down at the menu. “You gave me the one thing in this city that not only feels authentic to it but also to me, and where I came from.”

His gaze holds mine. “I gave you a meal you like. It’s a date, after all. That’s how these work in my experience.”

I smile, glance down at the menu again, then out at the park, New York City sprawled beyond. Then a realization dawns. Tonight isn’t about the view or the exclusivity or even the fact that he can bend a space to his will.

It’s that he didn’t. He didn’t try to impress me with some foreign dish or extravagant menu options. He thought about what I would recognize, what I would enjoy, and built the entire experience around that instead.

And somehow, sitting here with the most stunning view I’ve ever seen in my life, it’s not the skyline or the setting that stays with me.

It’s his thoughtfulness. Because underneath the power and wealth, Julian’s a man who listens.

I’m still holding the menu, amused by the absurdity of it, when I snap myself back to the present.