Julian Cross's apartment was exactly what Aria expected: a museum of minimalism, chrome, and expensive loneliness. Or at least, it usually was. Right now, it looked like a crime scene investigator's wet dream, dusted for prints and smelling faintly of shame.
Aria walked in, still wearing her street clothes from the studio—jeans and a leather jacket—clutching her bag.
"Don't say it," Julian warned from the kitchen island. He was leaning over a laptop, looking less like a legal shark and more like a man who had been chewed up by a guppy.
"I wasn't going to say anything," Aria said, walking over to inspect a dusting of fingerprint powder on a sculpturesque vase. "Although, I am surprised. You have excellent taste in art. I assumed your taste in women would be... safer."
"They were safe!" Julian snapped.
From the living room sofa, a loud slurp broke the tension.
