Then one afternoon, the scent changed. As she folded his dress shirt, something new caught her attention—something richer, more distinct. It wasn’t mint or jasmine. It was unmistakably floral, sweet and expensive, the kind of perfume that didn’t come from soap or candles. Julia froze, her pulse stuttering.
That evening at dinner, she kept her tone light. “Busy day?” she asked, watching him reach for the salt. “Meetings, mostly,” he said, barely looking up. “Client calls.” She sipped her wine, then tilted her head. “Were any of them women?” A small pause followed. “Why do you ask?” he replied.