Page 11 of Julian

“Where?” I ask.

“A beauty brand. Customer support division.” Six short words that give me the information I requested, but the message behind it is Leave me the hell alone.

“And you enjoyed it?” I ask, somehow knowing my continued nosiness is going to piss her off, and for some reason, that amuses me.

A small sigh fills the space between us, and I can tell she’s a little irritated. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I learned a lot.”

“About angry customers.”

“About people,” she corrects matter-of-factly. “Most of them aren’t actually angry when they call to complain. They just want to be heard.”

I study her reflection in the mirror. “And you think hockey fans aren’t any different?”

“No, sir,” she says. “They’re just louder.”

Despite myself, I semi-smile. “What’s your name?”

“Harper, sir.”

“Well, Harper… you mentioned attaching a name to the message. Why?”

“Because faceless statements have the veil of corporate jargon,” she replies without hesitation. “If someone signs it—even if it’s just a first name—it changes the whole feeling… lowers the temperature. It’s human. That’s what people want.”

There’s no arrogance in her delivery. No attempt to impress. It’s experience distilled into practicality.

“And the credit suggestion?” I press.

“That’s just simple math,” she says. “It’s cheaper to give a small goodwill gesture than to lose a customer permanently. Retention costs less than acquisition.”

“And you’re driving a Town Car,” I say, not as criticism, but as observation.

“Yes, sir.”

There’s more in that answer than she states in words, but she doesn’t elaborate. I lean back slightly, considering her.

Traffic thins as we cut west, the grid loosening its grip just enough for the car to glide the final blocks without interruption.

At the practice facility, we pull into the private entrance reserved for ownership and senior staff. The engine quiets, and before I can think to ask her another question, the driver’s door opens.

She moves with speed, rounding the car with decisive strides and opening my door.

“Thank you,” I say, straightening to my full height as the cold air meets my face.

She steps back, granting space without shrinking.

Up close, she is both exactly what the uniform intends and entirely more than it allows. The driver’s cap sits low on her brow, but I got a look at those stunning features from her profile. The jacket is cut to obscure shape, to neutralize presence. Dark fabric, clean lines, anonymity by design.

And yet.

There’s color in her cheeks—whether from the November chill or the residue of our earlier exchange, I can’t tell—and when she looks up at me, her eyes are startlingly bright and as blue as the sky. There is a spark in them that does not align with the outfit.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, officially,” I say.

She squares her shoulders slightly. “No, sir.”

“I know your name’s Harper. I’m Julian Langley.”

“Yes, sir. I know who you are.”