Page 19 of Julian

Percy pauses mid-step, studying me with a comforting warmth. “I am certain Mr. Langley will shed light on that in due time. He is not impulsive, Ms. Hawthorne. If he extended this offer, it was deliberate.”

That should be reassuring but now I feel even more pressure to perform to a standard I’m not sure I understand.

We stop near the base of the staircase and curiosity slips out before I can rein it in. “How did you come to work for Mr. Langley?”

“I was hired forty years ago as a bellhop at one of Benedict Langley’s hotels in London.”

“Benedict?” I repeat.

“Mr. Langley’s father. I was young and eager to please. Mr. Benedict Langley valued both and he took notice.” There’s no arrogance in the statement. Just fact. “He offered me a position within his personal staff and well, I guess I never left. Thirty-one years ago, when Mr. Julian Langley was thirteen years old, I was appointed house manager of this residence.”

Thirty-one years.

“So you’ve known him since he was a teenager.”

“Indeed.”

“That’s… rare,” I murmur.

“Loyalty often is,” Percy replies evenly.

“And does his father live here too?” I ask, peering around at the expensive artwork in golden frames on the wall.

“Sadly, Mr. Benedict Langley passed several years ago. His son asked me to stay on as his house manager and now you know the entire story.”

Before I can ask anything else—about Julian at thirteen, about what this house has seen, about what kind of boy becomes the kind of man who can rearrange someone’s entire life with a phone call, footsteps sound from above.

Percy’s expression shifts subtly back into formal composure. “Right on time,” he says quietly.

I turn toward the staircase just as Julian Langley comes into view, descending toward us.

I move ahead of Percy, muscle memory from driving since I was seventeen kicking in, even though my pulse is behaving like this is my first day behind a wheel. Mr. Langley’s dressed casually in tailored charcoal slacks and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearm. He’s tall—well over six feet—with an athletic build that suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym. He’s lean with broad shoulders, but truly… the man’s face is a sight to behold.

I’d clocked him as attractive yesterday from the few times our eyes met in the rearview mirror, but that was distortion doing me a favor. I suspect he’s probably in his early forties, but up close, he is devastating. He has the most beautiful hazel eyes enhanced by long lashes and tanned skin. His hair is dark with patches of silver at the temples and threads running throughout—more pepper than salt—and worn short and slightly unsettled.

His eyes meet mine and I offer a spirited smile that I hope conveys my excitement for this job and absolutely nothing else.

“Good morning, Mr. Langley.”

“Good morning, Harper.” He takes the last few steps and comes toe to toe with me. “And first rule of the job… you call me Julian. Mr. Langley was my father.”

I can’t help myself, tossing a thumb at Percy. “But he calls you Mr. Langley.”

Julian’s eyes dance with amusement and he cuts a grin at Percy. “Yes, well… he’s British and that can’t be helped.”

I’m confident that if Percy weren’t British, he’d roll his eyes, but he nods at Julian.

“And with that… we’re off,” my new boss proclaims. He gestures toward a door just off the foyer that I hadn’t noticed before—flush with the paneling, no visible hardware, the kind of door that only exists if you already know it’s there.

“The garage,” he says simply.

I follow him through it and down a short flight of stairs into a garage that only a very select few can afford under their homes.

The space is clean and climate controlled, lit by recessed lighting that runs in two parallel lines along the ceiling. The floor is polished concrete, completely devoid of oil stains, dirt and any other junk that would normally populate such a place. Just two cars, positioned with precision.

On the left, a Ferrari. Low and red and I know what it is only by the symbol on the hood. Now, what type it is, I have no clue, but it looks like it can fly.

On the right, a Range Rover in a blue so pale it’s nearly silver, and I pray to God we’re taking this vehicle. I do not want to drive the sports car.