Page 31 of Julian

Does she feel it too? That sensation of intrigue into the other person that seems to defy common sense? I know I’m obviously feeling it.

On the ice below, the referee whistles and play stops. The face-off moves to the neutral zone and I set my drink down.

I had given Harper the afternoon off today since I wanted her to drive me to the game tonight. Right now, she’s currently sitting in the Range Rover in the VIP lot, and it bothers me more than it should.

Behind me, one of the sponsors says something that prompts a round of laughter. I half turn, smile appropriately, and look back to the ice.

The puck drops and we win the face-off cleanly. I watch the play develop for approximately five seconds before turning away from the glass wall. “Excuse me,” I say as I weave through the room, accepting handshakes and handing out promises to reconnect later. But then I’m out the suite door with Marcus, my head of security, right behind me. “Mr. Langley, do you need—”

“I’ve got this,” I say without breaking stride, holding up a hand. “You can wait here.”

I don’t look back, knowing he will position himself against the wall and wait for me to return.

In the corridor outside the suite, one of the arena’s senior staff members spots me and straightens. “Mr. Langley, is there anything I can—”

“No, thank you.”

Two more offers of assistance between the suite level and the elevator, both declined. I take the elevator to the ground floor, cross the main concourse—quieter now that the period is underway, the crowd inside and settled—and push through the heavy exterior doors into the night air.

The VIP lot is tucked along the south side of the building, gated, well lit. The Range Rover sits in the first reserved space, exactly where I instructed Harper to park after she dropped me off at the main entrance.

Through the driver’s window I can see her—head slightly angled, the faint glow of her phone screen reflected on her face, earbuds in. She’s in the new uniform still but tonight she wore her hair loose. I wonder what type of music she listens to.

I approach the vehicle, completely regretful for what I’m about to do, because she’s so absorbed in her phone she doesn’t see me coming. I rap my knuckles twice on the driver’s-side glass and she startles so completely that her phone launches from her hand and falls down onto the passenger seat floorboard.

Her head whips my way, mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes as round as saucers. I hold up a hand in apology through the window.

Harper stares at me for several long seconds, chest heaving from the fright, expression caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief. She cracks the window a few inches. “You just took ten years off my life.”

“I apologize for that,” I say, hands still up. “Couldn’t be helped.”

To my relief, she chuckles. “I normally love the thrill of a good scare. Is everything okay? Do you need to go somewhere?”

I tilt my head, tucking my hands into my pockets. “Like, what kind of a good scare? Surely not people approaching you in a dark parking lot at night?”

Another laugh, soft and tinkling as she shakes her head. “No, that’s the kind of scare I’d like to avoid, but you know… horror movies and stuff. The suspenseful ones when you know someone’s in the closet and you investigate, but then they pop up behind you.”

That’s adorably… weird and I have a sudden and intense desire to watch her watch a horror movie to see the delight she’d get over such a fright.

I shake that thought away. “How about you come inside to watch the game?”

Harper frowns only briefly, as if confused by the request, then her face smooths out into that distant politeness she’s been giving me. “Sir, I mean… Julian. I’m fine out here.”

“It’s forty degrees,” I observe.

“I have a heated car.”

“You have a heated car and no hockey game,” I counter, hoping I’m wearing my most charming smile. “Come to the suite. The Vipers are up 3–0 in the first period and you said you wanted to understand the sport.”

“I said I didn’t understand the sport,” she corrects. “That’s different from saying I wanted to.”

“Semantics.”

“Accuracy,” she quips, eyes locked on mine, and I see the defiance even though her words are softly unassuming.

“Are you genuinely content sitting alone in a parking lot?”

“I have my phone.”