Page 34 of Julian

Chapter 9

Harper

The elevator in my building smells like someone cooked fish again. I can’t stand it, which is why the only time I’ll eat fish or seafood is in a restaurant. I hold my breath as much as possible until I’m letting myself into the apartment, but the faint scent wafts in behind me.

Beau materializes to greet me, tail wagging as he presses his body against my legs. I drop my keys in the bowl on the small table near the door and give him a rubdown, all while cooing endearments in a singsong voice that makes his whole body quiver. “Who’s a good Bo-Bo? Are you the bestest boy ever? Did you fall off the cute tree? And hit every branch on the way down?”

When I get Beau half mollified, I strip my jacket and hang it on the hook on the back of the door. My eyes drop to the keys, the green and silver Range Rover symbol glaring at me from the back of the fob. When I dropped Julian off at his home following the game, he had instructed me to pull up in front. I figured he wanted me to drop him there for his convenience, even though I didn’t mind driving around the building to access the garage.

Instead, he’d insisted I drive the car home rather than take the subway. I argued with him—or at least I tried—but he was very insistent. It was late and I ultimately capitulated, but I’m wondering if that was the right thing to do.

It’s all so confusing. I lean back against the door and consider the entire evening. The owner of the NY Vipers left his own suite during a game—his game, his team, his arena—to walk out to the car to invite me in to watch the game.

I’m still not entirely sure what to do with that.

For two straight periods, he sat in the front row of his suite with me, ignoring all the other important VIPs standing fifteen feet behind us to spend his time teaching me the sport. He explained offsides, defensive zone coverage and the particular genius of Grizz McAvoy with the patient, unhurried attention of a man who had nowhere else to be.

But I know that’s not true, and in fact, he has everywhere else to be. He’s a freaking multibillionaire businessman who has better things to do than teach his chauffeur the fine art of hockey.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.

The problem—and I’ve been calling it a problem because that’s the only category that makes sense—isn’t that he’s attractive, although that obstacle is significant and ongoing. It isn’t even that he’s my boss, although that should be reason enough to shut this down internally and permanently.

The problem is in how we conversed, which felt intensely personal at times but never awkward. Julian wouldn’t let the conversation be awkward. He was genuinely funny, inquisitive without being intrusive, and a veritable open book.

And then he mentioned his father. “My dad was what many people call ‘emotionally unavailable.’ His first love was his empire.”

It was such a small thing. An offhanded answer to a question I probably shouldn’t have asked. There was no self-pity in it, just fact, stated cleanly and then set aside.

I know that tone. I’ve used it myself a hundred times when someone asks about my own father, the man whose name I know and whose face I’ve seen in exactly two photographs. And yes, while Marley stepped into a “fathering” role when he started dating my mom, the fact is, I went thirteen long years without a father influence. And who’s kidding who—Marley wasn’t ever interested or fit to be parenting anyone, despite being a nice enough guy.

And that’s a significant thing to have in common with Julian. It’s why when he made that simple, offhand comment, a rush of empathy swept through me and almost had me reaching out to touch his arm in support. I recognized that feeling of abandonment, and I knew in my gut, he’s the type of man who’s carried that pain for so long that it’s no longer a wound, but an integral piece of your being.

Beau nudges his head into my legs, aiming for more attention. I give him another ear scratch and push off the door.

The apartment is only about seven hundred square feet, and I know every inch of it because I’ve lived here my entire life. It’s rent controlled to the point of embarrassment if not envy by my friends. When my mom left, I took over the lease and never yearned to go anywhere else.

The living room and kitchen are separated by nothing but a counter that’s too narrow to eat at comfortably. There’s no dining room and there’s barely a living room, which has just enough space to hold a couch and a coffee table. A window looks out onto the street if you crane slightly left.

Two bedrooms, both small in a way that only New Yorkers can understand, and one bathroom that requires a schedule. I love this place with an intensity that probably isn’t healthy, and while Dylan, Beau and I are cramped, it’s home.

A thin strip of light glows under Dylan’s door and I knock twice. “You alive?”

“Yeah, come in.”

His room is barely big enough for a twin bed pushed against one wall and the secondhand desk wedged under the single window that looks out onto the building’s air shaft. He’s got it personalized enough that it isn’t depressing, a few posters on the walls, one of which ironically is of the Vipers’ arena lit up at night against the New York skyline. His phone charger is a trip hazard snaking across the floor, and a stack of library books threatens to avalanche off the corner of the desk. He’s sitting in the cheap rolling chair I found on the curb two summers ago, papers spread in front of him and his laptop that I gifted him last Christmas opened. I worked double shifts in holiday retail to save up for it.

“It’s midnight,” I say.

“Congrats,” he drawls as if bored. “You can tell time.”

I grin, because Dylan is the snarkiest of kids, but he never does it in a mean way. “What are you doing?”

“Extra credit,” he says, lifting his head to look at me. “And I just took Beau out about half an hour ago so he should be good the rest of the night.”

I walk to the desk, ruffle his hair playfully. “Thanks, kiddo.” Dylan leans away from me, grumbles with annoyance, but then picks up a highlighter where he starts drawing yellow lines across sentences in a book. He’s always been the type who can move between two or three things at the same time, a multi-tasker at heart. “What’s the extra credit for?”

“Hampton assigned it. Extra credit for students who want to make up for lost participation points.” He makes air quotes around participation points with the energy of someone who finds the phrase personally offensive.