Page 63 of Julian

I pull the Range Rover into my reserved space. I’m driving and there was a slight disagreement with Harper when she arrived to pick me up tonight. She’s in work mode and well, I want to be in play mode. This line between professional and personal blurs more every day, and I don’t want her to be on the clock. I told her as much and insisted she sit her pretty butt in the passenger seat tonight.

I remain seated, watching the movement of the lot through the windshield—fans in Vipers’ colors, staff weaving between vehicles, the anticipation building as the evening takes shape.

My reverie is broken when Harper hops out of the passenger seat and walks around the front of the car to my side. She pulls open my door, as any good chauffeur would do despite the fact I drove and she did not.

Then I reach into the back seat and pull the Vipers jersey out of the bag I’d tossed back there. I step out of the car and let it unfurl. It’s clean, simple—green lettering against white jersey fabric—and the name across the back. Her name: Hawthorne.

“I had this made for you,” I say as I hold it up for her to see.

Her expression changes immediately. “Julian…”

“I want you to come in and watch the game with me,” I say, extending it toward her.

She takes it carefully, her fingers brushing over the lettering on the back—her name stitched on my team’s jersey. “It’s beautiful. But… I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to watch the game with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because… well, because it’s weird. I’m your driver.”

“You’re more than that, and you know it. Should I kiss you to prove it?” I challenge.

She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what I mean. You’re the owner and you should be up in your owner’s suite doing owner things. It would be… uncomfortable for me.”

“And if I insist on it?” I ask, wondering how far I can push her.

“I’d probably insist on staying down here, where my job begins and ends,” she replies, eyes hardening slightly.

I stare at her before nodding. “I thought you might have a problem with it, but I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

She doesn’t move and I can see the indecision in her eyes. She needs to know that I’m not only the man who can bring her on dates to private dining rooms overlooking Central Park. I am also the man who built something, and who knows how to be here, among everyone else, not just up there, in the rarefied air of Manhattan’s elite.

“Put it on,” I tell her.

There’s hesitation but then she slips out of her coat and pulls the jersey over her head, smoothing it down as she looks at herself—first at the front, then down at the sleeves.

“It fits great,” she says, sounding surprised.

“I made sure it would.”

She looks up at me then, a smile beaming across her beautiful face.

“Come on,” I say, turning toward the entrance. “Follow me.”

Another hesitation but then she falls into step beside me. I have no clue if she’s coming along because she wants to or because I’m her boss and I told her to, but I’ll worry about that later. As we near the doors that lead to the private corridors, her instinct guides her elsewhere.

“But your box is this way,” she says, gesturing toward the familiar path to the owner’s suite.

I don’t break stride. “We’re not watching from there tonight.”

She stops for a half step, thrown. “We’re not?”

I take her hand in mine, and she jerks reflexively. I grip tighter so she won’t pull away. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable now, would we?”

She frowns at my cryptic statement. “Then where are we watching from?”

“With everyone else.”

We make our way to the uppermost bowl—the nosebleeds. These are the seats that don’t change hands often. The people here are fixtures, season ticket–holding diehards.