Big City Boss Next Door (Big City Boss’s #2)

Reece

My boots hit the platform in a sprint that can only be described as aggressive.

My tote bag thumps against my hip like it’s trying to remind me I have a laptop inside of it and a professional reputation to uphold.

My scarf is flapping behind me like a distressed flag.

My coffee cup is sweating in my hand, lid threatening mutiny.

The train is about to leave without me.

Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, heartbreak-healing, “life moves on” kind of way.

Literally.

The Long Island Rail Road doors are doing that slow, smug, final slide—like they’re closing on purpose because they heard I was having a “calm, put-together Monday.”

Somewhere behind me, a very polite voice says, “Miss, your glove—”

“Thank you!” I shout, not turning around, because that glove made its choice and it chose freedom.

My lungs burn. My hair, which I spent eight minutes flattening into “responsible adult,” is already escaping. I dodge a man with a briefcase and a woman with a stroller and a teenager who looks like he’s never broken a sweat in his life.

I aim straight for the doors.

Two more steps—

My toe catches on something—ice, salt, betrayal—and the world tilts.

For half a second, I’m airborne, and I have this clear, ridiculous thought: So this is how I go. Not on a beach at eighty. On the platform at Merrick like a cautionary poster.

My coffee sloshes.

A scream rises up in my chest.

Then a hand closes around my elbow, steady and sure, and my entire body snaps back into alignment like I’ve been pulled onto my rails.

The coffee cup stops swinging just before it baptizes an innocent commuter.

My tote bag stops trying to fling me into the next county.

My feet land.

I don’t fall.

I don’t even wobble, which is suspicious.

I blink fast, staring at the train doors, still open by some miracle.

“Reece,” a familiar voice says, calm as the sea. “Are you trying to set a new track record?”

I whip my head to the side, and there he is.

Gage Donovan.

Next-door neighbor. Lifelong best friend. CEO of Donovan Holdings. The kind of calm, steady, protective man who could probably stop a tornado with a firm handshake and a reasonable plan.

He’s holding my elbow like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it’s no big deal because he’s caught me before. Like I didn’t just almost become a platform headline.

He looks… annoyingly normal for someone who runs a major company in Manhattan. Dark coat. Scarf. Travel mug in his other hand. No entourage. No driver. No “I’m an Important Person” energy.

Just Gage. Standing there like he wasn’t born for boardrooms and business pages but for mornings like this.

My heart is doing something dramatic. I tell it to stop.

“I was not running,” I say, breathless. “I was… accelerating.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A warning. Like he’s about to laugh, but he’s too polite.

“Sure,” he says. “And I wasn’t holding the door for you.”

He lifts his free hand—because apparently he has more hands than the average human—and I realize he has his palm out toward the closing doors. Like he’s not even trying. Like he simply told the train, not yet.

The doors pause.

The conductor looks out with the long-suffering expression of someone who has seen a lot of humans make questionable choices at seven in the morning. His eyes flick between me, my hair, my bag, and the single glove lying on the ground like it’s enjoying the show.

I point at the glove. “It’s fine.”

Gage’s eyes flick down. Then back to me. “It’s twenty degrees.”

“It’s fashion,” I insist. “One glove is edgy.”

“Reece.”

“Okay, fine, it’s poor planning,” I admit, and I scoop up the glove with my free hand like it didn’t abandon me first. “But to be fair, no one expects ice… like that.”

Gage’s eyebrow lifts. “In February?”

“It’s rude,” I say, and then I swallow a laugh because laughing means breathing, and breathing feels optional right now.

He nudges me toward the door with gentle pressure at my elbow. “Get on.”

I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Stop being a hero.”

“I’m not being a hero.” He steps onto the train right behind me, calm as ever. “I’m being a friend who enjoys witnessing your character-building experiences.”

I snort, and the sound comes out halfway between a laugh and an exhausted wheeze. “You’re a CEO. Why are you still on this freezing train like a normal person?”

He follows me into the train car, unbothered by the crowd, and his gaze skims the seats because he already knows where we’ll land.

“Because,” he says, “you’d mock me forever if I had a driver.”

“Correct,” I say.

“But you’d absolutely claim the perks if I had a driver.”

I lift my eyes in excitement. “I’d be a terrible hypocrite about it, too. Let’s talk about the benefits.”

I slide into our usual spot when I see it—two seats together near the window, the ones we’ve ended up in by habit since… forever.

He sits beside me. Like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like I didn’t just almost die for public transportation and dignity.

Usually, Gage and I drive to the station together—same driveway timing, same two-minute debate about whether the coffee is “too hot to trust,” same routine that’s practically stitched into our weekdays.

But this morning I ran late, tossed him a frantic text to go ahead without me, and he replied with one calm sentence: he’d be keeping an eye out for my arrival. Which, of course, is exactly why he was there when I came flying onto the platform like a disaster in boots.

The train lurches forward.

My shoulders drop with the kind of relief that feels embarrassing.

I try to take a sip of coffee to re-establish myself as a composed adult, but my hand is shaking, and the lid squeaks against my lip.

Gage glances at me. “You look… awake.”

I narrow my eyes. “That’s rude.”

His mouth twitches again.

I swear, sometimes he’s like a bank vault with a sense of humor. Everything is locked down, neat and controlled, but the second you find the right combination, there’s warmth inside.

Not that I’m trying to crack him open. That would be… complicated.

And I don’t do complicated anymore.

I shift my tote bag onto my lap, careful not to crush it, and stare out the window at the blur of snow and bare trees. My breath is still coming too fast. I force it to slow.

Ever since my breakup with Jesse, my brain has been operating like a very anxious accountant—if I can’t control my feelings, I can at least control the categories.

I made a list, the way I always do when life starts acting unpredictable.

Not a sad list. Not a dramatic list. A practical list. A Reece-is-definitely-fine list.

Because rules are easier than hope.

Rule One: Do not die on public transportation.

Rule Two: Do not date anyone for at least a year.

Rule Three: And definitely do not date Gage Donovan.

Even if he’s the same boy who used to sit in your living room at thirteen years old and read books aloud with you, like you were performing a play.

Even if he’s your boss and is the only person who still makes you feel safe when you hate that word because it makes you sound fragile and vulnerable.

I swallow hard and try to focus on the rhythm of the train.

After my breakup, my brain has been treating Gage like a suspiciously soothing variable—tracking every little gesture like I’m trying to prove something on paper. Like if I can figure out why his quiet steadiness suddenly feels louder, I can file it away under “harmless” and move on with my life.

Gage’s knee is angled toward mine, not touching, just close enough that my brain notices. His coat smells faintly like cedar and winter air. He’s scrolling on his phone, thumb moving, expression neutral.

Normal. Routine. Fine.

“I saw you were running,” he says without looking up, and there’s something in his tone that feels like a gentle tug. “Why didn’t you just take the next one?”

Because I don’t like being late. Because I don’t like feeling out of control. Because the day is easier when everything is predictable.

Because I already have one part of my life that feels like it knocked me off balance, and I’m still trying to stand up again.

But I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I say, “Because the next one would have stolen seven minutes from my life, and I’m very protective of my time.”

He finally looks over. “You sprinted like you were being chased.”

“I was.”

“By what?”

“My own expectations,” I say, and then I realize what I just admitted and add quickly, “And maybe also death.”

His eyes soften in that way that makes my stomach flip, which is extremely annoying to my stomach. “I’m glad you made it.”

I wave my hand like that sentence is nothing. “Obviously I made it. I’m unstoppable.”

“Mm-hmm.” He takes a sip from his travel mug. “Except for on ice.”

“Ice is my nemesis,” I say firmly.

He hums, like he’s filing that away in a mental drawer labeled Reece Facts.

He has a lot of drawers.

I’ve seen him organize his garage. It’s like watching someone alphabetize the universe.

The train settles into its steady glide, and the familiar comfort of the commute wraps around us. It’s a pocket of time that belongs to nobody else—just the hum of the car, the occasional announcement, and the quiet rhythm of us.

I hate how much I love this part of the day.

Because if I love it too much, it becomes something I need.

And needing things is dangerous.

I turn slightly and crack my laptop open, more for the comfort of doing something than because I have to. The screen glows. Spreadsheets. Numbers. Safe things.

Gage leans back, relaxed, and glances at my screen. “Already?”

“I like to start the day by reminding myself that I’m competent,” I say.

He nods like that makes perfect sense. “You don’t need your computer to remind you.”

I type a few lines, then pause, because I can feel his gaze on me again—brief, subtle, like he’s checking something.

“You’re doing that thing,” I say without looking at him.

“What thing?”

“The quiet staring.”

“I wasn’t staring.”