Julian (New York Vipers #2)

CHAPTER 1

Julian

The front door closes behind Grizz with a loud click that echoes through the foyer and settles deep in the old but sturdy bones of my townhouse. I remain exactly where I am, my hand still resting against the cool brass knob, as though I can feel the last trace of his urgency through the metal.

He didn’t second-guess himself at the threshold. He left with a purpose that doesn’t need to announce itself. He had a focus in his expression I haven’t seen before.

He’s going after her.

The realization doesn’t surprise me. What surprises me is the way I admire him for it.

I found him wandering the streets of Manhattan a few hours ago with the particular aimlessness of a man who had lost an important piece of himself.

I recognized it immediately because I’ve often felt aimless myself, and I did what any reasonable employer would do.

I invited him to my home for Thanksgiving dinner.

It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened.

Grizz McAvoy is the best player on my New York Vipers hockey team.

His talent is unimaginable, but he was a wild card in all ways when we made the offer.

He’s the man opposing teams build defensive schemes around, a force of nature on the ice.

He’s also unpredictable, brash and pigheaded at times, landing himself in hot water with the league and the front office on more occasions than I’d like to count.

But he seems to have gotten that under control, and I think that’s a direct result of Daisy’s impact on his life.

He’s a man who has genuinely—if not recklessly—fallen in love with a woman.

And he was wandering around like a lost puppy because he let his fear convince him that walking away from her was the wiser choice.

Grizz has always known how to pursue what he wants on the ice.

He attacks a puck battle as a personal affront, shoulders lowered, momentum unquestioned.

But this is different. This isn’t about a contract clause or playoff positioning or proving himself to a coach.

This is about a person he loves. About rearranging his life around someone who has somehow managed to matter more than his fear of putting his heart on the line.

And that is rare.

I step back from the door slowly, letting the foyer reclaim its stillness. Thanksgiving Day light filters faintly through the tall windows along the staircase, turning the air a muted gold. The house seems larger in his absence.

I find myself smiling. He’s found someone worth chasing.

That simple truth stirs emotions in me that I don’t immediately welcome. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s more complicated— recognition of something I once knew intimately but have no desire to ever experience again.

“Sir.”

Percy’s tone is smooth and unhurried, as though he’s been standing there for precisely the number of seconds required to interrupt my thoughts at their most inconvenient depth.

I turn to find him positioned just beyond the archway, his posture immaculate, his dark suit pressed as always. His silver hair is combed back flawlessly, and his expression—respectful yet faintly admonishing—suggests he’s well aware that I have drifted into unproductive introspection.

“Yes, Percy.”

“The apple pie,” he begins, each word delivered with a careful enunciation that suggests he has already weighed the phrasing for maximum effect, “is cooling at a pace that may compromise its structural integrity.”

A faint smile touches my mouth. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“Indeed not, sir.” A measured pause follows. “Additionally, your companion has taken the liberty of adjusting your place setting no fewer than three times, which I interpret as a signal of escalating impatience.”

I glance toward the corridor leading to the dining hall, where warm light spills across the polished floor. I had briefly forgotten about Svetlana waiting for us to have dessert. “Has she?”

“She appears eager,” Percy confirms diplomatically, “to prevent the ice cream from reaching a regrettable state of liquefaction.”

Percy’s diction and formalized way with words is a never-ending source of amusement for me.

He’s been in my life long enough to anticipate not only my preferences but the exact times at which I might require gentle redirection.

His delivery, though… it’s what makes Percy uniquely Percy.

For example, he knows that I prefer two scoops of vanilla ice cream rather than one, that maple syrup—lightly warmed—is superior to caramel in both flavor and nostalgia, and that I like the crust to absorb just enough sweetness before I take the first bite.

He has memorized the rhythms of my habits for the past thirty-one years and knows me probably better than I know myself.

When my father first hired Percy, I was an impressionable thirteen-year-old, and since his passing four years ago, Percy’s been the steady rock amid the turmoil I’ve faced personally and professionally in this last decade.

“Thank you, Percy,” I say, pushing myself fully out of the past and into the present.

“Shall I inform Ms. Smirnova that you are on your way,” he asks, “or would you prefer to make an entrance unannounced?”

I smirk at him. “I think I can manage the walk on my own.”

A subtle lift of his brow suggests he finds this optimistic but acceptable. “Very good, sir.”

“You know you don’t have to call me sir, right, Percy?”

His tone is as droll as ever. “So you’ve told me at least a hundred times.” His eyes twinkle as a smirk spreads on his face, before he adds, “Sir.”

I chuckle as I leave him, moving down the corridor toward the dining hall, my footsteps echoing softly against the parquet floors.

The house reveals itself as it always does in the periods of quiet—not ostentatious, but undeniably grand.

The original crown moldings curve along the ceiling in elaborate sweeps of plasterwork, hand-carved garlands and cherubic faces frozen mid-celebration.

The walls are paneled in deep walnut, polished to a subdued sheen that reflects the chandelier light in muted waves.

Every archway bears the faint flourish of gilded detailing, a remnant of the era in which permanence was not only desired but expected.

This townhouse was built in a time when ambition was expressed in cornices and ceiling medallions, when wealth insisted on being both seen and remembered. Even now, it carries that air of Gilded Age confidence.

I step into the expansive dining hall. I’ve had countless meals here, both professional and personal. It has seen times of despair and times of exuberance. I hope the future holds more of the latter than the former.

The chandelier overhead casts a honeyed glow across the long mahogany table, illuminating the gold-leaf accents along the ceiling’s ornate medallion. Heavy velvet drapes frame the tall windows, sealing out the November chill and cocooning the space in warmth.

At the far end of the table sits Svetlana.

She’s already halfway through her first bite of pie. A single, pristine slice rests on delicate porcelain before her, unaccompanied by ice cream. She once informed me that proper pastry requires no embellishment.

Opposite her, my place setting awaits.

The slice is generous, the crust golden and precise. Two perfectly rounded scoops of vanilla ice cream lean gently into the warm filling, already beginning their slow surrender. A thin ribbon of warmed maple syrup glistens across the top, catching the chandelier light in amber streaks.

I take my seat, noticing that the ice cream has reached precisely the point of softness I prefer—no longer rigid, not yet dissolved.

“Apologies for the delay,” I say, reaching for my fork.

Svetlana’s gaze lifts to meet mine, assessing and faintly amused.

“I wondered,” she replies, her voice smooth and accented, “whether you might have followed him into the street.”

We eat. Not in silence, but in the easy rhythm of two adults who understand the choreography of evenings like this. The silverware moves in counterpoint against porcelain. Outside, the city seems distant, muffled by velvet drapes and thick glass.

Svetlana asks about the Vipers’ upcoming home game, and the media chatter surrounding a potential trade rumor that’s been circulating for weeks. She follows the business of the league more closely than most assume and does so with genuine curiosity rather than social obligation.

“I read that with the Portland Wildfire team now joining the league, many owners are discussing further expansion,” she says, cutting neatly into her pie. “That must complicate things.”

“It complicates revenue sharing,” I reply. “It also complicates egos, of which there are some large ones in many front offices.”

She smiles. “And you enjoy managing egos.”

“I enjoy managing outcomes.”

The conversation drifts from hockey economics to the art market, from the art market to travel plans she’s considering in the spring.

It’s fluid and intelligent. Although she’s stunning, Svetlana is not ornamental.

She has a successful career managing artists and ambitions of her own.

There’s nothing vapid about her. Nothing shallow.

In fact, there’s not one single thing I can find wrong with her and she’d be a prime catch for any eligible bachelor.

And yet, as I watch her across the table, candlelight catching the sharp line of her cheekbone, the thought surfaces quietly and without cruelty…

I don’t have it in me to feel for her. At least, not the way she deserves, and she’s well aware I’ll never commit to her.

I’m always up front about that and if I get the slightest inkling that someone I’m seeing wants to take it to a deeper level, I’m afraid I have to cut her loose.

Svetlana finishes her dessert first, setting her fork gently on the plate with an air of finality.

“I must tell you,” she says, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin, “I loved this. The pie, yes. But the entire evening.”

“I’m glad.”

“No,” she insists softly. “Truly. I always enjoy my time with you, Julian. There’s a beautiful manner in which you host. It’s rare.”

“I try not to do anything any other way.”

She smiles at me, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she stares at me fondly. “That’s obvious.”

I incline my head. “I’ve enjoyed it as well.”

And I have. The conversation’s been easy. The food excellent. The company undeniably attractive.

Svetlana studies me, then lets a faintly mischievous smile curve her mouth. “It would be unfortunate,” she says, voice lowering just enough to shift the temperature of the room, “if we allowed such a nice evening to end too early.”

“Too early?” I repeat.

She traces the stem of her wineglass with a slow finger. “I find that dessert is often only the beginning.”

There’s nothing crude in her delivery but rather suggestion, confidence, invitation.

I hold her gaze, allowing a small, controlled smile. “You’re suggesting a final course.”

“I’m suggesting we not waste momentum.”

Before I can respond, Percy enters with the seamless discretion of a man who has mastered the art of impeccable timing. He approaches the table as though the air has not shifted at all.

“May I clear the plates?” he asks.

“Of course,” I say.

He lifts Svetlana’s first, then mine. As he does, his eyes flick briefly to the melted edge of the ice cream, now fully surrendered into the crust.

“Acceptable consistency, sir?” he inquires.

“Perfect,” I reply. “The entire dinner was exceptional,” I add. “Thank you, Percy.”

There’s a subtle exchange in the look that passes between us.

Percy has been in my life longer than most board members, longer than many friendships that once seemed immovable.

He’s seen me at my most ambitious and at my most fractured.

He understands the difference between the public version of me—the owner in the suite, the negotiator at the table, the man quoted in financial columns—and the quieter version who walks these halls when the city’s gone dark.

“Coffee, sir?” he asks. “Perhaps a brandy?” I look to Svetlana, giving deference to what she might want. Her eyes hold mine with open intent. No coyness, no pretense. She wants to move this elsewhere.

“I think we’re ready to retire upstairs,” I say quietly, my gaze pinned on Svetlana.

“The fire has been lit in the primary suite, sir,” Percy says with composure.

“Thank you, Percy.”

“I’ll ensure the lower floors are secured.” There is no raised brow or smirk. There isn’t even a suggestion of judgment. With Percy, it’s simple discretion and loyalty.

Svetlana slips her hand lightly into mine, and together we leave the dining hall.

We walk down the long corridor, the parquet floors catching the low amber light from the sconces lining the walls. The house at night appears even more theatrical, its bones quietly luminous beneath carefully placed illumination.

We pass into the expansive drawing room, and even after years of living here, I remain faintly aware of its scale.

The ceilings rise nearly fourteen feet, crowned with intricate medallions from which twin crystal chandeliers hang like suspended constellations.

The walls are paneled in dark, high-gloss walnut, broken only by towering arched windows framed in heavy silk drapery the color of aged champagne.

A grand piano anchors one side of the room.

The room is designed for conversation. It’s meant for performance and spectacle.

But tonight, it stands quiet and expectant.

Svetlana glances around, a small appreciative smile touching her mouth. “I will never quite get used to this,” she murmurs.

“Lived here my entire life and I’m still not used to it.”

We cross the drawing room toward the concealed panel along the far wall. I press my thumb to the discreet brass plate, and the private elevator doors slide open without sound.

I press the button for the sixth floor.

The ascent is nearly imperceptible. Through the mirror, I catch our reflection—her hand resting lightly against my chest now, my posture composed as ever.

Six floors above the city.

An entire level devoted solely to the primary suite.

The elevator slows and comes to a seamless stop. The doors part quietly, revealing the private floor beyond—a corridor lined with soft lighting and handwoven runner carpets leading toward the double doors of the bedroom.

Behind us, somewhere below, Percy secures the house for the evening.

Ahead of us, the fire waits.