Chapter 10 Julian
The Range Rover drives smoothly as we pull into the private terminal, the early-morning darkness still clinging like it hasn’t quite decided to let the day begin. The sky is a pale, indifferent gray, and the cold has that first-week-of-December bite as it seeps through the glass.
I take note of Harper’s hands, easy on the wheel, speaking to her confidence and ease not only in driving but driving with me sitting in the front seat. I’m aware that I have a Town Car gathering dust in a private garage a few blocks from my home.
It’s the most appropriate vehicle for a man who needs a driver, which isn’t just a symbol of wealth.
It’s a practical means by which I can get from point A to point B and continue to work.
I can sit in the back and take calls or work on my laptop in between meetings.
It’s a way to squeeze another hour out of a day that’s already far too busy without enough hours to get everything done.
Moreover, a Town Car implies a certain arrangement—driver in front, employer in back, a partition available should either party require a reminder of their respective roles. It’s clean. Professional. Unambiguous.
I’ve kept Harper in the Range Rover instead.
The first time, I told myself it was practical. The Range Rover handles better in traffic and she’d already driven it. The second time, I didn’t bother with a reason. By the third, it had simply become the way things were and I stopped interrogating it.
What I haven’t stopped interrogating is why I continue to choose the front seat rather than the back, because I’m not sure I’d like the answer.
This morning, as planned, she was waiting outside the townhouse when I came down the steps at five forty-five, which means she left her apartment on the Lower East Side in the dark.
She’d looked up when I came down the steps, the cold turning her breath into small clouds, and said good morning in the straightforward way she says everything, and I felt… giddy.
Yes, that’s the word, and I dislike it intensely.
I’m a forty-three-year-old man who has negotiated nine-figure deals and navigated the politics of a professional sports league for the better part of a decade.
I do not feel giddy, which is a word used to describe a sixth-grade girl going to her first spring dance.
And yet I can’t deny the joyful lift of my spirits when I laid eyes on Harper this morning.
I think I’m fucked, and Harper isn’t making it any easier on me.
Oh, she’s not doing anything overt and she still is very much the polite, respectful driver.
But there has been a shift because that professional distance she maintained so deliberately in the first few days has softened.
Ever since she watched the game with me two nights ago, she’s more at ease, not afraid to be herself.
She asks questions now without checking herself first and she disagrees with me occasionally, which I find myself looking forward to.
We’re not friends, exactly. The word doesn’t quite fit the shape of whatever this is. But we are more than just employer and employee, expanding by the minute. “Shall I pull up to the front?” Harper asks, jolting me out of my thoughts, and I see we’ve arrived at the private terminal.
“Yes, that will be fine.”
A handful of players who’ve been dropped off by ride shares loiter outside the terminal doors, luggage at their feet, breath faintly visible in the air.
Tanner Wylie is easy to pick out—solidly built at six four, he’s always in motion, always putting on a show in some small way.
He’s standing there with Grizz and our goalie, Canyon Marchand.
The three of them are laughing, shoulders angled toward each other, a camaraderie that looks normal but only comes between hockey teammates.
I shift slightly, my gaze drifting—not for the first time this morning—toward Harper who’s fiercely concentrating on the traffic in front of her as we ease up.
I use the opportunity to study her while her attention is firmly diverted.
Most people would look like they’d been dragged unwillingly from sleep at such an early hour, but she looks amazing.
Her hair is pulled back neatly as it usually is.
Her uniform is pressed, every line of her appearance considered but not appearing forced.
There’s a precision to her, even this early, as though she’s already several steps ahead of the day.
She glances across the console at me briefly, and for a fraction of a second, it’s all mine. Then she looks away quickly.
The car rolls to a stop.
I check my pockets out of habit—phone, wallet—fingers brushing against the familiar shapes as I ground myself in routine. By the time I look up again, Harper is already moving.
She’s out of the driver’s seat in one fluid motion, no hesitation in her pace, no wasted movement. She ignores my door as I’ve told her I can let myself in and out just fine, reaching the back before I even touch the handle.
By the time I meet her to grab my luggage, I note that I’m not the first one there.
“Let me get this, milady,” Tanner says, already lifting my luggage from the trunk with exaggerated chivalry.
Tanner flashes Harper a grin—wide and just shy of ridiculous—then dips his head slightly, as if he’s addressing royalty rather than a driver at a private terminal. It’s performance, in part, but it’s also… more than that.
He’s flirting. Lightly. Playfully. With my driver.
Harper smiles in return, polite. “Thank you,” she says, her response warm but professional.
She doesn’t linger or match his energy. If anything, she redirects it, her attention shifting immediately to the rest of the luggage, ensuring everything is accounted for, everything in its proper place.
Tanner watches her for a beat longer than necessary, still holding on to that grin, before finally turning toward me with a shrug that suggests he’s both amused and mildly impressed.
I don’t say anything.
I observe her, trying to parcel out if she actually was taken in by Tanner’s boyish good looks and easy charm.
“Harper,” I say.
She turns quickly. “Yes, Mr. Langley?”
“Julian,” I correct her, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Julian,” she repeats, scrunching her face up at the mistake and offering me a smile.
I hesitate, not because I don’t know what I’m going to say but because I’m suddenly aware of her looking right at me and there’s a certain beauty to it.
The cold has brushed color into her cheeks and the way she stands there—steady, attentive, entirely present—holds my attention a fraction longer than it should.
“We’ll be back in two days,” I say finally. “I’ll let you know once we have a more precise arrival time.”
“Of course,” she replies easily. “I’ll keep my schedule open.”
There’s no fuss to her, but why do I wish there was just a little bit? Maybe a wish of safe travels or some indication that she might miss me.
Jesus… I’m fucking ridiculous. “Good,” I say, more abruptly than necessary.
She nods once, already shifting her focus back to the task at hand, already moving on.
I turn and nearly run into Tanner.
“Boss man,” he says, falling into step beside me. “You ready for this big roadie?”
“Never easy winning on the road. We need to take one period at a time,” I reply.
He grins, completely unfazed. “That’s fair. Good thinking.”
We start toward the terminal, the glass doors sliding open ahead of us, the hum of early-morning activity spilling out to meet us. It’s an easy exchange, the kind that doesn’t require thought, the type I’ve had a hundred times before with players just like him.
But it feels off somehow.
I catch sight of Harper again, just beyond Tanner.
She’s speaking to one of the attendants now, hands tucked neatly at her sides, posture straight, expression calm.
There’s a distance to her, even when she’s engaged—like she exists slightly outside of whatever moment she’s in, always maintaining a line that no one quite crosses.
Tanner glances back too, following my line of sight without realizing it.
“Your driver’s good,” he says casually. “Unbelievably pretty. And—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. There’s a hint of easy playfulness there, the same note he struck a few minutes ago when he was standing at the back of the car playing the gentleman.
A quick flare of heat catches low in my chest before I can make sense of it.
I look away, my focus snapping back to the path in front of us. She’s my employee, for God’s sake.
This is ridiculous. It’s like I’m trying to convince myself of something that ought to be obvious.
Tanner is still talking—about the schedule, about how brutal back-to-back games are—but I’m only half listening now, nodding appropriately, offering the occasional response out of habit more than intention.
Because underneath it, that buzzing is still there.
That heat.
Jealousy.
The word presses in again, unwelcome and a little absurd, and I subtly shake my head at myself.
Jealous of Tanner? Of a throwaway comment and a bit of harmless flirting?
It doesn’t make sense.
There’s nothing there. There can’t be anything there.
She didn’t give him anything back.
I saw that.
So why—
I exhale, sharper this time, dragging a hand briefly along the front of my coat as if I can smooth the thoughts out of existence the same way I would a wrinkle.
It’s nothing. A passing irritation. A misplaced reaction.
It will fade. Has to.
But as we step fully into the terminal and the doors slide shut behind us, sealing out the cold, I find that it doesn’t fade.
It lingers, low and persistent, threading through my thoughts entirely out of proportion—and entirely out of my control.
By the time I step onto the plane, I’ve had enough of my own mind.
It’s too loud and crowded, every thought circling back on itself, tugging at a thread I don’t intend to free. Not here, not now. The next forty-eight hours are already spoken for, structured down to the minute, and I don’t have the patience for whatever this… change is, this unwelcome unraveling.