Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
We pull up outside Julian’s building, the townhome spellbinding in its grandeur each time I see it. I barely have it in park before the front door opens and Julian is trotting down the steps with a white shopping bag in hand.
Julian moves with the same precision he always does. “Aren’t you supposed to get his door or something?” Dylan asks from the back seat. I put him there, advising him that Julian likes to ride in front.
“He’s told me not to, so I don’t,” I reply just as Julian reaches the Range Rover.
He opens the door and slides in, leveling me a smile. “Good evening, Harper.”
“Good evening, Julian,” I reply, mimicking the formality. I then shift in my seat and look back at my brother. “This is Dylan.”
Julian twists to the left and shoots a beaming smile. “Pleased to meet you, Dylan.” He holds out his hand and they shake. “Excited about the game?”
“I’m so excited,” Dylan gushes. “Thank you so much for the tickets. Everyone in my class is losing their minds.”
Julian chuckles. “I’m glad. I hope you all sing the Vipers’ praises on social media after.”
There’s a brief pause—not awkward, not quite—but it lingers just long enough to be felt before Julian reaches into the bag. I’m stunned when he pulls out a Vipers’ jersey.
“Figured you should dress the part,” he says, handing it to Dylan. “I got you a Grizz McAvoy jersey since he’s the star of the team.”
Dylan takes it like it’s a fragile and priceless heirloom, unfolding it just enough to see the logo before breaking into a disbelieving grin. “Oh—this is—thank you,” he manages, words tripping over themselves as he tries to keep up with his own excitement.
Julian watches him with a smile before pulling another out of the bag and handing it to me. “And one for you.”
For a second, I don’t move. Because that same warmth from earlier returns and it’s more potent. “For me?” I ask.
“If you’re going to be there,” he says, as though the logic is simple, obvious, “it seemed appropriate.”
There it is… the invitation to watch the game from inside again. I reach for the jersey, my fingers brushing briefly against his as I take the sweater from his hand, the contact fleeting and accidental, yet it lingers in a way it shouldn’t.
“You can wear it in the suite tonight,” he continues. “You’ll be watching the game with me.”
And as I sit there, the jersey in my hands and Dylan practically glowing from the back seat, I feel that subtle sensation again, like I’ve stepped outside the life I understand and into a new one that’s almost too unreal to believe.
“Thank you,” I breathe out. “I really appreciate it.”
At the arena, Dylan peels off to the section where he’ll meet his friends, and I follow Julian up to the owner’s suite. As before, the atmosphere inside is overwhelming, packed with the who’s who of New York society here at Julian Langley’s invitation.
Julian deposits me at the buffet, promising to return after he has a few words with someone, and I’m left staring at trays of things I can’t immediately identify—delicate, artfully arranged, each piece looking more like it belongs in a display case than on a plate. There’s caviar laid out with small spoons, sushi so cleanly cut it doesn’t look real, and other items I don’t have names for but instinctively know are expensive.
I linger near the edge of the food table, scanning, calculating, trying to decide what’s… safe. What won’t immediately mark me as someone who doesn’t belong in a room like this.
And then I see it: a silver platter piled with hot dogs.
I let out a breath and reach for one, putting it on a small plate of fine china. I doctor it up with mustard before taking a bite. The familiar taste grounds me instantly, pulling me out of my own head. I eat the hot dog and consider another, but that’s when I notice the éclairs.
A whole tray of them, lined up neatly at the end of the table, glossy and perfect. They’re Dylan’s favorite and I know his eyes would light up if he were standing here right now.
I glance around quickly, making sure no one is paying too much attention, and reach for one. I quickly wrap it in a napkin, knowing that the chocolate will stick to it, but it should taste fine all the same. I slip it into my bag with a small, satisfied sense of victory.
The game hasn’t started yet and I’m still hungry, so I fix myself another hot dog with mustard. I’m just opening my mouth to take a bite when Julian appears at my side. “You’ve got good taste,” he says.
I glance up, half expecting to catch some trace of humor in his expression—some indication that he’s teasing, but he’s not.