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)
“No, thank you,” I say, holding up a hand. “I think I’m going to go out instead. Help yourself to my lunch if you want.”
Tracey’s jaw sags slightly. I never go out at lunch, always working through while eating in my office.
The corridor is busier now, the low thrum of midday activity carrying through the executive level. Staff members nod as I pass. I acknowledge them automatically, already adjusting the afternoon in my mind. A delayed call here. A rescheduled briefing there. Nothing critical.
When I exit through the private doors and step back into the sunlight, the Range Rover remains exactly where it should be.
Harper is seated upright behind the wheel, her phone in hand. When she sees me, she lowers it, attention snapping back into place.
I open the front door and settle into the passenger seat.
Her eyes meet mine. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I reply, then pause. “Are you hungry?”
The question clearly disorients her. “Me?” she asks, a faint crease forming between her brows. “I’m fine. But I’m happy to grab something for you.”
I lean back against the seat, allowing a fraction of amusement. “Unfortunately, the staff refrigerator malfunctioned overnight. Everything spoiled.”
Her expression shifts, sympathy replacing confusion. “Oh. That’s frustrating.”
“It is,” I say. “I prefer not to gamble on questionable storage conditions.”
A corner of her mouth lifts, as though she suspects the situation is slightly less dire than I’ve implied.
“There’s a steakhouse that just opened in Tribeca,” I continue. “I’d like to try it.”
Her eyebrows rise with recognition. “I’ve heard of it… Preston’s Crossing.”
“Indeed.”
She eases the car smoothly into traffic. “At one point, I considered applying there.”
“As a chef?” I ask, unable to resist.
She laughs—a quick, unguarded sound that fills the space between us. “As a waitress.”
“Ah… the life blood of the restaurant industry. I imagine servers there make very good money.”
“It’s probably best I didn’t get that job. I’m a bit on the clumsy side and would have probably dropped food on someone.”
“I don’t know about your serving skills, but your driving skills are quite good.”
Harper laughs again, like it got away from her before she could decide if it was appropriate.
We head south, Midtown’s steel and glass giving way gradually to the textured brick and quieter streets of Lower Manhattan. There is no stiffness in her movements now. The earlier nervousness has softened into focus.
In the filtered sunlight, I allow myself the opportunity to observe her more closely.
The uniform adjustment was a logistical decision. It is also, I admit privately, a successful one. The tailored jacket hugs her frame whereas the previous company’s shapeless attire concealed it. Clean lines follow the curve of her waist, emphasizing structure without excess. And her body structure is certainly worth highlighting. The absence of that oversized driver’s cap—the one that obscured half her face—makes an undeniable difference. Her hair is secured in a neat low ponytail.
The uniform doesn’t diminish her presence. I think it enhances it. I find myself unexpectedly pleased that I insisted on the change.
We reach the cobblestone streets of Tribeca. Preston’s Crossing is modern but subtle in its facade, glass and dark metal framed by old brick. A small crowd filters in and out, midday diners who value discretion as much as quality.
Harper pulls to the curb with practiced precision and shifts the car into park.
She turns slightly in her seat. “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Langley… I hope the steak lives up to the reviews.”
I study her while the city’s muted noise fills the silence. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?” I respond. Her eyes widen, surprise flickering across her face before composure attempts to reclaim it. I gesture toward the entrance. “Join me.”
Chapter 7
Harper
“Join me,” he says again.
I stare at Julian Langley, absolutely certain I misunderstood what he said.
“Ex-x-x-cuse me,” I stammer.
“Join me for lunch,” he repeats and I don’t know what to say. That might have to do with the fact I find him so ridiculously good-looking and magnetic that he makes rational thought disappear.
The man has a face that makes you look twice. His mouth defaults to a faint almost-smile, like he finds most situations mildly amusing, but what I like most about him are his eyes. Yes, they’re mesmerizing in their green-gold color, but it’s the laugh lines at the corners that speak to a man who enjoys laughter.
And here he is inviting me to join him for lunch.
Still, I don’t trust the invitation. “Mr. Langley, I appreciate that, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to—”
“Harper.”
“I’m your driver,” I press, because someone has to be sensible here. “It’s my first official day and I don’t want to overstep.”
Those eyes crinkle with amusement. “You’re not overstepping if I’m inviting you. Surely you can understand that.”
“Still.” I turn back toward the windshield, as if the street might offer moral support. “I think it’s better if I just—”