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)
“Chill out, bro,” I say, cutting him off with a raised hand. “The suite was nice and yes, there was fancy food, and no, I didn’t eat any, nor did I get liquored up because hello… I drive for a living. But…,” I say, taking deep internal stock of how I really feel about the experience, “I have to admit, I really enjoyed learning the game. I can see why you love it.”
“Now you’ll have to watch games with me,” he says with a blinding smile.
“I’d love that,” I reply, my heart bursting with affection for this kid. It’s been a struggle at times caring for him, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. And any time I can spend with Dylan is precious.
I stand up from the bed. “I’m exhausted and I have to pick up Julian early to go to the airport.”
“Julian,” he says, mimicking the way I said his name. “That seems… personal.”
I lift a shoulder. “He insisted on it. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”
“Yes, M-o-o-o-m-m-m,” he drawls, the way he always does when I go mom-mode on him.
After a quick wash of my face and a thorough brushing of my teeth, I strip down to a tank and panties and fall into bed. I’m so tired. But before I drift off, it’s Julian Langley’s face that fills the dark void.
He’s my employer. He’s been generous and unexpectedly decent and is, by any reasonable measure, the most interesting person I’ve been in a room with in years. He also exists in a world that has nothing in common with mine other than our lack of dads while growing up. I have Dylan and Beau and a dream I’m still trying to build from scratch and exactly zero margin for complications.
I’m his employee, and nothing more.
I keep repeating that to myself over and over again until I fall asleep.
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.