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)
That earns me a brief glance, amusement flickering in his eyes as he slides into the seat. “It usually is when we win.”
“Five to one,” I say, because of course I know. Dylan and I watched the game tonight at the apartment.
Julian settles back, one hand coming up to rub lightly at the back of his neck. “Should have been a shutout,” he says. “But the win is exactly what we needed. The team’s finding its rhythm at the right time.”
I circle around to the driver’s side, slipping back behind the wheel as the rest of the players disperse—laughter, voices, the camaraderie of a team riding the high of a solid win carrying through the air.
“They seem like they’re in a good place,” I say as I start the engine, glancing over at him briefly before easing the car into motion.
“They are,” Julian replies. “We’re approaching the midpoint of the season, and this is when it matters most.”
I nod, pulling away from the terminal, my focus already shifting to the road ahead. “That’s good,” I say. I’ve learned enough in the last few weeks to understand how the game is as much mental as it is physical.
“I’ll get you home as quickly as I can,” I say, already mapping the route in my head, calculating the fastest way back into the city with as little friction as possible. “You’ve had a long day.”
“I appreciate that,” he replies.
We fall into easy conversation as I guide the car out of the terminal and onto the access road.
Our comfortable interaction doesn’t require me to think too hard about where I stand or what this is or isn’t. I merge onto the road, the tires moving steadily against the pavement as the city looms ahead.
And then, the steering wheel jerks in my hands.
It’s subtle at first, just a slight pull, a resistance that shouldn’t be there, and yet it is. I instinctively tighten my grip as the car drifts just enough to register. Then I hear it. The unmistakable thwapping, which sounds like a helicopter overhead, but really is the sound of deflated rubber.
My stomach drops. We have a flat tire.
The vibration follows a split second later, a low, uneven thrum that travels up through the wheel and into my arms.
“Hold on,” I say, my voice steady even as my pulse spikes, easing my foot off the accelerator and guiding the car toward the shoulder.
The panic hits sharp and unrelenting, not because of the tire itself, but because of where we are. The road is narrow, barely more than a lane in each direction with no real shoulder to speak of, the darkness pressing in on all sides.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath as I push open the door and step into the night. Julian is out at the same time, rounding the front with the same composure he brings to everything, as though this is simply another problem to be solved rather than an inconvenience at midnight on an empty road.
I walk around to the other side of the car from the back, and yeah… the right rear is flat.
“We’ve got a spare,” I say quickly, already moving to open the tailgate with more force than necessary, my mind racing ahead to logistics, timing, everything that could go wrong.
“I assumed as much,” he replies evenly.
The trunk opens and I pull his luggage out before opening the panel to reveal the spare tire tucked neatly beneath. Julian steps in beside me without hesitation, lifting it out with ease and setting it down on the pavement. I’m caught off guard by the seamless way he moves, by the certainty in his actions.
I grab my phone. “Hold on,” I say, already unlocking it, thinking I can find a quick tutorial or anything useful to guide me through the steps of how to change a flat tire. “I’m sure there’s a YouTube video on how to do this somewhere.”
But I glance over and find Julian is already on his knees beside the tire.
The sight of it stops me for a beat—Julian Langley, billionaire, immaculate in every other setting I’ve seen him in, now kneeling on the side of a dark road with his sleeves pushed up slightly, his focus entirely on the task in front of him. “Lug wrench, please,” he says, holding out his hand.
I reach for it, still trying to reconcile what I’m seeing. “You… know how to do this?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice as I give him the wrench.
He doesn’t look up as he loosens the first lug nut. “Percy taught me,” he says, like it’s the most natural explanation in the world. “When I was a teenager.”
I press my lips together, but the laugh slips out anyway, soft at first and then impossible to contain as he hands me the first lug nut, dropping it into my palm. I stare at him agog as he hands me three more for safekeeping.