Page 1 of Julian

Chapter 1

Julian

The front door closes behind Grizz with a loud click that echoes through the foyer and settles deep in the old but sturdy bones of my townhouse. I remain exactly where I am, my hand still resting against the cool brass knob, as though I can feel the last trace of his urgency through the metal.

He didn’t second-guess himself at the threshold. He left with a purpose that doesn’t need to announce itself. He had a focus in his expression I haven’t seen before.

He’s going after her.

The realization doesn’t surprise me. What surprises me is the way I admire him for it.

I found him wandering the streets of Manhattan a few hours ago with the particular aimlessness of a man who had lost an important piece of himself. I recognized it immediately because I’ve often felt aimless myself, and I did what any reasonable employer would do. I invited him to my home for Thanksgiving dinner.

It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened. Grizz McAvoy is the best player on my New York Vipers hockey team. His talent is unimaginable, but he was a wild card in all ways when we made the offer. He’s the man opposing teams build defensive schemes around, a force of nature on the ice. He’s also unpredictable, brash and pigheaded at times, landing himself in hot water with the league and the front office on more occasions than I’d like to count. But he seems to have gotten that under control, and I think that’s a direct result of Daisy’s impact on his life.

He’s a man who has genuinely—if not recklessly—fallen in love with a woman.

And he was wandering around like a lost puppy because he let his fear convince him that walking away from her was the wiser choice.

Grizz has always known how to pursue what he wants on the ice. He attacks a puck battle as a personal affront, shoulders lowered, momentum unquestioned. But this is different. This isn’t about a contract clause or playoff positioning or proving himself to a coach. This is about a person he loves. About rearranging his life around someone who has somehow managed to matter more than his fear of putting his heart on the line.

And that is rare.

I step back from the door slowly, letting the foyer reclaim its stillness. Thanksgiving Day light filters faintly through the tall windows along the staircase, turning the air a muted gold. The house seems larger in his absence.

I find myself smiling. He’s found someone worth chasing.

That simple truth stirs emotions in me that I don’t immediately welcome. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s more complicated— recognition of something I once knew intimately but have no desire to ever experience again.

“Sir.”

Percy’s tone is smooth and unhurried, as though he’s been standing there for precisely the number of seconds required to interrupt my thoughts at their most inconvenient depth.

I turn to find him positioned just beyond the archway, his posture immaculate, his dark suit pressed as always. His silver hair is combed back flawlessly, and his expression—respectful yet faintly admonishing—suggests he’s well aware that I have drifted into unproductive introspection.

“Yes, Percy.”

“The apple pie,” he begins, each word delivered with a careful enunciation that suggests he has already weighed the phrasing for maximum effect, “is cooling at a pace that may compromise its structural integrity.”

A faint smile touches my mouth. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“Indeed not, sir.” A measured pause follows. “Additionally, your companion has taken the liberty of adjusting your place setting no fewer than three times, which I interpret as a signal of escalating impatience.”

I glance toward the corridor leading to the dining hall, where warm light spills across the polished floor. I had briefly forgotten about Svetlana waiting for us to have dessert. “Has she?”

“She appears eager,” Percy confirms diplomatically, “to prevent the ice cream from reaching a regrettable state of liquefaction.”

Percy’s diction and formalized way with words is a never-ending source of amusement for me. He’s been in my life long enough to anticipate not only my preferences but the exact times at which I might require gentle redirection. His delivery, though… it’s what makes Percy uniquely Percy. For example, he knows that I prefer two scoops of vanilla ice cream rather than one, that maple syrup—lightly warmed—is superior to caramel in both flavor and nostalgia, and that I like the crust to absorb just enough sweetness before I take the first bite. He has memorized the rhythms of my habits for the past thirty-one years and knows me probably better than I know myself. When my father first hired Percy, I was an impressionable thirteen-year-old, and since his passing four years ago, Percy’s been the steady rock amid the turmoil I’ve faced personally and professionally in this last decade.

“Thank you, Percy,” I say, pushing myself fully out of the past and into the present.

“Shall I inform Ms. Smirnova that you are on your way,” he asks, “or would you prefer to make an entrance unannounced?”

I smirk at him. “I think I can manage the walk on my own.”

A subtle lift of his brow suggests he finds this optimistic but acceptable. “Very good, sir.”

“You know you don’t have to call me sir, right, Percy?”