Page 24 of Julian

The meeting stretches past noon, each variable examined, each contingency addressed. By the time we adjourn, the proposal presents itself as a declaration.

As the others file out, Tracey pauses at the doorway. “Your lunch is ready, sir.”

“Thank you,” I say, gathering the final set of documents. “If you don’t mind holding all calls for about half an hour.”

I return to my office, closing the door behind me. The space is exactly as it is every day—orderly, untouched by the frenzy of running a multibillion-dollar corporate umbrella. My desk is immaculate because I thrive on order.

The city skyline is framed cleanly through floor-to-ceiling glass and on the small side table near the window sits my lunch.

Tracey knows what I like and rotates the menu on her own whim. Today is a six-ounce filet mignon, cooked medium rare, seasonal vegetables—roasted asparagus and carrots, along with a small baked potato, with a touch of butter and sea salt.

Consistency eliminates distraction.

The steak knife rests parallel to the plate’s edge, and I reach for it without thought, my mind back on the All-Star Game.

But then, unexpectedly, a thought intrudes uninvited.

Blue eyes, freckles, a sharp mind.

Before I can interrogate the impulse, I set the knife down and rise from my chair. I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and slide it on before smoothing my cuffs into place. I walk out of my office, leaving the meal untouched behind me.

Tracey is at her desk and she starts to stand. “Can I get you anything?”

“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.