Page 41 of Julian

“Dylan,” I say, turning toward him. “Mr. Langley said you can ride with us to the game, so I need you to get ready.”

His mouth hangs open. “No way.”

“Yes way,” I say, a small, incredulous laugh slipping through. “He just texted me.”

“You mean the owner of the Vipers is going to give us a ride to the game?” he asks.

I lift a shoulder, tip my head back and forth. “Well, technically, I’m giving the ride since I’ll be the one driving, but it will be in Mr. Langley’s car and on his dime, so yeah.”

“Sweet,” he yells with a fist pump and takes off for his room.

The preparation before we leave comes together in a blur.

Dylan changes his outfit three times, presenting each version to me. Luckily, my attire for this evening is easy and I put on my uniform and pull my hair back into a low ponytail. I also touch up my makeup and put an extra coat of gloss on my lips.

By the time we leave, the sky has already deepened into night, the cold chillier now, more insistent. Dylan fills the space beside me with restless excitement, his energy constant, buoyant.

We pull up outside Julian’s building, the townhome spellbinding in its grandeur each time I see it. I barely have it in park before the front door opens and Julian is trotting down the steps with a white shopping bag in hand.

Julian moves with the same precision he always does. “Aren’t you supposed to get his door or something?” Dylan asks from the back seat. I put him there, advising him that Julian likes to ride in front.

“He’s told me not to, so I don’t,” I reply just as Julian reaches the Range Rover.

He opens the door and slides in, leveling me a smile. “Good evening, Harper.”

“Good evening, Julian,” I reply, mimicking the formality. I then shift in my seat and look back at my brother. “This is Dylan.”

Julian twists to the left and shoots a beaming smile. “Pleased to meet you, Dylan.” He holds out his hand and they shake. “Excited about the game?”

“I’m so excited,” Dylan gushes. “Thank you so much for the tickets. Everyone in my class is losing their minds.”

Julian chuckles. “I’m glad. I hope you all sing the Vipers’ praises on social media after.”

There’s a brief pause—not awkward, not quite—but it lingers just long enough to be felt before Julian reaches into the bag. I’m stunned when he pulls out a Vipers’ jersey.

“Figured you should dress the part,” he says, handing it to Dylan. “I got you a Grizz McAvoy jersey since he’s the star of the team.”

Dylan takes it like it’s a fragile and priceless heirloom, unfolding it just enough to see the logo before breaking into a disbelieving grin. “Oh—this is—thank you,” he manages, words tripping over themselves as he tries to keep up with his own excitement.

Julian watches him with a smile before pulling another out of the bag and handing it to me. “And one for you.”

For a second, I don’t move. Because that same warmth from earlier returns and it’s more potent. “For me?” I ask.

“If you’re going to be there,” he says, as though the logic is simple, obvious, “it seemed appropriate.”

There it is… the invitation to watch the game from inside again. I reach for the jersey, my fingers brushing briefly against his as I take the sweater from his hand, the contact fleeting and accidental, yet it lingers in a way it shouldn’t.

“You can wear it in the suite tonight,” he continues. “You’ll be watching the game with me.”

And as I sit there, the jersey in my hands and Dylan practically glowing from the back seat, I feel that subtle sensation again, like I’ve stepped outside the life I understand and into a new one that’s almost too unreal to believe.

“Thank you,” I breathe out. “I really appreciate it.”

At the arena, Dylan peels off to the section where he’ll meet his friends, and I follow Julian up to the owner’s suite. As before, the atmosphere inside is overwhelming, packed with the who’s who of New York society here at Julian Langley’s invitation.

Julian deposits me at the buffet, promising to return after he has a few words with someone, and I’m left staring at trays of things I can’t immediately identify—delicate, artfully arranged, each piece looking more like it belongs in a display case than on a plate. There’s caviar laid out with small spoons, sushi so cleanly cut it doesn’t look real, and other items I don’t have names for but instinctively know are expensive.

I linger near the edge of the food table, scanning, calculating, trying to decide what’s… safe. What won’t immediately mark me as someone who doesn’t belong in a room like this.