Page 42 of Julian

And then I see it: a silver platter piled with hot dogs.

I let out a breath and reach for one, putting it on a small plate of fine china. I doctor it up with mustard before taking a bite. The familiar taste grounds me instantly, pulling me out of my own head. I eat the hot dog and consider another, but that’s when I notice the éclairs.

A whole tray of them, lined up neatly at the end of the table, glossy and perfect. They’re Dylan’s favorite and I know his eyes would light up if he were standing here right now.

I glance around quickly, making sure no one is paying too much attention, and reach for one. I quickly wrap it in a napkin, knowing that the chocolate will stick to it, but it should taste fine all the same. I slip it into my bag with a small, satisfied sense of victory.

The game hasn’t started yet and I’m still hungry, so I fix myself another hot dog with mustard. I’m just opening my mouth to take a bite when Julian appears at my side. “You’ve got good taste,” he says.

I glance up, half expecting to catch some trace of humor in his expression—some indication that he’s teasing, but he’s not.

He’s watching me like he means it.

I swallow, a small, confused laugh slipping out. “I’m sorry?”

“The hot dog,” he says, as though that clarifies everything. “Good choice.”

I blink at him, still trying to decide if I’ve missed the joke.

“Have you tried the vendor on Seventy-Eighth?” he continues, like we’ve already moved past the part where this is strange. “Right by the steps of the Met.”

I shake my head slowly.

“They’re the best,” he says, without hesitation, without irony. “There was an issue with his permit last year—he was going to lose the spot. I had it renewed.”

“You—what?”

He shrugs. “It’s a good stand. It should be there.”

And the way he says it so matter of fact elicits a strange reaction.

Because this absurd, glittering suite, the caviar and the people and the quiet gravity that seems to follow him everywhere—this is what I expect from someone like Julian Langley.

I don’t know what to do with that.

“I couldn’t help but notice you sneaking dessert for later,” Julian says, leaning in closer to me.

My face flames red as my hand touches my bag where the incriminating evidence is stowed. “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “It’s not for me but Dylan. They’re his favorite—”

“Relax, Harper,” Julian says with a shake of his head. “I don’t care if you take the whole platter.”

“Gosh, that’s embarrassing,” I mutter. “I guess you’d expect that from a girl raised on the Lower East Side.”

Julian’s eyes sober and he looks at me with censure. “I don’t know about that, but I do know I’d expect that from a girl who loves her brother and wants to bring him his favorite dessert.”

A flow of warmth moves through me at not just his words, but with the expression on his face. He’s being sincere and I’m suddenly no longer embarrassed over my faux pas. I’m comfortable, and that surprises me the most.

“Well, thank you,” I say, inclining my head. “And thank you also for the tickets for Dylan’s class.”

Julian grins. “Well, that was all you. I’m just instituting your ideas to generate hype from the fans.”

The horn blows, signaling the end of warm-ups, and Julian touches my elbow. “Ready to go watch the game?”

“Um,” I say, looking around, wondering where I should sit.

But he doesn’t give me a choice, instead leading me to the front row where we sat last time.

The drive from the arena to Julian’s home is loud and boisterous. The Vipers trounced the Eagles and Julian and Dylan have been picking apart the game highlights.