Page 57 of Julian

“Should we debrief in your office?” he asks.

I consider it. My instinct is to agree, to reassert control by immersing myself in work. “Yes,” I say automatically.

Then I stop.

“Actually…” I adjust slightly in my chair as the decision forms. “Let’s do it this afternoon. Three o’clock.”

Jimmy nods without hesitation. “Three works.”

“Good,” I reply.

The lower level of the arena is quieter than the floors above, the sounds of activity fading into the distance as I make my way toward the VIP parking area.

I spot the Range Rover in its usual spot with Harper inside, exactly where I expect her to be.

She’s angled slightly toward the windshield and there’s something about that stillness, about the way she exists quietly and unaffected in her world that touches me. I can see her reading… something I’ve found her doing on more than one occasion as she waits for me. She seems to always be engrossed in some type of book or story or project which is a clear sign of a woman who wants to better herself, and in turn those around her.

I step up to the driver’s-side window and tap lightly against the glass.

She startles, her head turning quickly before she puts down her book and recovers, lowering the window with a small exhale.

“Julian,” she says, a hint of surprise in her voice. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I reply simply. “Get in the passenger seat.”

Her brows knit slightly, confusion flickering across her expression. “You want to—”

“I’ll drive,” I say, not unkindly, but with a certainty that leaves little room for discussion.

Harper frowns. “You’ll drive?”

“Yes, I’ll drive.”

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“I want to drive, Harper. It’s as simple as that, so get in the passenger seat.”

There’s a brief pause before she nods, pushing the door open and stepping out, moving around the front of the car. I slide behind the wheel as she settles beside me, and the shift in dynamic is immediate.

I adjust the seat to accommodate my height, start the engine and pull out of the parking area, merging into traffic. The streets are crowded, the movement constant, the noise pressing in from all sides, and it becomes clear that this is not the place for the conversation I intend to have.

So I pivot. I drive us north, allowing instinct to guide me as the congestion thins and the opening at Sixty-Seventh Street appears. I turn, guiding the car into Central Park, toward the quieter stretch near Tavern on the Green.

I pull the car to a stop in a secluded stretch, the trees forming a natural barrier between us and the world beyond.

Only then do I turn to her.

Harper’s already looking at me, her expression confused but not entirely guarded.

“I know what you said last night,” I begin. “That we can’t do that again.”

Her breath catches, subtle but unmistakable. “Julian—”

“But my instinct,” I continue, not dismissing her interruption but guiding past it, “is that you want to.”

We look at each other before I continue.

“And I can tell you,” I add, holding her gaze, “that I do as well.”