Julianna's pulse thudded in her ears, loud and erratic. She stared at the Maybach. It sat there, completely motionless, like a predator waiting in the deep ocean.
The heavy silence shattered.
Rapid, heavy footsteps echoed from the direction of the elevator banks.
"Julianna!"
It was Orville Frye. His signature loud, grating voice bounced off the concrete walls.
Orville marched toward her, a scowl already forming on his face. He held two iced Americanos from Starbucks, the dark liquid sloshing dangerously close to the plastic lids with every aggressive stride he took.
He stopped in front of her, his eyes dropping to the dirt and blood on her knee, then to her awkward stance. His jaw tightened. He instantly assumed the driver of the luxury car had hit her and refused to get out.
"Hey!" Orville barked, stepping directly in front of Julianna. He reached out, his arm wrapping heavily around her shoulders, pulling her flush against his side in a protective, overly familiar gesture.
Julianna stiffened. The sudden physical contact made her skin crawl. She instinctively twisted her shoulder, trying to subtly break his grip.
Inside the Maybach, the driver reacted.
The headlights blasted on again. This time, the high beams hit them with the force of a physical blow. The blinding light locked dead onto Orville's hand where it rested on Julianna's shoulder.
Julianna turned her face away, blinded.
Orville snapped.
He dropped his arm from her shoulder, shoved one of the sweating coffee cups into her chest, and stormed toward the driver's side window.
"Are you out of your mind?" Orville slammed his open palm against the reinforced glass. "Do you not know how to drive in New York?"
The window didn't roll all the way down. It lowered exactly two inches.
A blast of freezing air-conditioning poured out from the narrow gap. And with it came a scent.
It was a sharp, biting wave of cedarwood mixed with something cold and masculine.
Julianna inhaled, and her brain short-circuited.
A violent, electric shock of familiarity ripped through her chest. Her lungs seized.
She jerked her head up, staring at that two-inch gap, desperate to see the face inside.
But Orville's broad back blocked her view completely. All she could see was a single hand resting on the steering wheel. The knuckles were bone-white, gripping the leather so hard it looked like the steering column might snap.
The man inside didn't say a single word. He just looked at Orville.
Even from where she stood, Julianna could feel the weight of that stare. It was a look of absolute, lethal indifference.
Orville's mouth opened to yell again, but the words died in his throat. He took a tiny step back.
The window slid up. The glass sealed shut with a soft thud, cutting off the scent of cedarwood entirely.
The Maybach slammed into reverse. The tires shrieked against the concrete, burning rubber.
The massive car whipped backward in a violent, aggressive arc. The side mirror missed Orville's suit jacket by less than an inch. A rush of cold wind hit them as the car spun around.
The red taillights blurred into a streak as the car shot up the exit ramp and disappeared into the Manhattan night.
Orville let out a shaky breath, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He flipped off the empty ramp. "Wall Street psycho."
Julianna stood frozen. Her fingers gripped the plastic coffee cup so hard the sides began to buckle. Her hands were shaking.
That smell. That exact scent of cedarwood. It clawed at the walls of her memory, dragging up the ghost of a man who had walked out of her life eight years ago.
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head hard. No. Stop it. She forced the ridiculous thought out of her mind. He was in Europe. He wasn't in a Maybach in midtown Manhattan.
Orville turned back to her, his bravado returning. "Are you okay? Did he hit you?" He reached out to touch her arm again.
Julianna took a smooth half-step backward, perfectly evading his hand. She forced a tight, polite smile. "I'm fine. I just tripped."
Orville frowned but didn't push it. He fell into step beside her as they walked toward the elevators. "Good. Because we need to talk about the photographer for the anniversary issue. You can't keep stalling."
