Page 3 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

I nod once, sharply, still refusing to meet his eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

“No,” he says, after a beat. “I imagine it won’t.”

Mortification lodges in my throat like a choking hazard. I click into the first slide and launch into my pitch because it’s either that or crawl under the table and live there forever.

I talk. About themes and logistics and curated guest experiences. I talk about layered ambiance, sensory engagement, high-end design. I talk too fast and forget one of my own bullet points and have to circle back with a dry throat and a voice that pitches embarrassingly high.

Through it all, he says nothing. He just watches me. Like he’s dissecting more than my pitch—like he’s analyzingme.

And it’s not fair. Because every word out of my mouth feels increasingly fragile under the weight of that stare, and him? He hasn’t even blinked.

Finally, I make it to the last slide.

I pause. Breathe. Try not to look as desperate for approval as I feel.

He leans back, eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re thorough.”

My stomach swoops. “Thank you.”

“That’s not always a compliment.”

Oh. Okay.

“I meant it as one,” he adds, before I can figure out whether to apologize or defend myself. “You clearly did your research.”

“I always do.”

That earns me a flicker of something. Interest, maybe. Or amusement. It’s hard to tell with him. His face is sculpted into perfect, unreadable calm, like he could tell me he’s impressed or tell me to get the hell out of his conference room in the exact same tone.

And why does that make my insides feel all warm and gooey?

I expect him to respond from his seat, maybe nod, maybe move on to grilling me about budget breakdowns and vendor lead times. But instead, he stands.

My heart stops.

He walks—no, prowls—around the table, every step measured and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unsettle me. When he reaches my side, he leans one hip against the edge of the conference table, arms folding across his chest.

Which unfortunately flexes the sleeve of his perfectly tailored suit just enough to highlight his forearms.

I force myself not to stare.

Too late.

My throat goes dry.

I reach for my coffee, mostly as a defense mechanism. The mug trembles slightly in my hand, but I manage a sip. It's lukewarm, and I wish it were laced with something stronger.

“If I hire you,” he says, voice low and almost conversational, “you’ll need to go down on me to the island beforehand.”

I choke. And immediately spit it back out. All. Over. Him.

It’s a direct hit.

His shirt, his tie, his suit, the pristine folder on the table—everything is now covered in oat milk and medium roast.

He looks down at his clothes. Slowly. Then back at me.

“Oh myGod,” I choke, already fumbling for napkins that don’t exist, my whole body vibrating with panic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I thought you said?—”