Page 41 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

She mutters something about “suit-wearing devils with Olympic sex appeal” as I step out, which doesn’t do anything to help the nervous twist in my stomach.

The exterior of the The Whitmore Foundation building is sleek but not flashy—glass and steel and thoughtful landscaping, all clean lines and community values. The lobby displays minimalist design notes and smells faintly of cedar and citrus, a scent that somehow doesn’t make my stomach turn over on itself. Small victories.

There’s a wall of plaques behind the reception desk, engraved with the names of scholarship recipients, donors, and corporate sponsors. A few sports trophies are displayed tastefully in a glass case near the elevators.

It’s more understated than I would have expected from someone like Silas Whitmore. He’s always been flash and fancy, even in retirement.

The receptionist greets me with a smile and leads me through a short hallway before gesturing toward a partially open door. “He’s expecting you.”

I smooth my blouse, inhale once, and step inside.

And there he is.

Silas is seated on the edge of the conference table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top button undone, forearms flexed just enough to be distracting. He’s taller than I expected. Broader too. Built like he still trains seven days a week, though the smile that spreads across his face when he sees me is warm.

“Genevieve St. Claire,” he says, sliding off the table and walking toward me. “You are even prettier than your pitch deck.”

I blink. “That’s not a line I expected to hear today.”

He grins mischievously. “Then I’m off to a good start.”

We shake hands, though his grip lingers a beat too long to be strictly professional. His fingers are rougher than Max’s. Warmer than Sebastian’s. More...real.

“I hope you didn’t mind the change of venue,” he says. “The hotel we’d been planning on using fell through for…unfortunate reasons. The team’s got the gala kitchen prepped downstairs. Chef’s already setting up a sample spread. I figured we could stop down there after we walk through the event space.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, though my voice feels thin in my throat.

He tilts his head, eyes skimming over me with a kind of easy curiosity. “You okay?”

“Yes.” I nod too quickly. “Just...long week.”

His smile softens. “Say the word and I’ll reschedule the meeting and send you home with a gift basket and a spa voucher.”

“I’m good. I swear.” I straighten my shoulders. “I came prepared.”

He laughs, and the sound is so easy, so unguarded, that it makes something ache in my chest.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him toward the elevator at the back of the room. “We’ll check out the event space first, then swing through the kitchen and end with the tasting. Unless you want to flip the order. I’m flexible.”

“I’m perfectly fine with the schedule as is.”

I walk beside him, grateful for the slow pace and the small talk. Nothing about this feels forced. Unlike Max, whose gaze dissected me, or Sebastian, who stripped me bare with a look, Silas feels...safe.

And that, weirdly, is the most dangerous part.

He’s flirtatious. Effortlessly charming. He teases without pushing, his energy warm but not overbearing. He holds the elevator door open with one hand and steps in beside me with the other, and my brain goes straight to chaos.

Because this isn’t supposed to happen.

I’m not supposed to be noticing how his shirt stretches across his chest. Or how good he smells—clean and woodsy. I’m not supposed to feel the low flutter of nerves in my stomach every time he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

And I’m definitely not supposed to be comparing that flutter to what I felt with Sebastian. Or Max.

But I am.

And that’s when my brain does the worst thing it could possibly do.

What if that’s why Sebastian referred me?