Page 8 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes

He’s standing there like a walking warning label—do not approach unless prepared for full-body tension and poor life choices. His gaze drags from my face to the clipboard in my hands and back again.

“Everything running smoothly, Ms. St. Claire?”

His voice is that same low baritone. Smooth. Measured. Deceptively polite.

“Yes,” I say, entirely too fast. “Perfect. Flawless. So smooth it’s practically frictionless.”

He lifts one brow.

Frictionless. Jesus.

I clear my throat and force my shoulders back. “I meant—things are on schedule.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me with that maddening stillness, like he’s cataloging every micro-expression for later analysis.

Then, finally, “Good. I’d hate for the chaos to start before the event even begins.”

A dry, unreadable smile touches his lips. And then he’s gone, walking past me with that purposeful, predatory stride.

I stare after him for a second too long.

Then I mutter under my breath, “Pretty sure it already has.”

One week. One full week-long event, and then I can fade into oblivion and never have to face Sebastian Wolfe again.

Chapter3

Sebastian

She’s competent.

Which should be the end of it. That’s all I asked for. That’s all I ever ask for.

Competent. Organized. Focused. Able to execute high-pressure events without falling apart.

And Genevieve St. Claire delivers.

But for reasons I have no interest in unpacking, I keep testing her anyway.

Requesting last-minute changes. Questioning her vendor selections. Pushing her into tighter deadlines than necessary. Standing far too close—not to sabotage, just to see if she flinches.

She doesn’t. Not outwardly.

She meets every demand with a smile that’s too tight, and posture that’s a little too straight, like she’s holding herself up with sheer willpower. She bites the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking. Drums her fingers along the edge of her clipboard when she’s overwhelmed. Overcorrects when I’m nearby, like being near me makes her nervous.

It does.

She stutters. Fumbles. Can’t decide whether to avoid me entirely or meet my stare like a challenge.

It’s addictive. And it shouldn’t be.

I’m thirty-nine. She’s twenty-four. That’s not a gap. That’s a canyon.

But I keep circling her anyway.

This girl is more of a distraction than she has any right to be. Every time she absorbs my feedback, pivots, and performs, I find myself watching a little longer than necessary. I can’t seem tostopwatching her.

“Third time today I’ve caught you staring at that girl for more than ten seconds,” Dom says beside me, his tone dry enough to crack granite. “Emphasis ongirl.”