Page 11 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

A pattern I’d sworn I’d break after Miles—falling for men who were out of reach and convincing myself that distance meant depth.

“He’s different,” I said, though even I could hear the doubt in my voice.

And maybe he was.

But maybe that was just another lie I was desperate to believe.

"Different, or just better at seeing what you need?"

Zoe's voice softened.

"I'm not judging you, Savannah. But I watched you rebuild yourself after Miles. I don't want to see you tear it all down for another man who can't possibly give you what you deserve."

"Which is what?"

"Someone uncomplicated. Someone who doesn't come with enough baggage to sink a cruise ship. Someone who can love you openly, not just behind closed hotel room doors."

She finished her wine.

"At the very least, someone who isn't your ex's father."

Logic. Reason.

All the things I'd been telling myself since Sunday morning when my world had imploded at brunch.

And yet none of it dimmed the want that had taken root inside me, growing stronger with each passing day.

"I know you're right," I said finally. "I know the smart choice is to walk away."

"But?"

"But I can't stop thinking about him." I stared into my wine glass, watching the light refract through the ruby liquid. "About how it felt to be with someone who actually saw me.

Not as an accessory or a trophy or a career advantage, but as a person with desires and needs of my own."

"That's called being a decent human being, not grounds for an affair," Zoe pointed out. "There are plenty of men who could give you that without the Turner-Reid family drama."

"I know," I sighed. “I’ll keep things strictly professional and then figure out how to move on. Miles has already sent a proposal for my firm to work with Turner Industries on the Westlake Project. So there’s that.”

Zoe didn't look convinced, but she let it drop as our food arrived. We shifted to safer topics—her latest dating disaster, office gossip, plans for the weekend—but undercurrents of concern flowed beneath her casual conversation.

By the time we parted, I felt marginally more grounded. Zoe was right.

The risks outweighed any potential reward. I needed to be the adult, the professional, the woman who'd worked too hard to throw it all away on a reckless attraction, no matter how compelling.

I returned to the office with renewed determination, tackling my backlog of emails and finally making progress on the Waterstone brief.

By six, I'd caught up enough to justify leaving at a reasonable hour, something I hadn't managed all week.

My apartment welcomed me with quiet emptiness—no roommates, no pets, just the sleek, minimalist space I'd created after Miles.

I'd purged his influences from my life: the pretentious art he'd insisted would appreciate in value, the uncomfortable modernist furniture chosen for appearance rather than comfort, the muted color palette he'd called "sophisticated."

My new space was warm, filled with books and color and pieces I'd chosen simply because they brought me joy.

It was mine in a way nothing had been during those months living with Miles—a physical manifestation of the independence I'd reclaimed.

I changed into leggings and an oversized sweater, poured a glass of wine, and settled onto my couch with takeout and the novel I'd been trying to finish for weeks.

Normal.

Peaceful.

The life I'd carefully constructed, brick by brick, after extracting myself from Miles's orbit.

A life that felt suddenly hollow in the wake of one night with a stranger who wasn't a stranger anymore.

Stop it, I told myself firmly. One amazing night of sex doesn't justify burning down your life.

I forced myself to focus on my book, managing three chapters before my phone buzzed with a text.

Probably Zoe, checking in after our lunch. I almost didn't look, not wanting another lecture, gentle as it might be.

But it wasn't Zoe.

Unknown Number:

I've been thinking about our conversation. About what we both know we shouldn't want. I won't pressure you, but the offer stands. One night to explore, then we can walk away with no regrets. Your choice, Savannah.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Lucas.

It had to be.

His words—formal yet intimate, controlled yet revealing—matched everything I knew about him.

I could almost hear his voice, that deep timbre that had whispered against my skin in the dark.

I stared at the message, my finger hovering over the delete button. The smart choice was clear: erase it, block the number, pretend I'd never seen it.

Pretend he'd never existed.

Pretend that night had never happened.

Instead, I set the phone facedown on the coffee table and walked away.

In the kitchen, I poured another glass of wine, my hands trembling slightly.

One text shouldn't have the power to undo days of careful rationalization.

I'd almost convinced myself I could handle seeing Lucas in a business setting—that I could be professional, distant, unaffected by his presence.

But those carefully constructed defenses were crumbling with every passing second, memories of that night flooding back with merciless clarity.

The weight of his body pressed mine into the mattress. The gentle command in his voice as he'd urged me to let go.

The unexpected tenderness afterward, holding me as if I were something precious rather than convenient.

My phone buzzed again. I ignored it, determined to reclaim my equilibrium. This was precisely what Zoe had warned me about—my pattern of being drawn to unavailable men who offered crumbs of validation.

Lucas might be different from Miles in his methods, but the result would be the same: destruction.

Mine, specifically.

Five minutes passed.

Ten.

The knowledge that another message waited gnawed at my resolve until I couldn't bear it.

I grabbed the phone, telling myself I was just going to delete whatever he'd sent without reading it.

A lie, of course.

Unknown Number:

Your silence says more than a refusal would. But know this, Savannah: what happened between us wasn't a mistake. It was inevitable.

The presumption in his words should have angered me. Instead, they sent a dangerous thrill down my spine—the same jolt I'd felt when he'd commanded me to look at him while pleasure unraveled me.

I shouldn't respond.

Shouldn't engage.

Shouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how completely he'd disrupted my carefully structured life.

Yet my thumbs moved across the screen of their own accord:

There's nothing inevitable about this. We both know better.

The response came so quickly, I knew he must have been waiting, watching for those telltale typing dots.

Do we? Because I haven't thought of anything else since that night. Since I discovered who you are. Since I realized how impossible this should be, and how little that fact seems to matter.

I pressed the phone against my chest, feeling my heart pound against it.

His words mirrored my own conflicted thoughts with unsettling accuracy.

How could he know? How could he see through me so easily when we'd shared just one night, a few stolen moments in a hotel bar?

It DOES matter, I typed back. Your son. My professional reputation, my career. Your company. Everything we both value is at risk.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.

I waited, breath caught in my throat, for whatever argument he would mount against my logic.

You think I don't know that? That I haven't spent every waking moment since Sunday weighing the consequences? I built my life on calculated risks, Savannah. On weighing potential loss against potential gain. This is the first time in many years the scale has tipped toward risk.

My body responded to his words with embarrassing immediacy—heat pooling low in my belly, heart racing, skin suddenly too sensitive against the soft fabric of my sweater.

One text shouldn't have the power to arouse me this way, to make me feel both vulnerable and desired in equal measure.

I sank onto the couch, something in his admission breaking through my defenses.

This wasn't a game to him either.

It wasn't just the thrill of forbidden fruit or the conquest of his son's ex.

He was as caught in this inexplicable pull as I was, as confused and conflicted and unwilling to walk away.

Another message appeared:

You think there are rules for people like us. Lines that can't be crossed. Boundaries that must be respected. But I've never played by anyone else's rules, Savannah.

And then, before I could respond:

I don't play by their rules. I play by mine.

Words that crystallized everything about him—the quiet authority, the uncompromising confidence, the absolute certainty that he could reshape reality to his will.

It wasn't arrogance, not exactly.

More like the assurance of a man who had spent a lifetime bending the world to his vision.

I set the phone down without responding, knowing anything I typed would reveal too much of the conflict raging inside me.

The wanting.

The fear.

The shameful excitement at the thought of surrendering to something I knew would destroy everything I'd built.

So many thoughts loomed in my mind—Lucas across a conference table, discussing business as if we were strangers when we both knew the taste of each other's skin, the sound of each other's pleasure.

Miles oblivious beside him, still believing he had some claim on my future.

How could I possibly face them both?

How could I sit in that room and pretend nothing had happened, that my body didn't ache for a man I had no right to want?

And yet, what choice did I have?

To run would be to admit defeat, to acknowledge that what had happened between Lucas and me was powerful enough to derail my professional life.

I couldn't give him—give either of them—that power over me.

I would reschedule the meeting.

Be the consummate professional. Would ignore the heat in Lucas's eyes and the messages burning in my phone. Prove to myself that one night of incredible sex wasn't enough to make me risk everything I'd worked for.

But as I finally crawled into bed, exhaustion dragging at my limbs, his words followed me into the darkness.

I don't play by their rules. I play by mine.

And God help me, I wanted nothing more than to learn exactly what those rules might be.