Page 14 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

L unch was torture.

Three courses of exquisite food I barely tasted, served in Arielle's private dining room where the hushed atmosphere and attentive staff only heightened my awareness of the men flanking me at the table.

Miles on my right, talking incessantly about the Westlake project, his hand occasionally brushing mine in a way that felt both presumptuous and hollow.

Lucas across from me, mostly silent, those navy eyes missing nothing as he observed our interaction.

I'd positioned myself deliberately, angling my chair slightly toward Miles, using him as a buffer against his father's magnetic pull. A flimsy shield that did nothing to block the current running between Lucas and me, invisible but palpable, like a live wire humming beneath the polished mahogany.

"The penthouse units are the crown jewels," Miles was saying, spreading renderings across the table. "Ultra-luxury, panoramic views, private elevator access. We need marketing that positions them as not just homes but status symbols."

I nodded automatically, offering appropriate feedback, playing my part with mechanical precision while my mind screamed at the irony of discussing penthouses when all I could think about was Lucas's last whispered promise. It will be in my home, where I control every aspect of the experience.

"Savannah?" Miles's voice cut through my thoughts. "You're miles away."

"Sorry," I said, forcing a smile. "Just considering approaches."

"Well, we need decisions soon. The development opens for presales next month."

Lucas set down his wine glass, drawing both our attention. "Perhaps Ms. Blake needs time to evaluate the full scope of the project before committing to a direction."

"We don't have time," Miles countered, frustration sharpening his tone. "We've already delayed the marketing rollout twice."

"Quality over expedience," Lucas said mildly. "I'm sure Savannah understands that some things are worth waiting for."

Our eyes met across the table, the double meaning hanging between us. The slight curl of his lip sent heat coursing through me, followed immediately by frustration at my body's traitorous response.

"Actually," I said, deliberately addressing Miles, "I think I have enough to develop initial concepts. I'll have something for you to review by Friday."

Miles grinned, triumph flashing in his eyes. "Perfect. I told Dad you were the best."

"High praise," Lucas murmured. "Though I wonder if my son fully appreciates all your... talents."

The waiter arrived with dessert, sparing me from having to respond. I focused intently on the delicate chocolate creation before me, avoiding Lucas's gaze, trying to ignore the way my skin seemed to tighten and heat whenever he spoke.

Miles excused himself to take a call, leaving Lucas and me alone for the first time since we'd entered the restaurant. The silence stretched between us, charged with everything we couldn't say.

"You're playing a dangerous game," I finally said, keeping my voice low.

"I wasn't aware we were playing."

"What would you call this, then?"

He considered me, head tilted slightly. "Recognition. Inevitability. The acknowledgment of something neither of us anticipated but both of us feel."

"It doesn't matter what we feel. You know that."

"Do I?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Tell me something, Savannah. In the time you were with my son, did he ever make you feel what I did in one night?"

The question hit like a physical blow, too intimate, too accurate. "That's not fair."

"Fair has nothing to do with this. You spent too much time with a boy who never saw you. Never understood what you needed." His eyes held mine, unrelenting. "I saw it in one night. Feel it even now. The struggle between what you think you should want and what your body knows you need."

"You don't know me," I said, though the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"Don't I? I know you were drowning in that relationship.

Know you're still recovering from the ways he diminished you, made you doubt your own worth.

" He spoke with such certainty, such insight, that I felt exposed, flayed open.

"Know you built your career on seeing the truth in things, yet struggle to acknowledge the truth in yourself. "

Miles's voice drifted toward us—he was still on his call near the entrance, giving us a few more precious moments of privacy.

"The truth?" I leaned forward, anger flaring. "The truth is you're using me to compete with your son. Another arena where you can prove your superiority."

Something dark flickered across his features. "Is that what you think this is? Some reverse Oedipal power play?"

"Isn't it? The great Lucas Turner, taking what belongs to his son?"

"You belong to no one," he said, throwing my own words back at me. "Least of all Miles. And if you think I would risk my company, my reputation, my relationship with my son—complicated as it is—for a simple conquest, then you understand nothing about me."

The intensity in his voice made me pause. This wasn't the calculated businessman speaking, but something rawer, more genuine. It unsettled me more than his control ever could.

"Then help me understand," I challenged. "What is this? What do you want from me?"

Miles was approaching now, phone tucked away, conversation window closing.

Lucas held my gaze, something vulnerable flashing in his eyes before his mask slipped back into place. "Meet me in the gallery after lunch," he said, voice so low I almost missed it. "Alone."

Miles returned to the table with a hint of urgency in his step. "Bad news," he said. "That was Ava. The Madison Street investors moved up the meeting. They're flying out tonight, and they want to meet this afternoon. Dad, they're asking for you specifically."

Lucas didn’t take his eyes off me. "Reschedule."

"Can’t. It’s a tight window and they won’t budge. It’s just a formality; you’ll be in and out."

Lucas finally looked at his son, nodding once. "Fine. Savannah, thank you for your time. I trust our discussion has been... illuminating."

"Partially," I replied, unable to resist the opening. "Though I find myself with more questions than answers."

A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. "The best questions are worth pursuing, even when the answers complicate things."

"Or perhaps, especially then," I countered.

Something passed between us—a moment of perfect understanding amid the chaos of desire and restraint.

"I'll see you soon," he said, and though the words were innocuous, the promise in them was anything but.

After he left, lunch concluded quickly. Miles had another meeting, leaving me with promises to call later another attempt that felt like he was again trying to mark territory that wasn't his to claim.

I should have left then. Should have walked out of the restaurant, hailed a cab, gone back to my office, and buried myself in work until the memory of Lucas Turner faded to a manageable ache.

Instead, I found myself headed to the Ashcroft Gallery, pulse quickening with every step. I told myself I was going to end this properly, to make it clear that whatever had sparked between us needed to be extinguished before it consumed us both.

A lie I almost believed.

The Ashcroft Gallery was quieter than I remembered—dimly lit, with long shadows stretching across the polished floor. A curated hush wrapped around the exhibits like silk, muting the click of my heels as I walked.

The moment I stepped into the space, I regretted it. Not because I didn’t want to see him. Because I did—and that want was dangerous. It curled low in my belly, tightened my chest, made my skin feel too tight. Every step brought me closer to a man I should avoid at all costs.

I wandered past black-and-white photographs of the city skyline, half-heartedly pretending to admire them while my pulse thundered in my ears.

I wasn’t here to appreciate art. I was here to confront the man who'd undone me with a single night and threatened to undo everything else with a single look.

"You came."

His voice came from behind me, low and unhurried.

I turned. He stood too close, framed by the ambient light, impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. Lucas Turner didn’t just enter a room. He dominated it.

"I shouldn't have," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"But you did."

He took a step forward. Then another. I stood my ground, even as every nerve ending in my body lit up in warning and anticipation.

Lucas didn't speak at first. His eyes roamed over me, slow and thorough, as if reacquainting himself with something he already knew intimately.

"You're afraid," he said quietly, almost reverently.

"Of you. Of this. Of what it means," I admitted.

His hand lifted, fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch burned like a brand. "Tell me to stop."

I couldn’t. Not when he looked at me like that. Not when the memory of his mouth on my skin still lingered like a ghost.

He stepped into my space, crowding me against the wall beside a stark cityscape photograph.

His arm comes up beside my head, not touching me, just framing me.

Caging me. Owning the moment.

"Little fox," he murmured, eyes dark with intent.

"Still so clever. Still pretending you're not exactly where you want to be."

My breath caught. The nearness of him was overwhelming—his heat, his scent, the intensity of his focus.

I felt dizzy, breathless, every inch of my skin prickling with awareness.

"Say it," he whispered.

And I couldn’t lie.

So I didn’t.

His hand moved, skimming the curve of my waist, sliding to my lower back. I swayed forward, unable to resist the magnetic pull between us.

Then his mouth was on mine.

I should have resisted.

Should have pushed him away.

Should have remembered where we were, who might see us, and what was at stake.

The kiss was nothing like our first—no gentleness, no question, no careful exploration.

This was possession, demand, the culmination of days of denied hunger. His lips claimed mine with bruising intensity, his body pressing me against the wall as his tongue swept into my mouth.

As I returned the kiss with equal fervor, a small, desperate sound escaped me as his teeth caught my lower lip, tugging with just enough pressure to send heat pooling low in my belly.

His hand slid down my back, pulling me tighter against him until I could feel every hard plane of his body, every evidence of his desire pressing against me.

The gallery, the danger, the world outside this moment—all vanished beneath the onslaught of sensation.

It was his cologne that finally broke through the haze—cedar and bergamot, the scent that had lingered on my pillow after that night, that had haunted my dreams in the days since.

I drew it in deeply, the familiar notes grounding me even as his kiss threatened to unravel me completely.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, my lips swollen and tingling from the force of his kiss. His eyes were nearly black, pupils expanded with desire, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he fought for control.

"This," he said, voice rough, one hand still tangled in my hair, "is not nothing. Not a game. Not a conquest."

I swallowed, struggling to form coherent thoughts as desire clouded my mind. "Then what is it?"

"A beginning," he murmured, pressing his forehead against mine in a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made my heart clench. "My home. Tomorrow night. Eight o'clock." He pressed a card into my palm. "The address. The gate code. No obligations beyond seeing where this leads."

A thousand objections rose to my lips. A thousand reasons to say no, to walk away, to be the responsible adult I prided myself on being.

Instead, I found myself nodding, my fingers closing around the card as if it were a lifeline rather than an invitation to disaster.

"Tomorrow," I whispered, the word a promise and a surrender.

He stepped back, his composure returning with impressive speed as he straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket. Only the slight redness of his lips and the intensity in his eyes betrayed what had just passed between us.

"Until then, little fox."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me leaning against the wall, my body humming with unfulfilled desire, my mind racing with the implications of what I'd just agreed to.

Tomorrow night. His home. His territory. His rules.

And maybe that was the worst part—I wanted to see him.

The card burned in my hand, its weight disproportionate to its size.

I glanced down at the elegant address, embossed in black on heavy cream cardstock, and the gate code, written in precise handwriting, on the back.

I brought it to my face, inhaling deeply—cedar and bergamot, the scent I was beginning to associate with desire itself.

With surrender.

With the terrifying possibility that what had begun as a mistake might become the most significant choice of my life.

For better or worse, I had made my decision.

Tomorrow night would change everything.

And there was no turning back.