Page 19 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Something flickered across his face—not guilt, exactly, but awareness. Acknowledgment of the most complicated aspect of our situation.

"Miles and I have a complex relationship at best," he said carefully. "But you're right to raise the concern. He's my son, regardless of our differences. And you were important to him."

"Were," I repeated. "Past tense."

"Is it?" His gaze sharpened. "Are you still in love with him, Savannah?"

The question caught me off guard—not because it was inappropriate, but because the answer was so immediately, emphatically clear.

"No," I said without hesitation.

"I haven't been for a long time. Maybe never was, not really."

The admission hung between us, weighted with everything it implied. Whatever had pulled me to Miles had been hollow.

That whatever had pulled me to Lucas felt... different.

Deeper. More dangerous.

His expression softened slightly. "Then we navigate this carefully. Discreetly. With awareness of all the complications."

It sounded so reasonable. So logical. So possible.

"I should still withdraw from the Westlake project," I said, testing his reaction. "Maintaining professional distance will be... challenging."

"If that's what you think best." His easy acquiescence surprised me. "Though I believe you're more than capable of compartmentalizing. Of separating the professional from the personal."

The confidence in his assessment was flattering—and unsettling. "You seem very certain about my capabilities."

"I am." He moved around the island, approaching but not touching me. "I don't usually pursue women, Savannah. Haven't in years. The fact that I'm willing to take this risk should tell you how exceptional I find you."

Heat crawled up my neck at the naked admiration in his voice. "This is insane," I whispered. "We barely know each other."

"Don't we?" He reached out then, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. "I think we know the essentials. The rest... we learn along the way."

I leaned into his touch despite myself, craving the connection even as alarms blared in my mind. "And if it all falls apart? If we hurt each other? If Miles finds out?"

"Then we deal with those consequences if and when they arise." His thumb traced my lower lip, sending shivers down my spine. "But consider the alternative—walking away now, never knowing what might have been. Could you live with that uncertainty?"

The question hit with precision, targeting my greatest weakness. I'd spent my adult life calculating risks, making smart choices, building a stable foundation after the chaos of my childhood.

But underneath that careful exterior lurked something wild and reckless—something that had recognized its match in Lucas Turner from that first night.

Something that had never been satisfied with safe choices, predictable outcomes, controlled emotions.

Something I'd never fully acknowledged, even to myself.

"No," I admitted, the truth tearing from me with surprising force. "I couldn't."

The confession felt like stepping off a cliff—terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. For the first time, I was acknowledging the part of myself I'd spent years suppressing.

The part that craved risk, intensity, and experiences that bordered on destructive. The part that had been drawn to Miles initially because of his emotional unavailability, not despite it.

The part that now recognized something far more dangerous—and compelling—in his father.

Lucas's eyes darkened at my admission, satisfaction flickering across his features. "Then we proceed. Carefully. On terms we both agree to."

The buzz of the intercom interrupted whatever I might have said in response. "Your car, Ms. Blake," the concierge announced.

"Thank you," Lucas replied, his gaze never leaving mine. "She'll be down momentarily."

The spell broken, I stepped back, gathering my purse and phone. "I should go."

"Of course." He maintained a careful distance as he walked me to the elevator. "I have appointments most of today, but dinner? Tomorrow night?"

I should have said no. Should have insisted on time to think, to process, to establish those boundaries he'd mentioned. Should have been the responsible adult I prided myself on being.

Instead, I heard myself say, "Yes."

His smile was subtle but genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that made my heart stutter. "I'll text you the details."

The elevator arrived, its doors sliding open with soft precision. I stepped inside, turning to face him as the doors began to close.

"Lucas," I said impulsively. "This scares me."

"Good," he replied, just before the doors sealed between us. "The best things usually do."

The descent was smooth, silent, giving me too much space to think. To second-guess. To imagine worst-case scenarios and catastrophic outcomes. By the time I reached the lobby, anxiety had overtaken the lingering physical satisfaction, replacing it with gnawing dread.

The car waited as promised, and the driver, discreet and professional, held the door for me.

The privacy screen was raised, giving me a small cocoon in which to continue my spiral of self-recrimination.

My phone buzzed with a new email notification. Miles again, following up on lunch.

The sight of his name on my screen sent fresh guilt coursing through me. Whatever had been between us was over, had been his choice to end, but that didn't erase the fundamental betrayal of sleeping with his father.

I should cancel the Westlake project. Should end whatever was developing with Lucas before it destroyed all of us. Should make the responsible, ethical choice.

My fingers hovered over the screen, preparing to compose an email withdrawing from the account. It would be the right thing. The smart thing. The safe thing.

Instead, I opened Miles's email and typed: Lunch works. Thompson's at 1pm?

As I hit send, I recognized the self-destructive impulse driving the decision. The part of me I'd just acknowledged—the part that craved intensity over safety, risk over security—was taking control. Pushing me toward choices I knew could end in disaster.

I was agreeing to lunch with the son less than twelve hours after I'd been in his father's bed. Was maintaining a professional connection that would require regular interaction with both men. Was stepping right into the center of a family dynamic already strained without my involvement.

And I couldn't stop myself.

Because beneath the guilt and anxiety and fear lurked something more powerful, more compelling—the memory of Lucas's hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his recognition of parts of me I'd never shown anyone else.

The promise of more nights like the last, more moments of connection that transcended the physical.

I typed another message, this one to Lucas:

Tomorrow at 8. Send me the address. And Lucas? I want more.

Direct.

Unapologetic.

A declaration of intent that frightened me even as I sent it.

His response came almost immediately:

As do I, little fox. As do I.

Three simple words that sealed our fate. That pushed me further down this path of beautiful destruction.

I closed my eyes, leaning back against the leather seat as the car navigated through morning traffic.

In less than twenty-four hours, I'd be seeing him again. Would be back in his arms, his bed, surrendering to whatever was building between us.

But first, I had to have lunch with his son. Had to look Miles in the eye knowing I'd been intimate with his father. Had to maintain the professional facade that was rapidly crumbling beneath the weight of my own desires.

I was playing with fire, walking a tightrope without a net, diving into depths I couldn't measure.

And the most terrifying part? I didn't want to stop.

I wanted more. More of Lucas. More of the danger.

More of the intoxicating connection that made everything else in my carefully constructed life seem pale and lifeless by comparison.

More, even if it destroyed everything I'd built.

More, even if it destroyed me.