Page 20 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Lucas

S unday came and went like a breeze.

Now we’re back to Monday morning and Savannah still consumes my thoughts.

I thought I was a carefully constructed fortress built on discipline and restraint, on calculated decisions and measured responses.

On never, ever allowing desire to override judgment.

Distracted again, here I was, reading the same contract clause for the fifth time, retaining nothing, my mind drifting back to Savannah with maddening persistence.

To the curve of her hip beneath my hand.

The sound of her breath catching when I kissed that sensitive spot on her neck.

The way she'd looked at me as she came apart—vulnerable, trusting, seeing me not as Lucas Turner, CEO, but as simply a man who wanted her beyond reason.

I want more.

Her text message from yesterday morning had played on repeat in my mind, three words that had inexplicably shifted something fundamental inside me.

Had awakened a hunger I'd thought long buried beneath years of control and calculation.

"Mr. Turner? Your thoughts?"

I looked up, momentarily disoriented to find myself in a boardroom surrounded by executives watching me expectantly.

The Madison Street investors—the meeting I'd nearly canceled for Savannah.

Right.

"The projections seem optimistic," I managed, falling back on caution—always a safe response in real estate development. "Especially given the market fluctuations in that neighborhood."

Relief flickered across Jeffrey Wilson's face—my CFO, who knew these numbers better than his own children's birthdays. Who had clearly noted my unusual distraction but wouldn't dare mention it.

"As I was saying," he continued smoothly, "if we adjust the timeline for the retail spaces, allowing for a staggered opening rather than the simultaneous launch previously planned..."

I nodded, forcing myself to focus, to be present in this room rather than lost in memories of Savannah's body beneath mine.

Twenty million dollars in investments depended on decisions made in this meeting.

The Madison Street development represented nearly eight months of strategic planning, of carefully cultivated relationships with city officials and community leaders.

Yet all I could think about was whether Savannah preferred Italian or French cuisine for tonight's dinner.

"We should run additional projections," I said, interrupting whatever Wilson had been explaining. "Conservative estimates based on a six-month delay in full occupancy. And I want contingency plans for supply chain disruptions."

My executive team exchanged glances—concern, confusion, perhaps a touch of alarm. I was never this cautious, never this hesitant. Lucas Turner didn't hedge bets; he made decisive moves based on thorough analysis and gut instinct honed through decades of successful ventures.

Lucas Turner didn't get distracted during critical investment meetings by thoughts of a woman half his age.

"Of course," Wilson agreed, though his furrowed brow betrayed his confusion. "I'll have those to you by Wednesday."

"Tomorrow," I corrected, an edge entering my voice. "I want them tomorrow morning."

The sharpness in my tone silenced whatever objections might have been forming. Good. I needed to reassert control—over this meeting, over my company, over myself. Needed to separate the man who had held Savannah through the night from the man who commanded this boardroom.

"If there's nothing else?" I rose, effectively ending the meeting fifteen minutes early—another unprecedented move. "Wilson, walk with me."

We moved through the corridors of Turner Holdings in silence, the CFO matching my longer strides with visible effort.

Only when we reached my office, doors closed behind us, did he speak.

"Is everything all right, Lucas?"

The use of my first name—rare in business contexts—underscored the unusual nature of his concern. Wilson had been with me for fifteen years, had weathered economic downturns and risky ventures without question. Had never seen me wavering in my decision-making.

"Fine," I said shortly, moving to the window that dominated one wall of my office. "I just want to be thorough."

"You're always thorough," he countered carefully. "But today you seemed..."

"Seemed what, exactly?" The challenge in my voice would normally have ended the conversation. Wilson, however, had earned the right to occasional candor.

"Distracted," he said simply. "I've never seen you lose the thread of a financial discussion before. Not once in fifteen years."

I didn't immediately respond, considering how much to reveal. Wilson was discreet, loyal to a fault. But this wasn't about business strategy or market conditions—areas where his counsel was invaluable. This was personal. Messy. Potentially damaging.

"I have a lot on my mind," I finally said. "The Westlake project, Miles's increasing involvement in operations, Catherine's latest attempt to restructure the trust fund agreement."

All true, if not the actual source of my distraction.

Wilson nodded, accepting the explanation without further probing.

"Should I reschedule this afternoon's site visit? Give you some time to catch up?"

The site visit—Westlake's model unit unveiling.

Where I would see Savannah again, in a professional context, for the first time since she'd left my penthouse.

Where Miles would undoubtedly be present, playing the role of project manager with the same superficial competence he brought to all his responsibilities.

Where Savannah and I would have to pretend we were nothing more than potential business associates.

"No," I said, already dreading and anticipating the encounter in equal measure. "That stays on the schedule."

"Very well." Wilson moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, Lucas... I've never known you to make a wrong decision when it mattered. Your instincts are what built this company."

The vote of confidence, offered without knowledge of the actual situation, landed like a weight rather than a reassurance. If Wilson knew what those instincts were currently driving me toward, his faith might waver considerably.

Once alone, I checked my phone—a habit I'd developed only in the past three days, since Savannah had entered my life properly.

No messages from her, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

She'd be at lunch with Miles now, maintaining the pretense of professional interest in the Westlake project.

The thought of them together sent something dark and primitive coiling through me.

Not jealousy, exactly—I knew my son's relationship with Savannah was over, knew he'd been the one to end it, knew from her own admission that she no longer harbored feelings for him.

No, this was something more elemental. More possessive.

A territorial instinct I'd thought myself above, too sophisticated to indulge. The primal need to mark what was mine, to establish boundaries no other man—especially my son—could cross.

It was irrational. Unbecoming. Beneath the carefully cultivated image I'd built over decades.

And yet it consumed me, this need to claim her not just physically but in every way that mattered. To establish that whatever had existed between her and Miles was a pale shadow compared to what burned between us now.

By the time I arrived at the Westlake site that afternoon, I'd regained some semblance of control. Had reminded myself of the stakes, of the need for discretion, of the professional relationship that must take precedence over personal entanglements while in public.

All that carefully reinforced restraint threatened to crumble the moment I saw her.

She stood with Miles and the project architect near the model unit's kitchen, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows to catch the copper highlights in her hair.

Professional, polished, in a tailored navy suit that revealed nothing yet somehow emphasized everything.

Her posture was perfect, her expression engaged as the architect explained some feature of the custom cabinetry.

Beautiful. Intelligent. Mine.

The possessive thought came unbidden, unwelcome in its raw intensity. I pushed it aside, approaching with the measured confidence expected of Lucas Turner, CEO.

"Mr. Turner," the architect greeted me, extending his hand. "We were just discussing the materials upgrade for the penthouse units."

"Savannah had some excellent insights about marketing the sustainable aspects rather than just the luxury," Miles added, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back in a casual gesture that sent fresh heat coursing through me.

She tensed almost imperceptibly at his touch—a reaction so subtle only someone attuned to her body language would notice.

Her eyes met mine briefly, a flash of recognition and awareness passing between us before she returned to pure professionalism.

"Mr. Turner," she acknowledged, extending her hand as if we were meeting for only the second time. As if her body hadn't been wrapped around mine less than fourty-eight hours ago. "I hope you don't mind my suggesting some adjustments to the marketing approach."

"Not at all," I replied, taking her hand. The simple contact—brief, appropriate, entirely professional—sent electricity racing up my arm. "Your expertise is why we're considering bringing you on board."

Miles beamed, mistaking my approval for endorsement of his choice rather than the woman herself. "I told you Dad would see the value you bring."

If only he knew just how deeply I appreciated that value. How completely I understood what Savannah Blake had to offer beyond her professional skills.

"Let's see the master suite," I suggested, deliberately moving ahead to separate Miles from his proprietary position beside her. "I want to ensure the finishes match the renderings exactly."