Page 42 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

The distinction—so clear, so deliberate—warmed me. This was the man I'd fallen in love with. Not the controlling business magnate, not the commanding lover, but the man capable of growth, of adaptation, of seeing beyond his own perspective.

"Thank you." I settled against him, his arm coming around me with comfortable familiarity. "For understanding why this matters."

"I'm learning." His fingers traced idle patterns on my shoulder. "Slowly, perhaps, but learning nonetheless."

The next morning, I woke before him—a rare occurrence—pulled from sleep by another wave of nausea that had been plaguing me for the past week. I slipped from the bed without disturbing his sleep, padding quickly to the bathroom and waiting for the queasy feeling to pass.

I told myself it was stress from the upcoming presentation, from adjusting to our new living arrangement, from the intensity of everything changing so quickly in my life.

Once the nausea subsided, I moved through the penthouse that still felt more his than ours, considering how to make this space truly mine without erasing the essence of the man I'd fallen in love with.

In the kitchen, I started coffee in the sleek machine that had required an engineering degree to operate, then wandered to the vast expanse of windows that showcased the city waking below us. The view was breathtaking, the light golden as it illuminated buildings and streets.

An idea formed as I stood there, watching the world from this privileged perspective. I retrieved my phone, scrolled through contacts, and made a call that would have been unthinkable weeks ago.

By the time Lucas emerged from the bedroom, impeccably groomed despite the early hour, I was sitting at the kitchen island with coffee and my laptop, working with focused intensity.

"Morning," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before pouring his own coffee. "You're up early."

"Had an idea that wouldn't wait." I continued typing, finishing a thought before looking up. "How attached are you to the living room arrangement?"

He paused, cup halfway to his lips. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"The furniture. The placement. The whole..." —I gestured vaguely— "aesthetic."

Wariness entered his expression. "Reasonably attached. Why?"

"Because I called Maria Lawrence this morning."

His eyebrows rose. "The designer who did the penthouse originally?"

"The very same." I turned my laptop toward him, showing the sketches she'd already sent through. "I asked her to reimagine the space. Not to erase your preferences, but to integrate mine. To create something that reflects both of us."

He studied the images—renderings that maintained the clean lines he preferred but introduced elements of warmth and color that spoke to my personality. The sterile showcase quality was gone, replaced by something that looked genuinely lived-in while still elegant.

"You contacted my designer." His voice was carefully neutral, giving away nothing of what he might be feeling about this initiative.

"I did." I met his gaze steadily. "Because this needs to be our home, Lucas. Not yours that I'm visiting. Not mine, that's invaded yours. Ours." I gestured to the images.

"Maria understands your taste intimately. I explained mine. She thinks we can create something that honors both."

He was silent for a long moment, and I tensed slightly, wondering if I'd overstepped. If my attempt to claim space had ventured too far, too fast.

"When can she start?" he finally asked, a slow smile spreading across his features.

Relief washed through me. "She's coming at ten to discuss specifics. I told her we both needed to approve everything."

He set his coffee down, moving to stand before me, hands resting on my thighs as I remained perched on the bar stool. "You continue to surprise me, Savannah Blake."

"Good," I said, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Predictability is boring."

"What other domains of my life are you planning to revolutionize?" His tone was light, but I heard the genuine question beneath.

"All of them," I said simply. "Just as you're revolutionizing mine. That's what partnership means, Lucas—transformation. Growth. Change." I pressed a kiss to his lips. "But always by choice, never by force."

His arms tightened around me, pulling me against his chest. "I'm choosing this," he murmured against my hair. "Choosing you. Choosing us."

As the morning light filled the penthouse—our penthouse, now and in the future—I held that promise close. We were building something neither of us had experienced before—a relationship based not on power or control or dominance, but on mutual recognition. Mutual respect. Mutual transformation.

My phone buzzed with an incoming text from Zoe:

Survival check. Day 2. Has he organized your closet alphabetically by designer yet?

I laughed, showing Lucas the message before typing back:

Still surviving. Hiring designer to rework entire apartment. Send help if I start color-coding my underwear drawer.

Her response came seconds later:

Good God. He's infected you already. Intervention imminent.

Lucas read over my shoulder, a smile playing at his lips. "Should I be offended?"

"Probably." I set the phone aside, turning in his arms. "She thinks you're a bad influence."

"I am." He pressed his lips to my neck, finding the sensitive spot that never failed to make me shiver. "Just wait until you see how I've reorganized the kitchen cabinets."

I pulled back, alarm flashing through me. "You didn't."

The smile that spread across his face was pure mischief—an expression I'd never have believed possible on Lucas Turner's features weeks ago. "I did. Everything alphabetized. Color-coded labels. Inventory spreadsheet."

"You're joking."

"Am I?" His expression gave nothing away. "Only one way to find out."

As I darted to the kitchen to check, his laughter followed me—warm, genuine, unguarded. I yanked open cabinet doors to find everything exactly as we'd left it the night before, my chaotic collection still disrupting his precise organization.

"Very funny," I called, returning to find him watching me with undisguised amusement. "I almost believed you."

"I know." He pulled me back into his arms. "That's what made it so entertaining."

This—his playfulness, his willingness to joke at his own expense—was yet another revelation. Another facet of the man I was continuing to discover beneath the controlled exterior.

"Lucas Turner has a sense of humor," I marveled, pretending shock. "Alert the media."

"Don't you dare." He kissed me, effectively ending the teasing. "That particular revelation is for you alone."

As his lips claimed mine with familiar hunger, I surrendered to the now-familiar current between us. We were both still learning, still adjusting, finding our way through this uncharted territory.

But for the first time, standing in the morning light of a home that was gradually becoming ours rather than his, I felt something settle inside me. Not complacency. Not surrender. But certainty.

We would make mistakes. Would challenge each other. Would occasionally clash where our fundamental differences couldn't be bridged by compromise.

But we would do it together. As equals. As partners.

And that made all the difference.