Page 9 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Turner Holdings' reputation for ethical dealings was its greatest asset, one I'd spent decades building. I wouldn't let one night—no matter how extraordinary—destroy that.

Even if part of me wanted nothing more than to see Savannah again. To discover if last night's connection had been real or merely a product of anonymity and scotch.

I rechecked the time—10:30. Time to head downstairs, to play my part in this farce.

To pretend I hadn't spent the night learning every inch of the body of the woman my son still considered his.

The hotel bar was quiet when I arrived, most wedding guests still at brunch or packing to leave. I claimed a corner table, ordered a black coffee, and opened my tablet to review contracts while I waited.

Work had always been my refuge, my constant. It could be again now.

I had just settled into the familiar rhythm of legal terminology when movement at the entrance caught my eye.

Not Miles, but Savannah.

She stood framed in the doorway, scanning the bar.

When her gaze landed on me, she froze, uncertainty flickering across her features.

She wore the same sundress from brunch, a modest pale blue that somehow managed to hint at the curves I now knew intimately.

For several heartbeats, we looked at each other across the room, the air between us charged with things that couldn't be said.

Shouldn't be acknowledged.

I expected her to turn and leave.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and walked directly to my table, each step deliberate and measured. I set aside my tablet, watching her approach with equal parts dread and anticipation.

"Mr. Turner," she said formally, stopping a careful distance from my table.

"I need to speak with you."

The "Mr. Turner" was clearly intentional—a verbal barrier between last night and this morning. I gestured to the chair across from me.

"Ms. Blake. Please."

She sat, her posture rigid, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Close up, I could see the strain beneath her composed expression—the slight tremor in her fingers, the tension around her eyes.

"This is impossible," she said quietly.

"Agreed."

"We need to establish some ground rules."

I raised an eyebrow. "Ground rules?"

"About how we proceed from here."

Her voice was steady, professional, but her eyes betrayed her—the same vulnerability I'd glimpsed last night lurking beneath the surface. “No one can know what happened."

"Obviously," I agreed.

"And it can never happen again."

This came out less certain, almost questioning.

I studied her face, noting the faint flush spreading across her cheekbones. "Is that what you want?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "What I want isn't relevant. This is about what's right."

"And what's right is pretending last night never happened?"

"Yes."

She glanced around the bar, ensuring we weren't overheard.

"Your son is pursuing me again, professionally if not personally. We'll inevitably have to interact."

"And you believe we can simply ignore what passed between us?" I kept my voice low, intimate.

"Forget how you felt beneath me? How you sounded when you came? The things you whispered in the dark?"

The flush deepened, spreading down her neck.

"Stop."

"Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable to remember? Or because it makes you uncomfortable to want it again?"

"This isn't appropriate," she hissed, but her pupils had dilated, her breathing quickened.

"Neither was last night," I pointed out.

"Yet here we are."

She looked away, gathering herself.

When she turned back, her professional mask was firmly in place.

"Mr. Turner?—"

"Lucas," I corrected. "Given the circumstances, formality seems absurd."

"Lucas."

My name on her lips sent an unexpected thrill through me. "Last night was a mistake. A beautiful one, perhaps, but still a mistake. One we can't repeat."

"Because of Miles?"

She hesitated. "Partly. And because it would be wrong."

"According to whose moral code?" I leaned forward slightly. "You're not in a relationship with my son. You haven't been for almost a year. We're both unattached adults."

"It's not that simple, and you know it."

Her voice had taken on an edge of frustration. "There are professional considerations. Ethical boundaries."

She was right, of course. The same arguments I'd made to myself upstairs.

Yet hearing them from her lips made me want to dismantle them one by one.

"If circumstances were different," I said carefully, "if we'd met as we did, but without the complication of Miles, would you have wanted to see me again?"

The question hung between us, dangerous in its simplicity. For a moment, I thought she might not answer.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

"Yes."

That single syllable cracked something open in my chest—a possibility I'd been refusing to acknowledge even to myself.

"And if I told you I feel the same?"

She closed her eyes briefly. "It doesn't matter. We can't."

"Can't and shouldn't aren’t exactly the same thing."

"Not in this case." She looked at me directly, her green eyes filled with a mixture of regret and resolve.

"Last night happened because we didn't know. We know now. Whatever we might have felt—whatever we might still feel—we have to walk away."

I should have agreed.

Should have nodded and let her go.

I should have maintained the ethical boundaries that I'd built my reputation on.

Instead, I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine.

She flinched slightly but didn't pull away. "Lucas..."

"One more night," I said, surprising myself with the words. "To explore what this is between us. Then, if you still feel it’s a mistake, we can walk away."

Her eyes widened.

"You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious."

"This is madness."

"I'm beginning to think so, yes." I stroked my thumb across her wrist, feeling the racing pulse beneath her skin.

"But I'm equally certain I'll regret it if we don't explore this further."

She stared at our joined hands, conflict evident in her expression. "And after? When is it even harder to walk away?"

"Then we'll deal with that reality. But we'll have chosen with full knowledge of who we are to each other."

The sound of approaching footsteps made her withdraw her hand abruptly.

I looked up to see Miles entering the bar, his gaze scanning the room before landing on us.

Surprise flickered across his features, followed by something less pleasant—suspicion, perhaps, or jealousy.

"Dad," he called, approaching our table.

"Savannah. This is unexpected."

She stood quickly, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. "I was just leaving. Professional courtesy call before your meeting."

The lie came easily to her lips.

"I'll see you both on Tuesday."

Miles looked between us, clearly sensing something beneath the surface but unable to identify it.

"Looking forward to it."

She nodded, not meeting my eyes.

"Mr. Turner. Miles."

I watched her walk away, the gentle sway of her hips beneath blue cotton stirring memories of last night that I had no business dwelling on.

Only when she'd disappeared from view did I turn my attention back to my son.

"Let's discuss Madison Street," I said briskly, gesturing for him to sit.

The meeting proceeded as our business discussions typically did—Miles alternating between defensive and dismissive, while I maintained the patience that had built my empire.

Throughout, part of my mind remained fixed on Savannah Blake and the choice I'd laid before her.

One more night.

A choice that violated every principle I'd built my life upon. That crossed lines I'd never imagined crossing. That risked my relationship with my son, complicated as it was.

That could potentially damage the company I'd spent decades building.

And yet.

The moment I'd recognized her at brunch, I'd known this wasn't merely about physical attraction.

It wasn't just about the exceptional chemistry we’d discovered the night before.

There had been something deeper—a recognition, a connection that transcended the physical.

Something worth exploring, despite the risks.

Something worth fighting for, despite the consequences.

As Miles outlined his plans for restructuring the Madison Street financing, I made my decision.

I would pursue Savannah Blake, knowing exactly who she was.

Knowing exactly what I risked.

Knowing this had the potential to destroy everything I'd built.

Because for the first time in years, if ever, I'd found something—someone—who made me feel truly alive.

And I wasn't ready to let that go.

Not without discovering exactly what it could become.