Page 42 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

The solarium was Grandfather’s favorite room.

Multi-pane windows, wrought-iron mullions, and a ceiling that curves like a glass cathedral.

In midsummer, the light is so fierce you need sunglasses.

In January it’s gentler, silver—perfect for a convalescent’s complexion and for a man relearning patience.

Assuming the snow doesn’t reflect the daylight straight into your eyes.

Erin sits opposite me at the marble café table nearest the windows, her wheelchair tucked so close her knees barely clear the rim.

Her hair is still thin from chemo, but today it’s tucked under another one of those caps Grandma Judy makes.

It’s white with snow fox ears, making color contrast in her cheeks.

Her bright blue eyes hold the unmistakable gleam of strategic mischief. She’s looking better every day.

“You sure you want to be red?” she asks, cheeks puffing theatrically. “Red loses more than black, statistically speaking.”

I smother a smile. “Citing data? Have you been e-reading game theory behind my back?”

She shrugs, mock casual, but her grin slips. The shrug is weaker on the left—post-op muscles still re-finding signals. I steady the board so it doesn’t slide. With more cockiness and wisdom than her age allows, she says, “I may have read a few game theory books in my time.”

We’ve played six times in the past four days. She’s won three, and I’m clinging to that tie. My brothers crow that I let her win, but the truth is Erin has the same cunning spark as Tabitha. I lost because I underestimated her. Not today.

I move a red disk to square C3. “Your turn, sneaky girl.”

She taps her chin, eyes narrowed, then slides black to block me. Grandma Judy watches from the wicker love seat, crocheting something lavender and humming édith Piaf under her breath.

For half an hour, pieces slide, the sun lifts to the solarium’s apex, and my chest floods with a warmth that has nothing to do with the ceiling heaters we installed last winter.

Erin’s laugh, sudden and bright, makes me forget boardrooms and blood-pressure cuffs.

This, I think, is legacy—the moments you bank in hearts, not ledgers.

Mid-game lull. I nudge the bowl of cut fruit toward her. The hospital dieticians gave us marching orders—vitamin C, low sugar, high protein. Erin skewers a strawberry, chews thoughtfully, then wipes juice with the corner of her blanket.

The solarium’s scent now is citrus rind and the faint mint sliced thin on the fruit salad. It helps with iron, apparently. But I know what she really wants.

“Erin,” I say softly, “the first time we met, you told me you wanted to eat crêpes in Paris.”

She sets her checker in midair. Surprise flashes, then embarrassment. “Oh. That was…before.” She places the piece, not looking up.

“Before surgery?”

“Before everything.” She shrugs again, but the left shoulder drags less this time—progress. “When Tabi worked at the bistro, she’d bring home croissants, pain au chocolat, even tried escargot once. It was pretty good, kinda weird.” A giggle escapes.

“And now?”

Her gaze slides to the window. Winter light flares across her pupils.

“Back then, Paris felt…reachable. Then I kept puking. Hungry, but nothing stayed. And then we found out about the tumor… So now, I have new dreams.” She forces a playful eye roll.

“Dream one—walk ten feet without the wobbles. Dream two—keep a steak frites down.” She taps the board. “Bigger than Paris, right?”

She tries for bravado, but the crack in her voice is audible. My heart constricts—not the post-attack ache, but a deeper bruise. The sound of a child downsizing her wonder to fit a hospital bed.

Grandma’s crochet hook slows, then resumes. Even Judy can’t crochet fast enough to stitch that wound closed.

I clear my throat. “Paris isn’t gone. It’s on hold.”

Erin side-eyes me. “On hold?”

I slide a checker, sacrifice two reds. “Your move.”

She scoffs but smiles, double-jumps my piece, crows, “King me!” The tiny plastic crown clicks onto her disk. A few moves later, the game ends. Erin wins by three kings and a whistle of triumph. Grandma claps, then stands, smoothing her skirt.

“Nap time, champ.” She wheels Erin gently. Erin groans but doesn’t fight—Nurse Rios warned that overexertion stalls nerve healing.

As they exit, Erin waves her crowned disk like a royal decree. “Practice your openings, Sal!” Her laugh echoes off the glass.

The laugh fades into hallway hush, leaving me alone with the checkerboard and a heart that weighs more than any game piece. Outside, snow dusts the rose garden I pruned last autumn. Frozen petals glint like imprisoned fireworks, waiting to unfurl.

Erin’s resignation stabs deeper than Pietro’s threat—one-liners about heritage I could fight with lawyers. Stolen dreams I can’t litigate. Restless, I gather the pieces, wipe table crumbs, but agitation builds.

I stand and pace the length of the room. Forty paces, pivot, forty back. Pacing once triggered chest pain. Now the heart only aches in metaphor. But the job is real. Protect. Provide. Marshall.

I exhale, run a hand over the checkered marble. An idea flickers at the corner of my mind—the sort of reckless but calculated risk that doubles as our family creed.

But it needs quiet to bloom. I leave the pieces, head for the master stair.

Halfway down the second-floor corridor, I hear Grandma Judy’s murmur through Erin’s open door. “…two more weeks and you’ll be chasing Dante down the luge.” Erin’s sleepy giggle answers.

I pause at the threshold; Grandma Judy sees me, raises a brow. I tip my head—can we talk? She tucks the blanket, whispers to Erin, then steps out, pulling the door until only a finger of hall light leaks in.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

“Yes and no.” I recount Erin’s Paris confession.

Her eyes mist, but her voice stays steel. “I wish kids understood time stretches. She’ll travel again. The body heals. It’ll take time, but she’ll get there.”

“Dreams heal too, if fed.” I fold my arms. “But I need your blessing to try something.” I outline a seed idea and couch it carefully—no broken promises when it comes to a kid.

She listens, nodding sagely. “You boys aim big.”

“We don’t know any other way.”

“I’ve noticed.”