Page 1 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER ONE

Josie

It’s been years since I was last here.

I haven’t seen home and Silver Peak for ages.

But I’ve barely stepped through the doors of my family’s inn before my phone buzzes with a text from Maya Patel.

Get your ass to Stella’s Market. It’s karaoke night there! No excuses xx

I barely have time to even drop my suitcase by the door before she’s calling me, her voice full of the kind of bossy affection only a best friend can get away with.

“Don’t even think about hiding behind jet lag, Josie Dawson,” she says, like she can hear the protest forming on my lips. “You’ve been gone two years, and I’ve been waiting to sing off-key ABBA with you since the day you left for culinary school.”

“All right, all right.” I chuckle and roll my eyes. “I guess I can sleep tomorrow, right?”

“Good, because I’m outside. You remember my jeep, right?”

Knowing I don’t have long, I throw on a sweater and give my sister, Dee, a hasty wave. “Tell Mom I’ll be back later!”

Before I know it, we’re weaving through the colorful chaos of Stella’s Market, the whole place alive with live music, twinkling lights, and the sweet, familiar scent of kettle corn and pine.

Stalls sell everything from hand-poured candles to crocheted beanies shaped like strawberries. Food trucks line the main stretch with smoke curling up from grills and cider kettles steaming in the chilly spring air.

“Okay, this has definitely gotten cuter since I left,” I murmur, dodging a corgi in a tiny flannel jacket.

Maya laughs beside me. “Silver Peak has to overcompensate for its complete lack of nightlife. And we take that job very seriously.”

A familiar voice cuts through the crowd. “Is that Josie Dawson I see, or a ghost of failed karaoke nights past?”

I turn to see Mrs. Carmichael waving from behind a booth stacked high with soaps shaped like woodland creatures. She’s wrapped in a purple shawl and wearing her signature glittery reading glasses.

“Hey, Mrs. C!” I call back. “Still making squirrel-shaped soap, I see.”

She winks. “Only because the raccoon ones were too risqué for the PTA.”

I laugh and blow her a kiss before moving on.

“Josie!” a gravelly voice calls. Old Man Delaney waves his cane in the air like a signal flare. “You’re back!” he says, walking over. “Heard you were some hot shot city chef now. Tell me this, do you know how to make a decent pot roast, or are you one of the foam-on-a-plate types?”

I grin. “Give me a Dutch oven and a six-hour timer and I’ll change your life.”

He snorts. “Good. Maybe you can teach the café down the block what seasoning is.”

Maya loops her arm through mine. “Come on, food snob, we have drinks to sample and songs to ruin.”

We sample warm apple tarts, sip spiced alcoholic drinks, and stop at three more stalls where people call out “Welcome back!” and “You better not leave us again, Josie!” before Maya finally leads me to the pop-up beer garden near the back of the square.

A crooked sign above it reads: KARAOKE NIGHT – BE brAVE, BE BAD, BE LOUD.

It doesn’t seem like long at all before we’re wedged onto a bench, a half-sipped cider in my hand, and my song queued up like no time has passed.

“Welcome home, baby chef,” Maya says, grinning as she slides a paper shot cup toward me. “To new beginnings, terrible song choices, and the fact that you are officially, finally , back.”

“To bad decisions,” I add, clinking my cup against hers. “And worse harmonies.”

We throw back the shot, wince in unison, and howl as the next singer gets up to absolutely butcher a Bon Jovi classic.

Maya grabs my arm and leans in. “That’s Frankie Miller. He still thinks he can hit that high note. He still can’t.”

I laugh so hard I snort, and Maya high-fives me like it’s 2012 and we’re still sneaking wine coolers into the senior bonfire.

I don’t realize how much I missed this, missed her , until I’m back in it.

Chicago is cool.

I definitely enjoy culinary school.

But I have to admit, it’s a hell of a lot of fun to be back.

“You’re up!” Maya shouts over the crowd, shoving me toward the little wooden stage with a wicked grin. “Don’t chicken out now, Dawson!”

I groan but don’t fight it. My feet move on their own, muscle memory carrying me to the mic like it always has. A familiar cheer goes up as I step onto the stage, and someone from the cider booth shouts, “Make us cry, Jo!”

Challenge accepted.

The opening chords of Jolene spill from the speakers, and I close my eyes, letting the words pour out of me. For three minutes, it’s just me, Dolly, and the kind of aching you can only sing with a cider burn in your throat and a cracked-open heart.

When the final note fades, the market erupts in cheers, filling me with a warmth I work hard to contain.

I hop off the stage, grinning, my cheeks flushed and my chest warm with an intensity I can’t quite name.

“Still got it,” Maya says, hugging me tight.

“You say that like I ever lost it.”

Woah.

I turn to check out the crowd, to see who I recognize, only to find myself looking at him .

A brooding, tattooed stranger with a body that looks carved from heat and trouble. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like he could throw someone over that griddle without breaking a sweat.

He’s wearing a black Henley that hugs his chest like it was stitched onto him, the sleeves shoved up to reveal powerful forearms inked in winding black tattoos. His jeans hang low on narrow hips, worn in all the right places, and his boots look like they’ve seen more than a few bar fights.

He’s behind one of the food booths we haven’t hit yet, flipping something sizzling on a cast iron griddle like he owns the place.

Steam curls up around him, turning to smoke in the golden light, the scent of garlic, charred meat, and something sharp and spicy curling into the air. It’s mouthwatering, magnetic.

And then, as if he feels me watching, he lifts his head.

We lock eyes across the crowd.

I pause mid-laugh, still breathless from the stage, cider cup in hand. For a second, everything goes a little hazy, like the lights dim, the noise dulls, and the only thing in focus is him .

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t even flinch.

But fire crackles between us. Hot. Immediate. Electric.

I can sense it even from here.

A flicker of heat blooms low in my stomach. It’s absurd. Irrational. Ridiculous. I don’t even know his name. But I know I’m staring, and I know he’s staring back. Like he’s trying to figure me out. Like he already has.

“Whoa,” Maya mutters beside me, her eyes bouncing between us. “Who is that?”

“No idea,” I say, voice a little breathless.

The stranger breaks eye contact first, turning his attention back to the grill like nothing happened, like he didn’t just short-circuit my entire nervous system with one look.

Maya nudges me. “Go ask what he’s cooking.”

I shake my head, heart thudding. “Nope.”

“Come on, baby chef. He’s literally cooking. It’s fate. He’s hot, you’re hot, and I swear I saw sparks fly.”

I laugh, but it comes out too light, too fluttery.

“Besides,” she adds, smirking, “you’ve been back, what, an hour? Might as well start this homecoming off with a bang.”

I roll my eyes but glance back toward the booth. He’s still there, moving with a kind of effortless ease, flipping, seasoning, plating. He’s focused, composed, and completely unaware of the chaos he’s stirring up inside me.

At least I think he’s unaware.

Because before I look away, he glances up again.

And smirks.

Not wide. Not cocky. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. A secret smile like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I swallow hard.

Oh, no.

This man is trouble.

And I might be stupid enough to walk straight into it.

Maya grabs my cider before I can argue and gives me a little shove. “Go. I’ll be right here pretending not to eavesdrop.”

I shoot her a glare over my shoulder, but my feet are already moving. Drawn. Compelled. Totally against my better judgment.

The closer I get, the more gorgeous he becomes. Up close, he’s all sharp jawline and rough edges. Tattoos snake down one arm, some intricate black and gray piece I want to stare at for hours, and there’s a tiny scar on his bottom lip that makes my stomach do a slow, traitorous somersault.

He’s plating a taco. Something spicy, judging by the red salsa and diced jalapenos. I open my mouth, trying to think of something clever or cool or even just coherent to say.

Nothing comes out.

He lifts his head, meets my eyes again, and waits.

Just waits.

Finally, he speaks. “You sing real pretty.”

His voice is deep and gravelly and low enough to vibrate straight through me. It shouldn’t be legal for a voice to sound like that. It’s rough velvet, smoke, and honey.

“I, uh, thanks.” Nailed it. Very smooth. Josie Dawson, queen of charm.

He nods once, eyes flicking to my mouth like he’s filing something away. Then he holds out the paper plate with the taco. “Try this.”

I blink. “You’re giving out free food?”

“Nope.” His mouth twitches. “Only to girls who sing like they mean it.”

I take the plate hesitantly, still eyeing him. Our fingers brush for the briefest second, and it’s ridiculous, ridiculous , how even that small touch is a jolt.

I glance at the taco, then back at him. “What is it?”

“Smoked pork belly. Pickled slaw. Peach habanero glaze.”

“That’s fancy.” I laugh, and he rewards me with a smile. Barely there, but it curls slow and wicked, like he’s been holding it back.

“I’m Josie,” I say, because the silence is suddenly heavy in the best kind of way, and I want, need , to fill it.

He doesn’t offer a hand. Doesn’t tell me his name right away. Just tilts his head, watches me like I’m another dish he’s carefully assembling, waiting to see how I’ll taste.

“Knox,” he says finally. “Good to meet you, Josie.”

I take a bite of the taco, and holy hell, it’s fireworks. Sweet, spicy, tangy, and perfect. It shuts me up for a solid ten seconds.

He watches every moment of it.

And when I finally swallow, he leans forward just a little, voice low.

“Careful. I cook like I mean it.”

I finish the taco and hand him the empty plate, licking a bit of glaze from my thumb before I even think about it. His eyes track the motion like it’s a sin, further flaming the heat deep inside of me.

“Okay,” I say, trying to quell my rising passion, “that was stupid good.”

Knox shrugs, casual and cocky. “Told you.”

Someone behind me calls out an order, and he turns to flip food on the grill. The scent of caramelizing meat and charred peppers fills the air. It shouldn’t be sexy.

It really is.

“So,” I drawl, folding my arms and leaning against the edge of his booth. “Where do you sell this food?”

He tosses a smirk over his shoulder. “Nowhere around here.”

The answer is vague enough that it lets me breathe. Seems like he’s just passing through, perhaps working booths at markets all over the state. Who knows? No roots. No strings. Just a stranger with perfect hands and a voice I want in my ear.

“And you?” he asks, his gaze slicing back to mine like he already knows.

I match his tone, also wanting to be mysterious and alluring. “Just checking Silver Peaks out.”

He nods like that’s all he needs to know.

Interesting.

His gaze dips, just for a heartbeat, towards my lips, which are now, somehow, tingling like crazy.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Mia’s encouragement to throw caution to the wind is really getting to me. I didn’t expect my homecoming to be quite like this .

“Here. Have a napkin.”

His hand grazes mine.

Just that. A touch. Bare skin to skin.

But it’s enough to make me inhale like someone lit a match beneath my ribs.

And he knows .

What is this man trying to do to me?