Page 10 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER NINE

Knox

The clatter of crates and the scent of herbs hit me before I even round the corner into the back hallway.

Gracie Lin, I assume.

She’s half buried in a stack of Peak Provisions boxes, balancing two trays of fresh herbs with the precision of a surgeon and the expression of someone who’s definitely apologized to inanimate objects before.

Tiny, wide-eyed, and focused like a sniper, she doesn’t notice me standing there until I clear my throat.

She startles so hard she drops a bag of rosemary.

“Oh! Sorry… sorry!” she blurts, crouching to scoop it up like she’s committed a felony against produce.

I raise a brow but say nothing, stepping forward to take one of the heavier trays from her. She looks like a strong breeze could knock her into next week, and we’re in the middle of a prep delivery zone that might as well be the kitchen’s version of a highway.

“You Gracie?” I ask.

“Yes! I mean. That’s me.” Her voice is soft, nervous. She’s got that new kid in class energy that makes me want to look around for the mean girls. “Josie said I could come early to help unload. I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay. If she’s happy to have you here, I am too,” I say, nodding toward the back. “Cold storage’s prepped. You can stage those by the walk-in. Get yourself acquainted with the place.”

She brightens a little at that and disappears like she’s memorized the floor plan already.

Josie was right. Gracie moves like someone who’s worked in real kitchens. No flailing, no fuss, just efficient, thoughtful motion. Not loud. Not trying to prove anything. Just working.

Josie’s got good taste. In flavors. In people.

If I were the kind of man who let himself think beyond that, I’d probably have a lot more to say about what else Josie has good taste in. But I’m not. Because I made it very clear that what’s happening here is business only.

I’m the one who said it.

I’m the one who laid down the line like it’s etched in granite.

Still, that doesn’t stop me from watching the way she moves in the kitchen like it’s her own personal dance floor.

She works fast, clean, precise. Calls out orders with confidence. Jokes with the line cooks. Somehow keeps Gracie steady while also managing to make Queen Bea laugh loud enough to startle Dale Rucker in the next room.

She’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, just… there . And I can’t stop noticing.

The day moves fast. Too fast.

Lunch rush bleeds into early dinner. The kitchen is hot, loud, perfect.

I smile.

This is good .

There’s no press hounding me here. No agents. No calls from my former team or therapists reminding me to “find purpose.” No one waiting for me to mess up. No schedule packed with appearances I didn’t ask for.

Just food. Just the work. Just… this .

It’s almost like I can breathe again.

Josie passes by me with a basket of warm focaccia and a smudge of oil on her cheek. I watch her go, jaw tight. She doesn’t look my way.

Business only.

Right.

I need to keep my eyes to myself, that’s all.

The restaurant finally quiets. Chairs are stacked, lights low. The crew’s gone, Gracie included, off to text Josie about sauce pairings or cat memes or whatever sweet, quiet chefs do after a long shift.

I should leave too. Should head upstairs, shower, maybe read something boring until my brain shuts off. But the lights in the test kitchen are still on.

And so is she.

I find her standing at the counter, one sneaker kicked off, an apron hanging crooked from her neck, tasting sauce from a wooden spoon like it’s the most serious work she’s done all day.

Her brow is furrowed in concentration, bottom lip tucked between her teeth. A smear of tomato across the back of her hand.

She looks cute.

Ugh, I hate that word. It’s not useful. Doesn’t say anything tactical. But it’s the only word I have when I look at her right now.

Cute .

I should walk away.

Instead, I lean in the doorway like I’m not thinking about her mouth. Like I’m not remembering how that mouth felt on mine.

“Need a second opinion?”

She startles slightly, then turns. “You? I thought you only tasted things when they were perfectly plated and photographed.”

“Funny,” I deadpan, pushing off the doorframe. “Let me guess. Garlic base?”

“Yes.” She narrows her eyes, pointing her spoon at me. “But don’t say ‘too much garlic,’ because there is no such thing.”

I swipe a clean spoon from the rack, dip it into the pot, and taste.

I let it sit. Just long enough to be annoying.

“Too much garlic,” I say.

She gasps. “You take that back.”

“Josie, this sauce is one vampire away from an exorcism.”

“You are garlic blind. That’s a medical condition.”

“It’s overpowering.”

“It’s layered,” she argues, hands on hips. “It’s assertive.”

“It’s aggressive.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not a pit bull, it’s a sauce.”

And before I can volley back, she grabs a dish towel and flings it at my head with terrible aim and zero regret.

I catch it easily.

Our eyes lock.

The moment hangs there, charged and bright. Like static before a lightning strike.

She’s still smiling, but it’s softer now. Slower.

“Thanks,” she says, nodding toward the towel.

I don’t hand it back. I hold it. Between us. Stupid, crumpled proof of something that’s a lot like flirtation.

“You ever think maybe this is a bad idea?” I ask quietly.

She tilts her head. “What part?”

“This.” I gesture vaguely between us, the towel still clutched in my hand. “Working together. After, well, everything.”

Her eyes don’t flinch. “All the time.”

We stand there for a beat too long.

I should walk away. I really should.

Instead, I set the towel down and step closer. Not touching. Just near enough that her breath catches a little.

She doesn’t step back.

She doesn’t say a word.

The air is thick between us now, laced with garlic and tension and an intensity way heavier than sauce.

Josie blinks up at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like she’s about to speak, but she doesn’t.

My hand brushes hers.

She flinches, not away, but closer. Barely, like her body’s betraying her better judgment.

I reach past her, slow, careful, grabbing the spoon again. Our fingers graze. Her breath stutters. I taste the sauce one more time. No comment this time, just a distraction. An excuse to stay this close.

“Still layered,” I murmur.

Her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile.

“Still aggressive,” I add, voice lower now.

She swallows hard, eyes flicking from my mouth to my eyes and back again.

And that’s when I do it.

I lean in, just a breath.

Our lips brush.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

Just contact. Static heat and a pause so thick it could split atoms.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

Then her eyes flutter shut.

And that’s it.

The dam breaks.

I crash into her, mouth on hers, hands on her hips, pulling her in like I’ve waited lifetimes. She meets me with equal heat, one hand twisting in my shirt, the other fisting in my hair. It’s not gentle. It’s not polite.

It’s desperate. Hungry.

The kind of kiss that answers questions and sparks a thousand more.

She tastes like fire and salt, like everything I shouldn’t want but do. I press her back against the counter, and she arches up into me, reckless and warm and utterly unforgettable.

It’s not just chemistry anymore.

It’s need.

Desire.

A want that’s bigger than both of us.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.

Her lips are red. Her cheeks flushed.

She stares at me like I flipped her world upside down.

“So much for business only,” she whispers, voice unsteady.

I shake my head slowly, still too close. “Yeah. Screw business.”

And then I kiss her again.

Harder this time.

Because now there’s no going back.