Page 13 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Knox

There are worse places to face your demons than a private chalet perched on a mountainside.

I stand waist deep in an icy plunge pool, the kind of cold that bites through skin and memory. Steam curls off me like smoke as the sun claws its way over the Rockies. I focus on my breathing.

Slow. Steady. Pranayama.

“Discomfort isn’t danger,” I mutter. I don’t know if Robbins said it or Wim Hof, but either way, it sounds dumb when my balls are threatening to relocate to my lungs.

Sixty seconds.

Done.

I haul myself out, water streaming off my chest, and grab the towel waiting on the stone ledge. My muscles scream in protest, but that’s the point. The pain makes me sharp.

Focused. Alive.

Inside, the chalet is warm, all clean lines and rich wood, glass walls that make the outside seem like it’s pressing in. It's quiet. Safe. My kind of fortress.

By five, I’ve downed my morning matcha smoothie, kale, chia, collagen, and whatever other green shit Nova preps for me, and then I’m deep into my strength circuit in the gym downstairs. The weights are cold, heavy, familiar. No surprises here.

I’ve got a full setup at home, but sometimes I train at the Iron Core Gym in town, mostly when Alan is training. Ex-Marine, keeps his head down, doesn’t ask questions. I like that. We don’t talk. We just lift. Bro therapy without the awkward emotions.

I rack the bar and check the time.

Still too early to deal with what I really don’t want to think about.

Josie .

Last night wasn’t just business. No matter how hard I try to spin it.

I told her it had to stay professional. That I was her boss. That we couldn’t let it happen again.

But then I went and made it happen again myself.

And now I don’t know what to do about it. This is too messy. Too unprofessional. But I can’t stay away.

Because the truth is, I already think about her too much.

And that’s the problem.

I’ve been sober for two years. Built this new life with discipline and ritual because without it, I would fall apart. The old me? He partied hard, loved recklessly, and left destruction in his wake. That guy doesn’t get to come back.

Now I do the work. I meditate. I journal. I listen to mindset podcasts and read stoicism before bed. I do yoga. I take cold plunges for clarity, and meal prep like it’s a religion.

I’m practically a monk.

A really grumpy, jaded, heavily tattooed monk who still swears too much and hates being vulnerable.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Somewhere between Tony Robbins and a thousand therapy sessions, I turned into the kind of guy who preaches about purpose and still grumbles his way through gratitude.

But none of that changes the way I felt last night.

None of that makes Josie less of a problem.

And right now? I don’t need another problem.

What I need is coffee. A plan.

And a hell of a lot of distance between me and the girl who’s starting to feel like home.

I’ve decided to start leading morning strength classes for the kitchen crew. Not because I have extra time or enjoy group workouts, I don’t, but because the idea won’t leave me alone.

Physical strength builds mental resilience. I believe that down to my bones. The kitchen’s a battlefield. You can’t lead with shaky hands and a tired mind.

It took a little convincing. I pitched it as "team conditioning," kept the pitch short, and promised coffee after. Bribed Wes with protein shakes, dared Toni to out-plank me, told Nova it would give her the arms she’s always wanted.

I also think some of them like the idea of being trained by an ex-NFL player.

I don’t mind. Whatever it takes, I think it’s a good idea.

Plus, it keeps me focused on anything other than her .

So here we are. 6 a.m. on the dot. The gym space above The Marrow smells like rubber mats, stale sweat, and determination.

Most of the regulars have shown up: Wes, my sous chef who secretly likes kettlebells more than baking, and Toni, who works pantry but trains like she’s prepping for a Spartan Race.

Then there’s Gracie, red-faced but quietly fierce in the corner, lifting with the kind of silent intensity that makes me respect the hell out of her.

We’re halfway through warm-ups when the door swings open.

And in walks Josie.

Late. Which isn’t like her.

On time for work, but not for this. Interesting.

She’s wearing a slouchy hoodie with a cartoon ghost on the front and leggings patterned with tiny donuts. Her hair’s in a messy ponytail, and she’s got that look on her face, eyebrows lifted like, What the hell is this, and how did I end up here?

I swear, my pulse spikes like I’ve been hit with a defibrillator.

“Nice of you to join us,” I say, careful to keep my voice dry. Calm. Not at all affected.

She shrugs, strolling in like it’s a brunch date and not a 6 a.m. grind. “Relax, Coach. I’m only here to observe. You know, document the chaos. Maybe take notes on how much pain Wes is in.”

Wes flips her off. She grins.

And I’m already in trouble.

Because my body reacts before I can stop it. Heat flares low in my gut, intense and fast, like it always does around her. Doesn’t matter that I’ve just crushed two hundred pounds on the bar. She walks in and suddenly I’m off balance, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse.

I try to ignore it. Run them through the warm-up. Keep my eyes on the clock, the form, the rhythm.

But she steps onto the mat anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, Josie’s down in a plank, hair sticking to her neck, cheeks flushed, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like: “I swear, if he makes us do another burpee, I’m launching a full-scale kitchen mutiny.”

“Talking burns extra calories,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

She flips me off without lifting her head.

And damn if I’m not lighter these days.

Because she’s keeping up.

No, she’s thriving . Her form’s rough, sure, but she doesn’t quit. She glares through push-ups like they’ve personally insulted her. Groans through jump squats like she’s summoning a demon.

But she doesn’t stop.

When the last round ends, the crew collapses onto the floor, panting. Josie rolls to her back and stretches her arms out like she’s about to be airlifted.

“I hope you realize,” she gasps, “if I die from this, my ghost is going to haunt your protein powder.”

I chuckle before I can stop myself. Just a low rumble in my chest, but it’s real.

God help me.

She’s chaos in donut leggings. And somehow, she keeps finding ways to get under my skin, deeper than anyone ever has.

And again, she amazes me.

Not just because she kept up. Not just because she did it with zero prep, questionable footwear, and a running commentary of complaints. But because she did it with heart.

Real grit.

The kind you can’t teach.

After the class, I stay behind to wipe down equipment, give a few form tips, and make sure no one’s passed out behind the squat rack. Josie lingers near the water cooler, towel draped around her neck, sipping from a bright purple bottle that says Bite Me in sparkly lettering.

I should walk away.

I should .

Instead, I walk over to her like I don’t already spend every waking moment trying not to look at her lips.

“You kept up,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Didn’t think you would.”

She lifts one brow, breath still a little short. “What, because I’m late and cute and allergic to seriousness?”

“Something like that.”

She takes another sip, eyes narrowing like she sees more than I want her to. “Well, jokes on you, Coach Knightly. I’m made of spite and stubbornness. You put me in a room and tell me I can’t hang? I will hang. I’ll hang ‘til I pass out and take someone down with me.”

I almost laugh again.

But her tone shifts slightly. Light, teasing, but… probing.

“And here I thought you didn’t believe in mixing business and pleasure,” she says, tilting her head just enough to make it feel like a dare.

I pause.

The air tightens between us. Thickens. There’s a tension I can’t shake, a weight that sits between us like it’s waiting for me to either step forward or bolt.

She’s testing me.

And for a second, I let myself settle into her goading.

My eyes drift over her face, flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to her jaw, a spark in her expression that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. And I’m wrecked.

No one gets under my skin like this. No one’s gotten this close in years.

And now that the gossip has died down, it doesn’t seem like anyone is watching anymore.

I don't mean to say it. Don’t plan it. But the words fall out before I can stop them.

“You want to come by my place after work?”

Josie blinks.

Then her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Wow. Was that an invitation, Knightly?”

I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Drinks. I’ve got this new alcohol-free bourbon that actually tastes like something besides regret.”

She hums, like she’s pretending to think about it. “Drinks with the boss. At his house. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Plenty,” I mutter. “But the view’s decent.”

And just like that, she nods. “All right. Why not? Lead trainer by morning, host by night. Very Tony Robbins of you.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, don’t think I’m going to start smiling or anything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” she teases, walking backward toward the locker room, towel flung over her shoulder like a cape. “You’ve got the soul of a disgruntled walrus.”

She winks as she walks away, stirring everything up.

Now I’ve got a whole day ahead of me, a kitchen to run, a restaurant to manage, and a thousand chances to talk myself out of this…

…this thing that’s barreling forward like a train I can’t stop.

But she’ll be at my place tonight.

And that thought alone is enough to make the day feel dangerous.

And alive.