Page 14 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Josie

I’m limping.

Actually limping.

My quads are staging a full-on protest, my arms might as well be overcooked noodles, and I’m pretty sure I strained something important in my soul. All thanks to Knox “No Mercy” Knightly and his 6 a.m. death march disguised as a strength class.

Weighted lunges before sunrise? Who enjoys that?

Sadists, that’s who.

By the time I drag myself into The Marrow’s kitchen, I’ve sworn a blood oath against burpees, deadlifts, and whatever kind of twisted planking circus he made us do.

But despite the soreness, and okay, maybe because of it, I feel weirdly good. Energized. Focused. Like I proved myself. Or maybe just didn’t completely die. Either way, it counts.

And then there’s him .

Knox is everywhere. Not just present, everywhere . Elbows deep in prep with his sleeves shoved past his forearms, stalking from station to station with that scowl carved into his face like it was chiseled there at birth.

And somehow, every time I look up, he’s already looking away. Or worse, still looking.

We don’t flirt. Not technically .

But then his shoulder brushes mine as I reach for the sauté pan, and neither of us moves right away. There’s a beat, half a second, maybe, where I swear I sense him breathe .

“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “Pan’s hot.”

“So am I,” I shoot back, just to mess with him. The corner of his mouth twitches… almost a smile.

Almost .

Then it’s gone. Vanished like it embarrassed him by showing up uninvited.

Still, the air between us stretches thinner every time our eyes meet. Like delicate feelings being pulled tight and tighter and tighter, and if we’re not careful, it’ll snap.

He’s trying. I can see it in the way he keeps his hands busy, in how quickly he looks away when Gracie floats by, humming along to whatever’s in her earbuds.

The second she’s gone, though, he shifts closer again, like gravity doesn’t care about professionalism. Like proximity is a reflex.

I bump his hip with mine. “If you’re gonna hover, at least pretend to be helpful.”

“I’m supervising,” he mutters, reaching for a spoon that I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need. “Can’t let the sous chef get cocky.”

“Oh, honey,” I say, sweet as sugar, “I was cocky before I got hired.”

But before either of us can lean into it, Nova storms past with a tray of microgreens and a death glare.

Knox straightens like he’s been caught doing something criminal. He takes two full steps back and mutters something about stock rotation before disappearing toward the walk-in.

Spoiler: it’s not working.

I’m not freaking out.

I’m not freaking out.

Okay I am , but quietly. Internally. Loudly. Whatever.

I somehow make it through service without burning a single dish or announcing to the staff that I’ve been personally invited to an ex-NFL billionaire’s lair for post-work nonalcoholic bourbon and probably some emotionally confusing vibes.

No big deal.

Except it’s a huge deal.

And as I head out of the kitchen to change, I swear his gaze follows me. Hot. Heavy. Curious.

Yeah, tonight’s going to be a problem.

And I can’t wait.

By the time I park in Knox’s driveway again, my nerves are bouncing like popcorn in a hot pan.

I’ve been here before. I know what to expect. And still, this place hits like a cinematic gut punch.

The winding road through the pines, the chalet straight out of an elite Aspen brochure, all glass and stone and quiet dominance, it’s the kind of place that dares you to feel unimpressive.

I guess it’s just hitting me that he owns this gorgeous place. It isn’t just some vacation rental.

That’s wild .

My beat-up Subaru looks like it needs therapy parked next to his matte black Range Rover.

I clutch my tote bag a little tighter. Deep breath. It’s just Knox.

Just Knox and his broody mountain lair, and the fact that I cannot seem to keep my heartbeat normal around him.

He opens the front door before I even knock, barefoot in joggers and a fitted long-sleeve that makes me forget basic math.

His hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it for hours. He looks unfair. Casual and devastating.

“You’re here,” he says, low and almost surprised, like he thought I might ghost.

“I’m a glutton for punishment,” I reply, breezing past him like I’m cooler than I feel.

That earns me a smirk. A real one. It hits like warm whiskey and settles somewhere behind my ribs.

“You really do live like a retired Bond villain,” I mutter, scanning the space as I step inside, accepting it as his . “Is there a secret escape tunnel or just the cold plunge?”

“Plunge is faster.”

My eyes drift to the massive gourmet kitchen. I point. “I swear if that counter’s been custom-heightened to your wingspan, I’m going to scream.”

“It has.”

Before I can fire back, a happy thump of paws echoes from around the corner, followed by the sound of claws skittering across the hardwood.

Then he appears.

Tuck, full of joy and fluff, lumbers into the room like he owns it, tongue lolling, tail wagging like a metronome on double time. He makes a beeline for me and presses his head into my leg like we’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in years.

“Hey, buddy,” I laugh, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. “You remember me.”

He responds by flopping dramatically onto his side, offering his belly like some kind of bribe.

“He does that to everyone,” Knox laughs.

“He’s a shameless flirt,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I respect it.”

Tuck lets out a deep, satisfied sigh as I rub his chest.

“Drink?” he offers, already moving toward the bar.

“Please.”

He pours an amber sparkling liquid into two lowball glasses. Nonalcoholic, like always. He’s sober. And apparently, I am too, at least around him. Peer pressure never looked this good.

I settle onto the ridiculously plush leather couch while he drops into the armchair across from me, all long limbs and quiet power.

For a second, it’s just us. Fire crackling. Silence stretching. The air thick with what we haven’t said.

“You didn’t think I’d actually come,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

His eyes flick to mine. “Didn’t want to hope.”

And just like that, my chest flutters.

Because under all that control, beneath the muscle and the discipline and the cold steel persona, is a man who still thinks hope might be too much to ask.

And that?

That’s the kind of dangerous that could crash me back to earth with a crude thump.

Because the more I see past the armor…

The more I want to stay.

I take another sip, letting the liquid slide through me. It’s rich and smoky, with just enough of an aftertaste to make me feel like I’m doing something vaguely rebellious.

“So,” I say, swirling the drink in my glass. “Do all former football legends end up in luxury mountaintop retreats? Or is this your version of early retirement?”

Knox leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the armrest. “I think most of them end up in Florida. Golf carts. Bad shorts. HOA meetings.”

I snort. “You’d last about five minutes in a gated community before being banned for brooding too loudly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Brooding?”

I gesture vaguely at him. “You’ve got a whole mood going. Very wilderness monk meets Michelin star.”

That gets the corner of his mouth to twitch again. “You forgot emotionally unavailable.”

“Oh, I assumed that was implied,” I shoot back.

He laughs. A real one. Low and rough and entirely unfair to my nervous system. “You always like this?”

“Charming? Yes. A little mouthy? Also yes. But I’ve been known to scale it back for… I don’t know, royalty or tax auditors.”

He nods solemnly. “Good. Because I have the IRS coming by later.”

I grin, leaning back into the couch like I belong there, like this isn’t the most surreal Thursday night of my life.

Outside, the sky’s gone full indigo. Stars spill over the treetops. The fire crackles softly between us, and the scent of pine smoke curls through the air like a lullaby.

He watches me for a second, then lifts his glass. “So what about you?” he asks. “I’m sure you didn’t mention that you live here when I first met you.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, just like you made out you were passing through .”

He cocks a knowing eyebrow. “Touché.”

I shrug, considering. “Honestly? I love it here. Even when I went to Chicago for culinary school, I knew I’d want to come back.”

Knox tilts his head. “You love your hometown then?”

“I do,” I admit. “I have my family here. My mom, my sister…”

There’s a pause.

“That’s really nice.”

Knox goes quiet for a second. Not the awkward kind, just... still. Like he’s weighing everything behind those glacier eyes of his.

I give him space. Take another slow sip. Wait.

Then he says, “My family’s not really in the picture anymore.”

Soft. Simple. But there’s weight behind it. Like it’s not the first time he’s said it, but it still costs him.

I glance at him, trying not to pry but also not letting it float away. “Not in the picture like... out of state? Or out of orbit?”

A flicker of amusement. Then gone.

“My dad bounced when I was a kid. Mom did her best, but she was dealing with her own stuff. Addiction mostly. She got clean when I was already out of the house, and signed with Michigan. We talk now, sometimes. But it’s light. Holiday cards. A few texts.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but it’s the kind of shrug that means it absolutely does. “It’s fine. Football was my family for a long time. Coaches, teammates, agents. Even the rivals. It was loud and structured and made sense. You knew where to be, what to do, who had your back.”

“And then?”

His eyes drop to his glass. “Then my knee exploded.”

There’s a short silence. Not heavy, just waiting.

I saw something about this online, but I honestly don’t know anything.

“I remember it like it’s in slow motion,” he says, voice lower now. “Final quarter. Big game. I planted wrong. Felt the pop before I hit the ground. Knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it was over.”

“You thought you’d come back,” I say, not a question.

“Yeah.” He lets out a breathy laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Rehab. Surgery. More rehab. I was so sure. I had the best trainers, the best care. I worked harder in that year than I had in my entire life. But my body was done. And I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

I set my drink down, suddenly not so interested in the warmth anymore. “That must’ve been brutal.”

He nods, jaw tightening slightly. “It was like someone ripped out the blueprint. I’d been building everything around that one identity. Knox Knightly, the machine. The winner. The guy who pushed through. And when I couldn’t push through anymore…”

He trails off, and I wait.

“When I couldn’t even run without pain, let alone play, I spiraled. Hard.”

I don’t say anything. I let him have the silence.

“Ended up in LA for a while. Drank too much. Fought too much. Pissed off nearly everyone who cared. Then one night I found myself sitting outside a soup kitchen in the rain, hungover, smelling like bourbon and failure, thinking about how easy it would be to just disappear.”

My heart clenches. I hate that image. Him, alone and wrecked and unraveling.

“What happened?” I ask, almost whispering.

He exhales slowly. “Someone handed me a cup of coffee. Real simple. No sermon. No judgment. Just this one guy volunteering who looked me in the eye and said, ‘You want breakfast, or do you want to help make it?’”

His lips quirk like the memory still stings a little.

“What did you say?”

“I said I didn’t know how to cook.” He looks over at me, then, finally, the barest ghost of a smile on his face. “And he said, ‘Then I guess you’ll learn.’”

“Wow.”

He smiles a little. “Turns out that guy was an elite French chef. The real deal. Said if I could handle a locker room, I could handle a kitchen. I ended up training with him for over a year.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees now, mirroring him without thinking. “You trained? Like, actually trained?”

“Every day. 4 a.m. call times. Knife skills till my fingers bled. He didn’t care about my past, just the plate.”

There’s a kind of intensity in his voice when he says it. Like it saved him. Maybe it did.

“And the shelters?” I ask gently. “Did you continue to help with them?”

“Oh yeah. Doctor Theo Jameson, who I used to work with when I played, helped me expand that. He runs an outreach program for former athletes who are rebuilding. I cooked in those downtown shelters for a while as well. Started as part of the program. Stayed because it felt real.”

I blink, taking that in. “You really have been through a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to mine. “One of the first dishes I put on The Marrow’s menu came from there. We made it with donated ingredients, tried to give people something warm and delicious to eat during some of the most difficult times of their lives.”

And suddenly it clicks.

“The beet risotto,” I whisper.

He looks up, surprised. “Yeah, how did you guess?”

I nod. “It’s mine now on the rotation. I knew it felt personal.”

He smiles, and this one doesn’t vanish. It stays. Settles in like it belongs.

There’s a moment, thick and real, stretching out between us.

“You’re not what I expected,” I say, voice barely above a breath.

Knox leans back, his expression softening in a way that makes my pulse skip.

“Neither are you.”