Page 23 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Knox

The morning hits quieter than I expected.

Sunlight pours through the windows, catching on dust motes and the steam curling out of my coffee. Josie’s scent still lingers on my skin, like vanilla and sweat.

I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I dropped her off last night. Her breathless voice. The way she shook when she came apart for me. The part of me that came unglued right along with her.

I rub a hand over my jaw and shake it off.

Too early to start unraveling that.

Instead, I step outside with my coffee and find Jace already out in the yard, lazily tossing a football from hand to hand like he’s been waiting for me.

He smirks. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

I grunt. “Morning to you too.”

“Late night?” He gives me a look. “You and Josie.”

“None of your damn business,” I mutter, but I can’t help the way my mouth tugs into something close to a grin.

He barks a laugh and tosses the ball to me. “That’s what I thought.”

I catch it with one hand, let it spin in my palm. The weight’s familiar. Comforting. The way it always is with Jace. He’s the only one from the old days who stuck. The only one who never asked for anything I wasn’t ready to give.

We start throwing. Easy, back and forth across the yard. Cold morning air in our lungs. The kind of quiet where you don’t need to fill it.

But of course, Jace fills it anyway.

“You ever think about what it would’ve been like if you’d never blown out your knee?” he asks. “Like… how different your life would be?”

I tighten my grip on the ball. Fire it back harder than necessary. “Not really.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters, catching it like it’s nothing. “You think about it all the time. You just don’t talk about it.”

I shrug. “Talking about it doesn’t change anything.”

He huffs a dry laugh. Then his gaze sharpens a little, landing on me.

“You and Josie. Is it serious?”

I pause.

The truth is: I don’t know what we are. But last night felt like more than just sex. It felt like a line was crossed. Like I opened something up that I can’t close again.

So I give him the only answer that feels honest.

“It’s starting to feel like it.”

Jace nods, thoughtful. “She’s good for you.”

“She’s not just good for me,” I say before I can stop myself. “She’s… good. Period.”

That earns a look. One of those rare, quiet moments from Jace where I can see exactly how much he understands.

“You’re not gonna screw it up,” he says. “You’ve changed.”

“Not enough.”

Jace tosses the ball again, slower this time. “This isn’t like Savannah.”

I catch it, but the mention of her name slams into me harder than the pass ever could. I look up, eyes narrowing.

“No,” I say, voice flat as I return the ball. “It’s not.”

Jace jogs a few steps closer, rolling the ball between his hands. “That whole thing with her. It was never real, man. Not in the way this is shaping up to be.”

I exhale slowly. “You always hated her.”

“Because I saw what you couldn’t. Or maybe what you didn’t want to.” His tone’s low but steady. “She liked the cameras. Liked the attention. Liked you for what you were . The name, the fame, the lifestyle. Not for who you actually are.”

I stare at the ground, jaw ticking. “Yeah. I didn’t want to believe it at first.”

“Of course not. She played the game well. Said all the right things, looked good on your arm, knew exactly how to turn it on for the press. But behind closed doors?” He shakes his head. “She didn’t give a damn about you, man. Not really.”

“She didn’t even try to hide it by the end,” I mutter. “Made me feel like I was always one misstep away from being replaced.”

Jace nods. “Because to her, you were.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we aren’t saying.

“Josie’s not like that,” I say finally, the words sticking a little in my throat, not because I doubt them, but because of how much I don’t . “She doesn’t want anything from me. Not my name. Not my money. Hell, she didn’t even know who I was the night we met.”

“Exactly.” Jace’s voice softens. “She sees you. The real you.”

I glance away, throat tight. “Scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Yeah, well. That’s how you know it’s worth something.”

We fall quiet again, the ball dangling between us.

And I realize, this thing with Josie, it’s already different. Because I’m not performing. I’m not chasing something or trying to hold onto what I already lost.

I’m just me.

And that might actually be enough.

By the time I get to the restaurant, Josie’s already here.

She’s usually humming to herself, sleeves rolled up, smile playing on her lips, moving through the kitchen like she owns it. Today, she’s dead silent. Hair pinned back tight. Head down, focused on her station like it’s the only thing holding her together.

I clock it instantly. The shift. The space that wasn’t there yesterday but feels miles wide now. Dread settles in my gut. I thought things were different between us now. I thought we’d moved past this icy distance that feels like a chasm keeping us apart.

“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice easy.

She doesn’t look up. “Morning.”

Just that. No smile. No teasing spark in her eyes. Just quiet, clinical calm.

I set my thermos on the counter and wash my hands, giving her a beat. But she doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even flinch when I move into the space beside her.

I can’t tell if she’s trying to pretend nothing happened or if she’s waiting to see if I will.

We work in silence for a while. Her chopping herbs like a machine, me rubbing down the racks of ribs I prepped yesterday. The sounds of the kitchen feel too loud—metal clanks, knife on wood, the hum of the fridge kicking on.

It’s not usually like this.

“So,” I finally say, clearing my throat, “everything good?”

She nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Right.

I don’t call her on it. Not yet. But I glance at her hands, noticing the way her knuckles are white around the knife. She’s holding everything too tight today.

I keep my tone light. “You forget to sleep or something?”

She lets out a dry little laugh. “Something like that.”

We fall back into silence. Tension swirling under the surface, like a pot about to boil over.

I could say something. I should say something.

But the way her shoulders stay tense, the way she won’t quite meet my eyes. I don’t know if she needs me to talk or to back off.

I choose neutral ground to bring us back to what we both know best. “Any thoughts on the new menu draft?”

Her eyes flick to mine for half a second. “It’s good. The trout confit might be too rich as a starter, but the flavors are great.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same.”

We talk food. Safe, familiar ground. She critiques my balance of lemon and thyme like it’s life or death. I argue back, just to hear her voice settle into something that sounds more like her again.

But neither of us says a word about last night.

It’s there, though. In the way she won’t quite meet my eyes. In the way I keep glancing at her without meaning to. In the way our shoulders brush as we pass in the narrow space between prep tables, and neither of us mentions it.

Finally, she leans over the counter, scribbles something in her notebook, and says, “We should probably get ahead on the mirepoix. You want to start on that?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice quieter now. “Sure.”

She doesn’t move right away. Just taps the pen against her page. Then, so quiet I almost miss it, she says, “We’re good, right?”

I look up at her. Her eyes flick to mine and away again, fast.

“Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”

She nods. Bites her lip. Doesn’t ask anything else.

And I don’t offer.

We both go back to work, pretending we didn’t just side-step a landmine.

Pretending we’re still on solid ground.

But the truth is that ground’s shifting beneath our feet.

And neither one of us wants to be the first to admit it.

The kitchen has become a war zone over the last few hours. Knives flashing, pans clanging, fire flaring from the grill. Josie’s on expo, calling tickets like she was born for it. Even when her cheeks flush too red and her hands start trembling on the pass, she waves me off when I try to take over.

“I’ve got it,” she says, pushing sweaty hair from her face. “I’m good.”

She’s not.

I know it, but we’re three orders behind, and my line cook just burned the scallops. So I bite down and nod.

Thirty seconds later, I hear it.

A dull, sickening thud. Then the sound of plates crashing to the floor.

I whip around, and everything in me goes cold.

Josie is down.

Flat on her back, limbs twisted awkwardly, like she didn’t have time to catch herself. Her head hit the tile. Hard. One of her shoes came off. Someone screams. A line cook rushes forward, but I’m already there, dropping to my knees beside her.

Everything else disappears. The kitchen noise, the staff, the fucking tickets on the rail, it all blurs into static. All I can see is her. Pale. Still. Fragile in a way I’ve never seen her.

Terror clamps around my throat like a vice. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I know is that something’s wrong, deeply, horribly wrong, and I need her to open her eyes, need her to tell me she’s okay.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

And in that moment, I swear I’ve never been so scared in my life.

“Josie, hey, Josie, look at me. Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”

She doesn’t move.

Her skin is clammy, lips pale. Eyes rolled halfway back, lids fluttering. Her chest rises, but it’s shallow. Too shallow. Her whole body is limp. Slack. A shiver runs through me like ice water.

“Someone pass me my phone,” I bark. “Now!”

I fumble with my phone, hitting Dr. Theo’s number with shaking hands.

He picks up on the second ring.

“It’s Josie. Who works for me… she collapsed,” I snap before he can get a word out. “She’s not waking up. I don’t know what happened—she just, she’s unconscious, man. She hit her head.”

“Is she breathing?” Theo’s voice sharpens.

“Yeah. Yeah, but it’s weak. She’s clammy. Pale as hell. Pulse is thready.”

“Knox, listen to me. Get her flat on her back. Elevate her legs, use a crate, towels, anything. That’ll help blood flow to her brain. Make sure her airway is clear. Tilt her head back slightly.”

I’m already doing it, shoving a bundled apron under her legs, adjusting her head so she’s not choking on her own tongue.

“She hit her head when she fell,” I choke out. “There was a crack. I heard it.”

“I know it’s scary,” Theo says calmly. “But if she’s breathing and there’s no seizure activity, she likely fainted. From dehydration, exhaustion, or a drop in blood pressure. Keep her cool. Get a fan on her. Cold rag on her neck. Do you have Gatorade or juice in the kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“When she comes to, get something with sugar in her. Slowly. But if she doesn’t wake up in the next five minutes, call 911. I’ll be there as fast as I can, but you’re her first line right now. You hear me?”

“I’ve got her,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’ve got her.”