Page 31 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Josie

I wake to the faint smell of cedar and soap.

Knox .

The bed’s warm on one side and empty on the other. I reach out instinctively, fingers brushing a crease in the sheet where he’d been not long ago. My heart does this fluttery thing in my chest, that same traitorous beat that started last night and hasn’t let up since.

My muscles ache in a good way. My body feels heavy, but not sick heavy like it did a few days ago. Just… soft. Used. Cared for.

I sit up slowly, still bundled in the blankets, and that’s when I see it. A note on the nightstand.

I reach for it, stomach flipping like I’m sixteen again and someone just passed me a folded square of notebook paper in homeroom.

Didn’t want to wake you. You looked too peaceful. I’ll see you at The Marrow when you’re feeling up to it. Please rest. You need it. K.

I read it twice, maybe three times.

Man, he’s so him.

Soft in the quietest ways. Protective. Thoughtful. Even when he’s not here, he feels present. Like he’s looking out for me, even from a distance.

I am supposed to be off. Technically.

Doctor’s orders were rest, hydration, and no stress.

But this idea has been building in my head for a while now, and this morning it’s really taken root. I know I won’t be able to shake it.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

The way Knox talked about his nonprofit in Austin when we were at his house. The pride, the purpose. It had lit him up from the inside.

What if that’s something he wants here?

Silver Peak could use that kind of magic, community, outreach, growth. And if The Marrow could be more than a restaurant? If it could give back somehow?

I can’t shake the feeling that it’s important.

That it could matter.

That he might need something to root him here, too.

So I throw on jeans and a soft sweater, braid my hair, and ignore the slight queasiness still curling in my stomach. Just a quick conversation. In and out. Then rest, I promise myself.

Right.

Only, that’s not how it goes.

Because by the time I pull into the lot behind The Marrow, I realize something’s very off.

There are too many cars.

Not just regular weekend busy, opening night level busy. I have to park near the dumpsters, wedged between a Subaru with Texas plates and what looks like someone’s converted van life home on wheels.

I frown, grabbing my bag and heading for the back entrance, stomach tight, not with nerves, but with the first flickers of foreboding.

The moment I push through the door, chaos greets me.

Noise. Heat. Motion.

Nova’s shouting over the pass. Wes is running back and forth between the grill and the fridge. Gracie has flour in her eyebrows, and there’s syrup on the prep counter that no one has time to clean.

“What the hell?” I blink. “What’s going on?”

Gracie doesn’t even look up as she grabs a baking sheet. “You’re supposed to be off!”

“Yeah, I know, but?—”

“We’re slammed!” Nova barks from the pass. “TikTok. Instagram. Something exploded. I blame Jace. Again.”

“What do you mean exploded?” I ask, stepping further in.

Dee gestures vaguely toward the front. “Tourists. Influencers. We’ve got a food blogger from Denver out there right now doing a live stream.”

Nova growls, “And apparently Knox is hot now.”

“Excuse me, now ?” I blink.

“Like, internet hot,” Dee says, deadpan. “There are hashtags. People are ordering the ‘Knightly Biscuit’ just to take pictures of it.”

I peer through the pass window and feel my jaw drop.

There’s a line out the door. People in oversized scarves and sunglasses snapping photos of their food. A woman in a fleece jacket is holding up her baby next to the chalkboard menu like it’s a photo op. And at the center of it all?

Knox.

Hair damp with sweat, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he plates something with brisk, practiced ease. He’s in full command of the kitchen, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that tells me he knows exactly what’s happening and hates every second of the attention.

He’s moving with precision, confident, capable, every inch the chef. But I see the truth beneath the surface. The set of his jaw. The flicker of tension in his shoulders. The way he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes for long.

He’s trying to tune it out. To pretend it’s just another day on the line.

But it’s not.

This isn't what he signed up for either. And yet, it’s found him. Like it always does.

And the worst part? I think it always will.

No matter how much he tries to hide, the world still wants a piece of Knox Knightly.

I mean, he looks good.

But very overwhelmed.

I glance at Gracie. “I wasn’t planning to stay.”

She raises a brow. “No one here was planning for this. You think you’ve got a few hours in you?”

I hesitate. I really did just come in to talk to him. A quick hey, here’s this idea that’s been living in my chest all morning.

But…

I can’t walk away from this. Not with them all barely keeping their heads above water. Not with Knox drowning in cinnamon roll-induced fame.

I grab an apron and tie it around my waist. “I’ve got a few hours.”

Nova mutters, “Thank the freaking stars.”

And just like that, I’m back in the trenches.

I’ll talk to him later.

Right now, I’ve got work to do.

By the time the lunch rush bleeds into whatever this new wave of madness is, I’m drenched in steam, syrup, and existential dread.

It starts small.

A couple from Boulder asks if Knox will come out to “say hi,” clutching a copy of Men’s Health from five years ago.

Then someone requests a selfie with me, because I “work with him, right?” I laugh it off, but something tightens in my throat.

Nova’s halfway through plating when she hisses, “Do you see that guy filming us over the counter?”

I glance up.

He’s holding his phone high, narrating a video like we’re zoo animals performing for the lunch crowd.

“And here’s the backline,” he says to his followers. “Look at how slammed they are. That’s Knox Knightly’s girlfriend on the cold station. Yeah, that’s her.”

My stomach drops.

Gracie looks up rapidly. “Did he just?—?”

“Yep,” I mutter.

Knox snaps his head up, mouth opening to say something, but the guy moves on as quickly as he came, leaving tension in Knox’s jaw that wasn’t there a moment ago.

He glances back at me quickly, brows pulled low, before turning back to his station, ensuring all plates sent out are to his high standards.

More people come in. A few wear jerseys.

His jersey.

I catch a glimpse of one guy in a personalized Knightly cap with a custom shirt that says “Team Knightly.” He’s got a kid on his shoulders holding up a homemade sign like it’s a football game. The sign says, #CHEFLIFEKNIGHTLY.

I nearly drop the water glasses in my hand.

Because this isn’t Silver Peak anymore.

This is something else.

Something loud and bright and hungry. A spectacle.

A sideshow.

And Knox is the main attraction.

I squeeze through the pass with a tray and catch a snatch of conversation at table four.

“He used to be everywhere , right? Commercials, magazine covers, talk shows. It’s wild to see him here.”

“Do you think he’s making a comeback? Or is this some small-town redemption arc?”

Redemption arc.

Like he’s a storyline.

Like we all are.

I feel the panic start to creep in. Painful and hot and rising.

Because I’m not made for this.

I don’t want to be a public interest piece. I don’t want to be gawked at, talked about, or whispered over in coffee shops. I don’t want strangers filming me while I drizzle aioli on a sandwich or asking if I’m “the girl.”

I just want to cook.

I want quiet.

I want home.

And right now? This place feels like the opposite of all of that.

The realization hits like a sucker punch: This is what his world used to be like. Constant. Demanding. Performed.

And I don’t think I can live in it.

Not even a little.

Not if he’s standing at the center of it, drawing me in with him.

My hands are trembling as I wipe down a table, and I catch Knox looking at me from across the kitchen, just for a second.

His expression softens.

It’s the only calm thing in this place.

But even that doesn't settle me anymore.

Because now I know: this might be his world, but it’s not mine. It never was.

So when Nova calls out, “Josie, you good to stay through dinner?” I force a smile and shake my head.

“I think I’ve hit my limit.”

She studies me for a beat, then nods. “Go. We got this.”

I peel off my apron, every movement tight and careful, like any sudden shift might cause the rising anxiety in my chest to splinter. I don’t look back toward the kitchen. I can’t. If I see Knox’s face right now, I’ll lose my nerve. Or worse, he’ll catch the storm behind my eyes.

I slip through the side hallway toward the front, ducking my head and keeping close to the wall like some kind of escapee sneaking out of a too-bright dream.

Almost there.

But just as I near the front door, a girl in faux fur boots and oversized sunglasses blocks my path. She’s got a bejeweled phone case and a pink selfie stick clutched in her hand like a wand.

“Are you in line for a selfie with Hot Mountain Chef?” she asks, smiling like we’re in on the same secret.

I blink at her. My brain short-circuits for a second.

Hot Mountain Chef.

Oh wow.

I muster a dry smile. “No. I’m just leaving.”

She shrugs, turns back toward the table of girls she came in with, all of them dressed like they’re on a lifestyle vlog camping retreat.

I duck out the door before anyone else can stop me, the bell overhead jingling like a laugh.

Outside, the air hits my lungs too hard, too shocking. Like I’ve just surfaced from underwater.

And I keep thinking about Knox.

About the way he looked at me from across the kitchen. About how calm he tried to be in the middle of the storm.

But calm isn’t the same as peace.

I know he hates this. I know it.

And it kills me, because I want so badly to believe we can carve out a life here, something real and quiet and ours.

But maybe that’s not possible when the world won’t leave him alone.

And maybe… maybe loving him means living with that truth.

Even if I don’t know how.