Page 35 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Josie

I stand outside The Marrow for a solid three minutes before opening the door.

The late afternoon sun filters through the front windows, catching on the polished copper fixtures and the soft flicker of candlelight at each table. Everything inside looks calm. Peaceful. But my heart is anything but.

I press my hand to my stomach, which has become a habit of mine, and exhale slowly.

Okay. You can do this.

I’ve run through a hundred versions of how I’ll say it. In the mirror this morning, while brushing my teeth. Out loud while driving here with Maya’s hand on mine. Whispered under my breath while unpacking knives in the prep kitchen.

Knox, I need to talk to you.

No, too serious.

I found out something unexpected.

Nope. Too vague.

So, funny story. Turns out I’m pregnant. With your baby. Surprise!

Shit, Josie.

I tug my coat tighter and step inside.

The familiar scent of roasted garlic and lemon thyme hits me like a hug. The low thrum of jazz in the background. Toni’s laugh from the kitchen. This place is part of me now. I should feel safe here.

But as I step farther in, my gaze lands on a woman seated at Table Seven, and my whole body goes cold.

Long legs. Creamy cashmere. A blowout so perfect it belongs in a hair commercial. She’s radiant in that casually expensive way that says she’s never once Googled “how to get wine out of thrifted flannel.” She’s laughing.

And across from her, like some nightmare I didn’t see coming, is Knox.

He’s not laughing. Not smiling. He’s tense, arms folded, jaw tight, but he’s there. With her.

Who is that?

She turns that glossy magazine smile on me and waves like we’ve met before.

“You must be Josie,” she says, standing with the grace of a runway model. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I blink. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“I’m Savannah,” she continues, breezing forward with one manicured hand outstretched. “An old friend.”

Old friend.

What the hell does that mean?

My palm itches, but I don’t reach for hers. Instead, I find my voice, thin, tight, barely there.

“Hi.”

That’s it. Hi .

Knox rises slowly behind her, his eyes on me like I’m a ghost he wasn’t expecting to see. He looks shaken. Guilty. Like he knows exactly how this feels, even if he doesn’t understand why yet.

Savannah’s smile tightens a little, just enough to notice only if you’re looking closely.

And I am. Someone help me, I am.

“Knox didn’t tell me you’d be here tonight,” she says with the faintest edge of something territorial in her tone. “What a fun surprise.”

I don’t know if it’s nausea or rage curling low in my stomach. Maybe both. My planned speech evaporates like steam. I need to talk to you turns to dust on my tongue.

“Just getting started,” I say, my voice clipped. “Welcome to The Marrow.”

I pivot toward the kitchen like my life depends on it, because if I don’t get away from them, from her, right now, I might forget how to breathe.

Behind me, Savannah laughs again, soft and melodic.

And when I glance over my shoulder, all I see is her blocking Knox’s path to me.

I get through the rest of the shift on autopilot.

Chop. Sear. Plate. Smile. Repeat.

It’s muscle memory now, my hands moving before my brain can catch up. Which is good, because if I actually think about what’s happening at Table Seven, I might spiral so hard I take a sous vide bag with me.

I keep catching glimpses of them through the pass, no matter how hard I try not to.

Savannah's laugh rises above the ambient clink of glassware and polite conversation, too bright and too loud for a place like this. She touches Knox’s arm when she talks, her perfectly manicured fingers trailing along the ink on his forearm like it’s hers. Like she’s staking a claim.

He jerks away every time.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t touch her back. But he doesn’t get up and leave either.

Every time she leans in with that syrupy sweet, “Knoxie,” something inside me snaps a little more. A wire pulled too tight. A hairline fracture turning into a fault line.

I stab a beet with a little more force than necessary.

Toni notices.

“You good?” she murmurs, sliding up beside me at the prep counter.

“Peachy,” I mutter, slicing through a carrot like it personally offended me.

She gives me a long look. The kind that sees everything without saying a word. Then she moves on, and I’m grateful.

Because if she asks the wrong question, if anyone asks the wrong question, I’ll crack open like an overripe peach and spill across the kitchen floor.

And the worst part?

I can’t even talk to him about it.

Knox has been a wall all night. If he’s even in the kitchen, he’s impossible to communicate with. One-word answers. Clipped orders. That locked jaw silence he wears like armor. He hasn’t looked at me, really looked at me, since I walked in.

It’s like the man who kissed me slowly, who held me like I was breakable and worth breaking for, disappeared the second this Savannah walked through the door.

I carry a plate of lamb out to the runner, and when I pass the dining room, I hear Savannah’s laugh again, soft, low, intimate.

Knox’s eyes flick up.

Meet mine.

Just for a second.

And then he looks away.

Like I’m no one.

Like I’m not carrying a secret that could change everything.

By the time dessert is plated and Table Seven is cleared, I’ve convinced myself I imagined it. The whole thing. The look he gave her. The brush of her fingers on his arm. The weight of his silence.

Maybe I’m overreacting.

Maybe it’s not what it looked like.

Maybe.

“Holy shit,” Gracie whispers, slipping into the kitchen like she’s seen a unicorn wearing red bottoms. Her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed, apron askew like she nearly tripped over herself getting in here. “Tell me that wasn’t Savannah Monroe sitting out there.”

I freeze. The mixing bowl in my hand slips slightly. “What?”

Gracie squints at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You didn’t know?”

“I...” My voice breaks before it even starts. I clear my throat. “Who is she?”

Gracie blinks, then glances over her shoulder like she’s making sure Knox hasn’t suddenly materialized behind her. “She’s his ex, Josie. Like, the ex. The one who was in that article about him. I think she might be the one who broke his heart.”

My stomach lurches.

Ex.

The ex.

I grip the edge of the counter, fingers digging into the cool stainless steel.

Gracie lowers her voice. “I can’t believe she showed up here.

They were, like, serious. LA power couple kind of serious.

She used to post pictures of him on Instagram with captions like ‘my warrior.’” She makes a gagging sound.

“They broke up right before he dropped off the face of the planet. It was a whole thing. When I was researching him, she was the one who everyone talked about in relation to him.”

I can’t breathe.

Of course everyone was obsessed with them.

Look at him.

Look at her.

She might be the ghost I’ve been feeling between us all this time. The shadow in his silences.

And now she’s here.

Back.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” I whisper. The words slip out before I can stop them, ragged and raw.

Gracie’s face softens. “Jo…”

I shake my head, blinking hard. “No, it’s fine. It’s…” My voice cracks. “It’s not like we were official or anything, right? I mean, it was just…”

A date. Lots of magical nights together. A whole damn future growing inside me.

Gracie steps forward, her hand brushing my shoulder. “You deserve better than a man who can’t see what’s right in front of him.”

I want to believe her.

But right now?

All I see is Knox turning away.

Savannah’s laugh still echoes in my head.

And the weight of a secret pressing against my ribs, heavier than ever.

I step back from the counter.

The kitchen is suddenly too warm. Too loud.

“I need some air,” I murmur, already moving before anyone can stop me.

Because if I don’t get out of here, I’m going to fall apart.

And I don’t want to break where he can see me.

Not when he already looked at me like I didn’t matter.

The cold night air hits me hard.

I don’t have a coat. Don’t have a plan. Just my apron still tied crooked around my waist, and the desperate urge to be anywhere but here.

I take the long way home, letting the quiet streets of Silver Peak wrap around me like a blanket.

The twinkle lights on Main Street blink in cheerful contrast to the ache in my chest. I pass Cold Snap Café, dark now, the chairs stacked, the windows fogged with the memory of laughter, and think about how small this town suddenly feels.

Too small.

So, of course, that’s when I hear the familiar squeak of bicycle brakes behind me.

“Josie?”

I turn to see Bea coasting to a stop beside me, cheeks pink from the cold and from exertion, a beanie pulled low over her curls. She’s got a woven basket on the front of her handlebars filled with what looks like loose lemons and a baguette sticking out like something from a damn Pinterest board.

“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile I don’t feel.

“You okay?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she hops off the bike and pushes it beside me. “You look like you saw a ghost. Or maybe murdered one.”

I huff a laugh. “Something like that.”

She nudges my elbow. “Want to talk about it?”

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

“It’s nothing,” I lie, too easily. “Just a rough shift.”

Bea makes a sympathetic noise. “Ah, kitchen stuff. Must be hard working for a man like Knox. Especially now he’s back in the spotlight.”

I flinch. Just the sound of his name feels like pressing on a bruise.

“I saw him today,” she continues, completely unaware she’s slowly breaking me in half. “With that stunning woman. His ex, right? What’s her name? Savannah something? Total smoke show.”

My jaw clenches. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Bea winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that in a threatening ex comes to ruin everything kind of way . I’m sure it’s nothing. I mean, you’re the one he’s been spending time with, right?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Bea keeps going. “I mean, if she was important, wouldn’t she have been here before? Right? That’s a good sign.”

“Or,” I murmur, “he didn’t want me to know.”

Bea’s face falls. “Oh. Damn.”

“Yeah.”

We walk a few more steps in silence before she says, “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ve seen Savannah trip over a curb while texting. Not her finest moment.”

I want to laugh. I do. But it comes out a little broken.

Bea gives my arm a quick squeeze. “Seriously, though, if you want to talk, or scream into a pillow, or commit mild arson, I’m around.”

“Thanks, Bea.”

She nods and gets back on her bike, wobbling a little before pedaling off with a cheery wave. “Hang in there, sunshine!”

I wave back, barely. Then I keep walking, the cold finally sinking deep into my bones.

By the time I get home, I’m shivering and numb in all the wrong ways.

I peel off my clothes like they’re covered in regret and throw on the softest sweatshirt I own, one of my dad’s old ones that still smells faintly like cinnamon. Then I curl up on the couch with my laptop, flip it open, and start searching.

Sous chef job, Colorado.

Line cook... anywhere but here.

Pastry assistant, Montana.

Hell’s Kitchen prep cook audition, why not?

I apply to job after job. Small towns. Big cities. Places I can’t even pronounce.

My inbox fills with auto replies: “Thank you for applying!”

“Your resume has been received.”

“We’ll be in touch soon.”

Maybe I don’t even want to leave. Maybe this is hormones and heartbreak and panic disguised as ambition.

But I need the option.