Page 41 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Josie

Denver is cool.

Like, surprisingly, actually cool.

I’ve never been here before, and I half expected it to feel like just another big city, loud, fast, anonymous.

But there’s something else beneath the concrete and glass.

Murals blooming across brick walls, coffee shops tucked into alleyways, and rooftop gardens on old warehouses. The energy hums with possibility.

The restaurant is tucked into the base of a sleek high rise, all black steel and mirrored windows.

Inside, it’s like stepping into a culinary spaceship.

Clean lines. Modern lighting. Every surface gleaming like it was buffed thirty seconds ago.

It’s not just state-of-the-art, it’s borderline sci-fi.

“This,” Adela Vaughn declares, throwing her arms wide with a flourish, “is my sacred temple.”

I barely manage to hide a smile.

Adela is exactly as I remembered her from that one chef’s symposium back in culinary school—flamboyant, hilarious, and completely impossible to ignore. Her white coat is tailored like a designer blazer, and she’s wearing a gold truffle shaver on a chain around her neck like it’s a holy relic.

“Is that?—?”

“Of course it is,” she says, striking a pose. “You never know when tragedy will strike in the form of unshaved risotto.”

I laugh, for real. She winks.

The kitchen she leads me through is breathtaking, with glass front walk-ins, automated plating arms, touch screen timers, and a dedicated fermentation chamber that looks like it could launch into orbit.

“You’d be executive sous,” she explains, dragging me past pastry like a kid on a field trip. “Salary’s competitive, full benefits, profit share, and…” she points dramatically upward, “a mezzanine test kitchen. For R\ FYI… your boy is spiraling.

Savannah showed up again. Stirring up more drama than a Real Housewives finale.

Urgh, Silver Peak is DRAMA atm. Hope things are better in Denver. Can’t wait to hear from you

I stop dead on the sidewalk.

Knox. Spiraling.

The words hit harder than I expect. Maybe because I can picture it so easily, his jaw clenched, voice short, temper barely leashed. That storm behind his eyes when things get messy. When he gets scared.

And Savannah?

That name alone makes something inside me twist. I don’t need details. I already know what kind of chaos she brings with her.

I saw the way she moved through The Marrow like it was a stage. I saw the look on Knox’s face when she said his name. Tight, like he was gritting his teeth just to stay civil. He hates it when she’s around. His expression says it all.

But still. She’s there.

Lingering like smoke.

Like she’s not planning to leave anytime soon.

And I don’t understand why.

Because if he doesn’t want her there, then why is she still part of the picture?

I’m gripping my phone like it personally betrayed me when I glance up, and freeze.

Right across the street, towering above the light rail platform near Union Station, is a billboard. Huge. Faded, but unmistakable.

Knox Knightly.

Young, perfect, invincible. LA uniform clinging to his frame, helmet in one hand, that cocky half smirk on his face. The tagline beneath it says: “Unstoppable.”

My breath catches.

Because that man? The one on that billboard? He’s a ghost.

A myth, frozen in time. All bravado and promise and glory.

But I’ve seen the real version.

I’ve seen him barefoot in the kitchen at dawn, scowling at a broken French press. I’ve seen him carry an old man’s groceries across a frozen parking lot without a word. I’ve seen him fall apart, quietly, painfully, when the past cracked open and swallowed him whole.

And I’ve felt him.

Damn, I’ve felt him.

Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he kissed me like he was starving. But the way he held me when I cried. The way he whispered my name like it meant something.

I thought I could walk away. Thought distance would make it easier to breathe.

But standing here, staring up at the version of him the world used to know, all I can think is...

He’s not unstoppable.

He’s human.

And he’s hurting.

I blink hard, shoving my phone into my coat pocket as traffic surges past. My stomach churns. My heart pounds.

This is ridiculous. We aren’t on good terms. We aren’t even talking.

But still…

I cross the street before I realize I’m moving, steps quick and uneven.

Because even if I’m not ready to forgive him, not yet, I’m not sure I can stomach the idea of Savannah Monroe being the one by his side while he falls apart.

Not when I know the feel of his skin at sunrise.

Not when he’s the first person I think of when something hurts, or when something matters.

And definitely not when I can feel him, still, etched into every soft corner of my heart.

I’m not running toward him.

Not yet.

But I might be done running away.