Page 5 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

Josie

Mornings at the Timberline Inn are never quiet.

The coffee maker’s groaning like it’s on its last leg, Moose is already thumping his giant tail against the linoleum in anticipation of toast crusts, and my mom is humming Patsy Cline like she’s the headliner at the Grand Ole Opry.

It's chaos, but it’s home.

I’m sitting at the pine kitchen table, nursing a chipped mug of coffee that tastes like comfort and burnt beans, while Dee bangs around the fridge muttering something about how “we’re out of oat milk again, which is probably a hate crime.”

“You live in the mountains, sweetie,” Mom says without looking up from her skillet. “You’re lucky I even let that oat milk nonsense through the front door.”

“Dairy hates me!” Dee protests, pulling out the jar of homemade strawberry jam like it’s an act of war.

“Dairy hates everyone,” I chime in, grinning into my mug. “But we keep crawling back. Like your high school boyfriend, remember him? What was his name Buck?”

“Brock,” Dee corrects with a groan, “and don’t you dare bring him up unless you want me to start talking about your karaoke performance at Stella’s. Yeah, small town. I’ve heard all about it.”

“That was art,” I say, holding up a hand. “That was an emotionally vulnerable performance art.”

“I heard you screamed Alanis like a woman exorcising a demon,” Dee deadpans.

“Don’t be cruel,” Mom adds with a wink, flipping something golden and fluffy in the pan. “I’m sure it was beautiful. The whole night, right?”

My stomach does this weird little lurch.

Knox.

He was hot… fun.

But I’m glad I won’t have to see him again.

Mostly.

Because heaven help me, he was gorgeous .

I never meant for it to go as far as it did. I really didn’t.

But the way he’d pressed me against his door, how he kissed like he needed to shut me up, how his voice went low and gravelly when he asked, You sure about this?

“Holy hell , you’re blushing.”

I jerk back to reality, burning my tongue on the coffee I’d forgotten I was drinking.

Dee’s staring at me over the open fridge door, eyebrows raised and grinning like a damn raccoon who found the cookie jar.

“No, I’m not,” I say quickly, trying to cover my cheeks with the mug.

“Oh, sweetie, yes, you are.” She shuts the fridge with a thump and leans against it, arms crossed. “Who is he?”

“There’s no he .”

“Mm hmm.” She narrows her eyes like a bloodhound sniffing out scandal. “So you’re sitting there, staring into your coffee like it told you a dirty story, looking like your whole body just remembered what good sin feels like, and it’s not about a guy?”

I glare. “Could we not do this before I finish at least one cup of caffeine?”

“Not a chance. You came home glowing. Like, soap commercial, post orgasm, ‘I just made a very bad decision and it was so worth it’ glowing.”

“Dee,” I hiss, trying not to laugh as I glance toward the hallway. “Mom’s literally ten feet away.”

“She knows what sex is,” Dee says with a shrug. “She had us .”

Mom snorts from the stove. “I plead the fifth.”

“Fine,” I grumble, slouching down in my seat. “I met someone. Kind of. It was a one-time thing. That’s it.”

“A one-time thing,” Dee echoes, mock pouting. “Was it that bad, or are you terrified of seeing him again?”

Yes .

“No,” I say instead.

Dee arches a brow. “Which ‘no’ is that?”

The one that means I can still sense the scrape of his stubble on my inner thigh.

The one that means I can’t stop replaying the way his mouth found every place I didn’t know I wanted kissed.

The one that means I woke up the next morning, his sheets tangled around my legs and his scent still clinging to my skin… and I bolted.

Because if I’d stayed, I might’ve actually asked him for breakfast. For his number. For a reason to see that look in his eyes again, the one that said maybe he felt it too.

But I didn’t.

I left.

And now? It’s over.

Right ?

I mean, I have way too much to do to get my life in order to add in complications.

Moose lets out a groan from beneath the table, rolling over onto his back, paws flopped like he’s emotionally exhausted by the entire conversation. I reach down to scratch his belly and pretend my face isn’t on fire.

Before I can respond, the front screen door creaks, followed by the unmistakable shuffle thump of Dale Rucker’s boots on the porch.

“Betty!” he hollers, not even bothering to knock. “Brought my tools! You still got that loose step out here, or were you just tryin’ to get me over for the pleasure of my company?”

“Both!” Mom calls back sweetly.

I glance at Dee, who’s trying very hard not to burst out laughing. Moose lumbers to his feet and trots toward the door like he’s part of the welcoming committee with Mom.

Dee grins as she slathers toast with jam like she’s painting a masterpiece. “So. Big first day, huh? How does it feel to be the town’s newest culinary ingenue?”

I roll my eyes. “You make it sound like I’m starring in a Hallmark movie.”

When Mom returns from giving Dale his job, she sets a plate of eggs and potatoes in front of me with a little flourish, like she’s plating for the Queen instead of her youngest daughter.

“You might be,” she says cheerfully. “Secret restaurant, mysterious new boss, exclusive opening? Come on, Josie, that’s pure small-town legend material.”

“You haven’t even started yet, and people are already talking,” Dee adds. “Mrs. Lafferty told me at the post office she heard your new boss is some eccentric Michelin star guy who bought the old mill and cooks barefoot under the moon. Like a sexy culinary Bigfoot.”

“Oh no,” I groan, sinking lower in my chair. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not,” she says, beaming. “But even if that’s not true, you have to admit it’s kind of cool. I mean The Marrow, Josie. That sounds like the kind of place people in LA have to wait six months for a table. And now it’s here. And you’re working there.”

“Well, I’m just checking the place out today. Not starting work or anything. Not until it opens.”

“And when does it open? I didn’t get a chance to ask you last night. Maya dragged you out of here way too fast.”

“Next week, I think. I hope. Depending on my cooking, I guess.”

“Exciting.” Dee wiggles her brows playfully. “Get me in on night one. I want to taste your food.”

I laugh softly, but my fingers tighten a little around the edge of my coffee mug.

I’m scared. Nervous that I won’t be good enough.

But I have to try, right?

I force a smile as I swipe a bit of jam off my plate with my thumb and pop it into my mouth.

“You’ll be my first official taste tester,” I promise.

Dee leans in. “Damn right I will. But don’t think that means I’ll go easy on you. I’m bringing a scorecard and everything.”

“Great,” I mutter with mock dread. “Exactly what I need. A food critic with glitter eyeliner and a vendetta against dairy.”

She winks. “You love me.”

I stare down at my eggs, trying to will my stomach to stop fluttering like it’s prepping for takeoff.

Because yeah, it is cool. My family is what drew me back to Silver Peak in the first place.

Well, that and the screaming pit of post-culinary school burnout and one too many shifts spent crying into the walk-in freezer.

The job offer was vague, just a call from some young woman saying I’d been hand-picked, with my name passed along by a former instructor who knew someone who knew someone.

No job title, no menu info, no details at all except a start date, a time, and the address of a sleek-looking building that’s been under wraps for months.

And now the time is today .

“I don’t even know what I’m walking into,” I admit, poking at my potatoes. “It could be some underground supper club. It could be a cult.”

Dee shrugs. “As long as there are snacks, cults aren’t the worst.”

“Dee.”

“What?” she says around a bite of jam toast. “You said it yourself, you need something new. And maybe this job is that. A fresh start. No more culinary school, no city chaos, only you and your knives in a really expensive kitchen.”

Mom sits down across from me, folding her hands like she’s about to lead us in prayer. “Sweetheart. You are talented. You’re brave. And you’re ready. This restaurant, whatever it turns out to be, is lucky to have you.”

The lump in my throat is sudden and traitorous.

I nod, forcing a smile, because I want to believe that. I want this to be a new beginning. A real one.

The screen door creaks again, and Dale Rucker leans in with a wave, smelling like sawdust and stubbornness. “Betty, you make enough for an army in here?”

Mom’s already up, bustling toward the door with a warm smile and a spatula like it’s her badge of honor. “Always, Dale.”

Dee lifts her brows at me and mouths, You’ve got this.

I wish I was as sure.

I push up from the table, set my mug in the sink, and square my shoulders.

Time to meet the mystery man behind The Marrow.

I head upstairs to get dressed, heart knocking around my ribs like a warning bell.

No big deal, Josie. It’s just your first day at the most secretive, probably high-pressure kitchen this town has ever seen. No pressure at all.

I stare into the mirror, trying to figure out how to look cool and capable , like I’m not inwardly spiraling.

Eventually, I settle on my go-to chef staples.

Black jeans, a soft gray T-shirt, and my favorite broken-in boots.

Hair up in a twist, no makeup besides a swipe of mascara and lip balm.

Professional, but not trying too hard. Competent. Calm.

Or at least, that’s what I’m pretending.

I throw my bag over my shoulder, press a palm to Moose’s big blocky head, and head out the door to meet whatever this job has waiting for me.

The walk to The Marrow takes me through the quieter side of downtown Silver Peak.

It’s early, so the air still carries that crisp bite of mountain morning, mixed with the faintest hint of chimney smoke and pine.

I pass shuttered storefronts and hanging flower baskets, my nerves ramping up with every step.

When I finally round the corner and see the building, my feet actually slow.

It’s stunning.

Modern, but rooted. All dark wood and matte black metal, with tall windows that reflect the morning light like mirrors. The kind of place that doesn’t ask for attention, it commands it.

There's no sign out front. No welcome mat. Just a single brass “M” embedded into the sleek black doorframe.

M for Marrow , obviously.

M for Mystery .

M for maybe I’ve made a huge mistake .

I take a deep breath and push open the door.

Inside, it’s quiet.

Dim, moody lighting filters through overhead fixtures suspended from exposed beams. There’s a long, dramatic bar made of rich oak, and plush banquettes lining the far wall like a photo out of a design magazine. The open kitchen sits at the back, a bright temple of brushed steel and stone.

My boots echo softly on the polished concrete as I step inside, soaking in the clean lines, the perfection of it all.

And then I see him .

Standing dead center in the kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. M plastered on his T-shirt across his chest.

What the actual hell?

He looks up.

Freezes.

And for a second, it’s just us.

My mouth opens, but I can’t form words. Because what?

This man, this grumpy, hot as sin, one-night stand of a man , told me he was passing through . He made it sound like he was some anonymous traveler, a lone wolf with no ties and no plans.

But he’s here . Standing in the middle of the restaurant where I was hired to work in. The restaurant I came home for.

Knox.

“You work here too?” I ask quietly.

“I own the place.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper.