Page 6 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER FIVE

Knox

I don’t make mistakes.

Not anymore.

Not since the day I walked off the field with the weight of a broken team, a busted reputation, and a career the media tore apart like raw meat.

I clawed my way back from the edge, no interviews, no endorsements, no noise. Only silence, sweat, and a rebuilt empire made from steel, stone, and a single promise:

Never let chaos get that close again.

So why the hell is she standing in the middle of my kitchen?

Josie.

The girl who has been on my mind since she snuck out of my bed in the early hours of the morning. Cinnamon sweet laugh. Honey warm smile. The way her body moved under mine like we were made to burn together.

She walks through the door, and time stops.

No apron. No clipboard. No warning. Just her… jeans hugging hips that don’t quit, worn leather boots, and a soft, form-fitting t-shirt that reminds me of all her curves.

Her hair’s pulled up in a messy knot, a few strands falling loose, framing her face like she’s too busy being beautiful to care. And those eyes, wide, dark, startled, land on mine like she didn’t expect to see me any more than I expected her.

She freezes. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted. Like I knocked the wind out of her.

Good. Because she did the same damn thing to me.

The air shifts. Thickens.

Shit .

“You’re the new hire, then?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Her jaw drops. “You’re the boss?”

Yeah. This is a nightmare.

I rake a hand down my face and grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. She wasn’t supposed to be part of this. She was supposed to be a memory. A mistake I could file away and forget.

But now she’s here, standing in the middle of my clean slate kitchen with those damn flushed cheeks and that look in her eyes like this just flipped her world upside down, too.

I expected some cocky culinary school grad or a hotshot trying to make a name for themselves in a mountain town. I didn’t expect her.

Even though, technically, she was the best resume I got. Experienced, creative, local ties. Everything I was looking for.

I just didn’t know she was her .

And now? I’ve got a decision to make.

She clears her throat. Straightens her shoulders. Doesn’t say a damn word about our night together. About my hands on her thighs. Her moaning my name like it belonged to her.

She lifts her chin like she’s daring me to make this weird.

I don’t.

I can’t afford to.

So, I do what I’ve always done when the game starts slipping out of my control. I go cold.

Professional.

Silent.

“Okay, well, I guess I need to give you the tour then. That’s why you’re here, right?”

Josie nods once, quickly.

“Yep. Tour. Let’s do that.” Her voice is chipper, a little too chipper, like she’s trying to smooth the awkward into submission. “Is it… just me?”

I nod.

Just her.

And me.

Marvellous.

I gesture for her to follow and start walking. “Kitchen’s open concept. Central line divides the space. That’s your zone.”

She trails beside me, eyes scanning the high ceilings, the gleaming stainless steel, the dark matte tile underfoot. “You weren’t kidding in the job ad. This is serious.”

“I take everything I do seriously.”

She gives a soft laugh, and damn if it doesn’t curl right down my spine. “Yeah, I remember.”

I shoot her a look.

Her smile is pure innocence. “I meant the kitchen.”

Sure you did.

I stop beside the hot line. “Six-burner Viking range. Double ovens. Salamander broiler. Pass-through is here. Plates land hot, clean, and garnished. You plate like it’s art, or you don’t plate at all.”

Josie whistles low under her breath. “This line’s a dream. I think I fell a little in love.”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Stick to the equipment,” I mutter. “Cold station’s over here. Prep tables, undercounter fridges. There’s a vacuum sealer and a cryo freeze unit if you know how to use them.”

“Do I know how to use it?” she scoffs. “I was flash freezing basil oil before it was cool.”

I glance back. She’s grinning, hands tucked into her back pockets, cocky in that sunbeam wrapped kind of way that makes my chest ache and my pulse tick faster than it should.

“Pastry corner is isolated, near the back wall. Temp stays consistent. Mixer, proofing drawers, double deck convection oven.”

She spins in a slow circle. “I love this. It’s like you designed it to be your own personal spaceship.”

I blink. “It’s a kitchen.”

She shrugs. “Same thing. Function over flash, all the toys in the right place. You even have a tilt skillet. Are you trying to seduce me with industrial-grade equipment?”

My pulse spikes, but I look at her flatly. “No.”

She grins wider.

We pass through the swinging doors into the dry storage area, all clean shelving and labeled bins. It smells like fresh wood, metal, and faint lemon oil.

“Dry storage is sorted by category. Top shelf is for backup stock, third shelf bulk spices, bottom shelf non-perishables.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Whoever stocked this has excellent handwriting. Was it you?”

“Yes.”

Her brows lift like I just admitted to baking cupcakes for orphans. “Impressive.”

Back through the kitchen again, I push open the heavy cooler door. “Walk-in. Cold zones are marked by shelf. Proteins low, dairy up top. Produce far right. Keep your mise clean, and no unlabeled containers. I don’t do chaos.”

“Let me guess,” she says, stepping inside ahead of me, “you alphabetize your spices and fold your socks with military precision.”

“No,” I say flatly. “But don’t test me.”

She smiles over her shoulder, breath fogging slightly in the chill. “You’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”

“Good.”

Another beat. Her expression softens. “But the kitchen? It’s beautiful, Knox. You can feel how much thought went into it. It’s efficient, exactly the sort of place I dreamed of working.”

I don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because something about hearing her say my name again, in this space I built from the ground up, knocks the wind out of me.

We step out, the door hissing closed behind us. The tension wraps back around us like a rope, pulling tight.

Josie clears her throat again, quieter this time. Her fingers trail along the edge of the prep table before she looks up, almost shy.

“I was wondering if…” she starts, then gives a small shrug, like she’s trying to play it off casual.

“Would it be okay if I stayed a little while longer? I want to practice some of the menu recipes. I know service isn’t until next week, but I’d really like to get a feel for the space.

The flow. Work out any kinks before go time. ”

She says it like it’s nothing. Like she’s just another eager chef wanting to prove herself. But her eyes give her away, the faintest flicker of nerves, like she knows staying longer might push whatever this simmering thing between us is that much closer to boiling.

I should say no.

I should tell her this kitchen is closed for now. That I’ve got a schedule. Boundaries. A million reasons why she shouldn’t be here.

But instead, I hear myself say, “Fine.”

She perks up immediately, and damn if her excitement doesn’t gut me a little.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” she adds quickly. “Just a few hours, max.”

“You won’t be in my way,” I mutter.

She beams. “Okay. Great. I brought a few of my notes and some of my spice blends. I thought I might try…”

She trails off, like she’s suddenly aware she’s talking too much.

But I don’t mind. Listening to her talk about food is like watching someone come alive.

“You do whatever you need,” I say, grabbing a clean towel and tossing it to her. “You’ve got the space.”

Her fingers brush mine as she catches it. Just a second. But long enough.

Too long.

“Thanks, boss,” she says, soft and smug all at once.

She turns to wash her hands, and I try to remind myself of every rule I’ve made.

Every line I shouldn’t cross.

But with Josie Dawson still standing in my kitchen I’ve got a feeling I’m about to break every damn one.

I tell myself I’m going to get shit done today.

Finish final walkthrough notes. Approve linen samples. Talk to Martin about the bar height. I still think it looks off by half an inch.

Anything, anything , to keep my eyes off the woman currently perched on a stool at the prep counter, tapping a pen against her lips and scribbling notes like the fate of the free world depends on getting the balance of garlic to rosemary exactly right.

Josie’s hair is twisted up into some kind of bun that’s already coming loose, dark strands falling around her neck. She’s wearing a black apron with that damn T-shirt underneath. There’s flour smudged on her cheek. A little on the tip of her nose.

She looks like a mess.

She looks dangerous.

I try not to stare. I try like hell.

But I still notice she hums while she works. Still notice her handwriting is a chaotic mix of cursive and print. Still notice the way her tongue slips out and touches her bottom lip when she’s thinking.

I adjust the settings on the induction burner for no reason at all and force myself to focus on my own notes. The space smells like burnt sage and roasted tomatoes. She’s working through the dinner concept today. Testing pairings. Flavor profiles.

And I’m standing here, a grown ass man with a multimillion dollar investment on the line, and I can’t stop glancing up to watch her.

Pathetic.

The kitchen door swings open, and thank fuck, it’s Nova.

My assistant is carrying three folders, a phone in one hand, and an iced matcha in the other. Her oversized sunglasses are still on despite the fact that we’re indoors, and she looks like she walked off the set of a very expensive reality show. And probably did.

“Okay,” she announces, dropping the folders with a satisfying slap onto the counter. “Licensing updates, staffing schedules, and your itinerary for the week, which includes your long overdue deep tissue appointment at Boulder & Bloom. You're welcome.”

I grunt. “You booked it?”

“Yep. Dr. Jameson said it was that or more PT,” she says sweetly, not bothering to hide the smirk pulling at her lips. “You’ll thank me after you’ve been pummeled by an Estonian woman named Alina who speaks only in grunts and firm pressure.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Looking forward to it.”

Nova sets the drink down with a flourish. “You’re welcome. I also scheduled a sound bath, but I figured you’d fire me if I told you before the masseuse.”

I shoot her a look.

“Noted,” she deadpans. Then, without missing a beat, she glances over her shoulder toward Josie. “So. She’s hot.”

“Nova.”

“I’m just saying. Distracting.”

“She’s a hire.”

“One you keep looking at,” she adds, voice low.

I grit my teeth. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She raises a brow. “You’re not exactly subtle, boss. I’ve worked with you for years . I can tell when there’s a vibe between you and someone else.”

I say nothing.

Because she’s right.

She’s always been perceptive when it comes to me.

I am distracted. And it’s a problem.

Josie doesn’t look over. She’s focused. Calm. In control. Like nothing ever happened between us.

I envy the hell out of that.

“Fine,” Nova says, finally taking pity on me. “I’ll go harass Martin. But you owe me dinner. And no, protein powder doesn’t count.”

“Deal,” I mutter, already half distracted again as she slips out the door.

Back at the counter, Josie’s still working, still humming.

I tear my eyes away and grab my own notes.

Focus.

No distractions.

No mistakes.

Even if the biggest one I’ve made in years is standing fifteen feet away and smells like rosemary, rain, and whatever it is that keeps me up at night.