Page 7 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER SIX

Josie

I survived.

Barely.

Day One at The Marrow, and I didn’t cry in the walk-in fridge, so that’s a win. Sure, my new boss has all the warmth of a glacier, but I made it.

I didn’t spill anything. I didn’t drop anything. I only burned myself once.

And most importantly, I did not blurt out, “Hey, are we going to talk about the fact that we’ve seen each other naked or what?”

So. Total. Victory.

I sling my tote bag over my shoulder and head out the back, taking a long breath of cool mountain air. The sun’s already dipping, leaving Silver Peak in that gorgeous evening light that makes even dumpsters look kind of magical. I’ve definitely missed that .

I’m halfway to my car when it happens.

I hear a whuff .

A blur of motion. A warning bark.

Then, bam.

I’m hit.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

A giant furry missile crashes into the backs of my knees, and I yelp as gravity abandons me. My feet fly out from under me, arms flailing, the world tilting sideways.

But I don’t hit the pavement.

Because he’s there.

Knox.

I don’t even see him coming, but suddenly his arms are around me. He must’ve run, sprinted across the lot, catching me just in time. My back slams hard against his chest, knocking the breath from my lungs.

One arm wraps tight around my waist, the other braces under my ribs. I’m plastered against him, heart pounding, breath caught, brain short-circuiting.

He’s warm. Solid. He smells like pine and firewood and a danger I probably shouldn’t want.

“Shit,” he mutters, holding me against him like I might still fall. “You okay?”

I nod. Or maybe I shake my head. Hard to tell with my brain rebooting.

Then I realize how close we are, and I twist in his arms, turning to face him.

Our eyes lock. His jaw is tight, brows drawn low. His hands are still on me.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

His jaw is clenched, muscles twitching like he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret. His brows are drawn, his stormy eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for damage. One hand still rests on my waist, fingers flexing once before going still.

I blink up at him, heart in my throat.

He frowns down at me like I’ve personally offended his entire bloodline.

I realize, belatedly, that one of my legs is half wrapped around his. My hair is tangled in the top button of his Henley. One of my sneakers is missing. My tote bag is somewhere.

And then, from the corner of my eye, I see movement.

A giant, shaggy golden retriever bounds into view, tail wagging so violently his entire back-end wiggles with the force of it.

“Oh wow,” I gasp, eyes wide. “You have a dog.”

“That’s Tuck,” Knox mutters, loosening his grip like he’s afraid he’ll combust if he doesn’t. “He’s enthusiastic.”

“You think?” I wheeze, still mostly draped across him. “I think he cracked a rib with his joy.”

“You flailed,” he deadpans, jaw still tight, but an intensity flickering behind his eyes.

“I’m five-foot-three and fragile,” I huff.

He sighs, long-suffering and low. Like I’m both a headache and a habit he can’t shake.

I attempt to step back, but realize my hair is still stuck on his shirt.

“Oh no,” I whisper, reaching up. “I’m caught. I’m caught. This is how I die.”

“You’re not dying,” Knox mutters, hands hovering awkwardly like he’s not sure where to touch. “Hold still.”

“Are you gonna cut it?” I gasp. “Please don’t cut it. It’s finally growing out after that time I tried curtain bangs and ruined my life.”

He says nothing. He gently works his fingers into the knot and untangles it, one careful move at a time. His hand brushes my neck, and I shiver. Like a whole body, embarrassing kind of shiver.

His jaw clenches. Mine drops.

The tension between us is suddenly so thick it could be served with a ladle and a side of crusty bread.

We’re too close.

And I think, oh no, I think we might kiss.

Because he’s looking at my mouth. And I’m looking at his. And our mouths are dangerously… mouthy.

We are this close to kissing.

Like, if one of us hiccups, it's happening.

Then…

“No way, this lighting is insane ! Jude, tell me you’re recording!”

I shriek. Not like a cute little gasp. A full-body banshee shriek that echoes off the alley walls and probably scares a nesting bird out of a gutter somewhere.

Because standing ten feet away with a tripod and a ring light in hand are Eli and Jude. Silver Peak’s answer to the FBI, TMZ, and TikTok’s chaotic good energy, all wrapped in pastel beanies and vintage windbreakers.

Mom raves about them because of all the good they’ve done for the inn.

For the town, really, because of their social media expertise.

Expertise I’m now seeing firsthand.

They are so sneaky. How the hell did we not see them?

Shit .

Knox stiffens.

I try to wrench myself away from him, but in my panic, I somehow end up climbing him? One of my hands lands right on his pec, like, his actual muscley chest, and the other flails around uselessly like I’m doing a sad interpretive dance called Oops, My Dignity.

“Don’t move!” Jude calls out, camera already zooming in. “This is gold .”

“We didn’t even have to stage it,” Eli beams, already typing furiously on his phone. “ #LoveInSilverPeak . Hashtag candid, unscripted, hashtag we’re just coworkers my a… ”

“We are not a thing!” I blurt, shoving off Knox, who mutters something like finally under his breath.

“Totally,” Jude says, nodding while still filming. “So natural. So raw. The tension? Palpable. You guys got enemies-to-lovers energy. We’re obsessed.”

Eli’s now circling us with the camera like he’s directing an indie romcom for Sundance. “We’re doing a whole behind-the-scenes Silver Peak Series , and Knox, you’re a celebrity.”

Knox looks like he’s debating walking directly into traffic.

What the hell is he talking about?

Tuck, meanwhile, chooses this moment to lie down dramatically across my feet like he’s claiming me. Or maybe apologizing. Or maybe both.

“You got that?” Eli whispers to Jude.

“Already edited and uploaded,” Jude grins. “Should we add sparkles?”

I open my mouth to object, somehow , but Eli holds up a finger. “Too late. It’s already live on Stories. And the main grid.”

“What grid?!” Knox growls.

“The Silver Peak Now Instagram,” Jude says helpfully. “You follow us, right?”

Knox’s silence is answer enough.

“I can tag you!” Eli adds cheerfully. “Or just tag your dog. What’s his handle again?”

“He doesn’t have a handle.”

“He does now,” Jude says, typing. “@TuckTheGoodestBoy.”

Knox turns slowly to face me, expression grim. “What have they done? Is it really online already?”

I glance down at my phone, which is exploding. Notifications pinging like popcorn in a hot pan.

“Yup,” I say. “That was live. Now we’re town viral.”

Knox closes his eyes like he’s summoning the strength of a thousand stoic ancestors.

“And before you ask,” I add quickly, “no, I didn’t plan this. I’m not scheming. I don’t even know how to make a reel.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d do this.”

Jude and Eli high-five like matchmakers who’ve sealed a deal with the universe. Tuck barks joyfully, oblivious to the storm he’s caused as Knox leads him to his car and away from all of this .

And me?

I stand there, pink-cheeked and mortified, my hair still half falling out of its bun, one sneaker still missing, a viral hashtag apparently hanging over my head.

…and all I can think is, Crap .

I’m pretty sure my mom is active on Instagram.

By the time I limp my way to the car, with my stupid sneaker in hand, my phone is vibrating like it’s trying to escape my purse.

I dig it back out, expecting maybe a few more notifications because of Eli and Jude.

What I get instead is Maya, blowing up my screen like I just soft-launched a fiancé on Instagram without telling her.

Josie! What. The. Hell!

Is that the food booth guy?? Are you KIDDING me right now?? THIS is how I find out you’re working for Knox freaking Knightly??? The football thirst trap???

My brain sputters as I respond.

Football?

Eli did say something about ‘celebrity’, but that was a joke.

Right?

I mean, Queen Bea from the bakery is a ‘celebrity’ here. Even my mom is one.

I scroll to the next message, which is a photo of me mid-fall, tangled around Knox like a barn cat in a windstorm, with a giant block of text underneath it.

And there, in Eli’s dramatic caption, I spot it: “Meet Knox Knightly, former NFL tight end turned mysterious restaurateur, bringing his signature intensity (and apparently his blooming romance) to Silver Peak.”

I drop my phone into my lap like it just caught fire.

“ NFL ?” I screech, loud enough to make a squirrel bolt from a nearby bush. “What do you mean he was in the NFL? Like, actually?”

I frantically open the town’s Instagram. The post already has 843 likes, which, for Silver Peak, is basically the population of the entire town. And the comments? Pure chaos.

@GrannyBakes93: I knew he looked familiar! He tackled my grandson on TV once. Handsome devil.

@DogMomLife42: I don’t even like football, and I’d let him ruin my life.

@SilverPeakBookClub: This is better than our last five romance picks combined. Watching closely.

“Why is everyone so invested in my accidental limb tangle?”

I’m yelling at my steering wheel now, which seems unbothered.

Back to my messages. Maya has sent me three more texts in the span of one minute.

Girl, I can't believe I didn't recognize him. He was everywhere for like five years! The ads! The GQ shoot! The way he left the game. Hold on. I’m sending the clip.

Thirty seconds later, a video starts buffering. It’s old ESPN footage: a young, sweaty, intense Knox Knightly standing at a podium, jaw tight, voice low, headlines screaming across the screen like a damn movie trailer.

“I’m stepping away from the game. No further questions.”

I stare at the screen, mouth open, watching this younger, even more cocky looking version of my boss storm off with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for crime dramas and divorce court.

“Are you freaking kidding me?!”

I slept with that guy?

I somehow didn’t know the man I’ve literally had my mouth on is a nationally known sports bro with an emotionally tortured past and probably his own fan wiki page!

Suddenly, the quiet brooding, the total avoidance of eye contact, the way he acted like he was just passing through town. It makes more sense.

My boss is an ex-NFL star trying to live a reclusive, emotionally closed-off existence in the mountains while opening a sexy restaurant with secret pasta.

And I…

I face-planted into his abs in front of the entire town.

Oh no.

What the hell have I done?