Page 8 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Knox

Damn it, the Internet really is crazy. I mean, it’s been over twelve hours, and things are still spiraling.

I’ve had sprained ankles less irritating than this.

By 9 a.m., I’ve seen the video six times.

By 10 a.m., it’s been forwarded to my phone twice.

By 11 a.m., Nova is watching the video again in my office, her boots propped on my desk like she pays the rent here.

She’s got a pencil stabbed through the braided crown of her platinum hair, her version of a war helmet, I guess, and she’s dressed like a human mood board.

Clashing colors, oversized T-shirt with a giant sun on it, paint-smudged jeans.

A couple of chunky rings flash as she taps the screen, black glasses slipping down her nose while her eyes track every second like a hawk on espresso.

“Play it again and I’m firing you,” I mutter, not looking up from the schedule I’m trying to finalize.

Nova snorts. “You say that every time, and yet, here I am.”

She presses play.

I grit my teeth as my own face fills the screen. There I am, charging in like a linebacker and catching Josie mid-fall, arms around her, her body flush against mine like she literally fell from heaven, or from a surprise tackle by Tuck, but still…

Her hair’s caught in my shirt. Her mouth is open in that shocked little gasp. My hand is right there on her waist like I can’t get enough of touching her.

And then Eli’s stupid, smug voice over cuts in over the clip of the live footage: “Silver Peak’s hottest new chef and our mysterious NFL restaurateur? Looks like things are heating up at The Marrow.”

Nova wheezes. She’s laughing so hard she has to wipe her glasses.

“Man, this town has no chill. I love it here.”

“I don’t,” I say flatly, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s inappropriate. It’s unprofessional. It’s?—”

“Adorable?” she supplies, eyes twinkling.

I shoot her a glare sharp enough to carve a brisket.

“ Mortifying , Nova. She works here. I don’t need my staff’s romantic entanglements being dissected in group chats.”

“You mean your romantic entanglement.”

“There is no entanglement.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she singsongs. “You were one forehead brush away from a full cinematic kiss.”

I slam the folder shut. “It’s not funny.”

Nova finally swings her legs down, sobering a little, though she’s still smiling like she’s trying not to.

“Look, I get it. But this isn’t LA, Knox. This is Silver Peak. People care. They gossip. They make videos with heart emojis and bad acoustic covers of Taylor Swift songs. It’s what they do. But it’s only in town. It’ll blow over.”

I grunt. “I came here to work. Not to be the leading man in someone’s TikTok romcom.”

“You also came here to open a restaurant,” she says pointedly, nudging the folder with the edge of her water bottle. “And newsflash: the ads I’ve run in the local paper are working. We’ve got reservations stacked for opening day, and you know why?”

I don’t answer.

“Because everyone is excited for The Marrow. They need something new here. The concept is tight. And yeah, maybe also because the town thinks their local Gordon Ramsay has a thing for his head chef.”

I scrub a hand through my hair. “Unbelievable.”

Nova grins. “You’re welcome.”

Out in the kitchen, Josie is working. Focused. Smiling at the line staff, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair twisted up in some kind of chaotic, sunshiney bun. She hasn’t said a single word about the video. Hasn’t so much as flinched when someone brought up “the catch heard ’round town.”

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because I remember the way she looked at me. That pause. That tension. The almost kiss that sat between us like a lit fuse.

And now we’re both pretending it’s business as usual. Like my dog didn’t tackle her into my arms. Like I haven’t been thinking about her laugh ever since I laid eyes on her.

I don’t do messy. I don’t do personal.

But somehow, every time she’s near me, I forget that.

Opening night at The Marrow is a calculated storm.

Chaos. But in the best possible way.

The kitchen is humming, line cooks focused, plates flying out with precision. The smell of roasted garlic, thyme, and fresh sourdough is in the air. Every table is full, the bar’s packed, and for a minute, just one small minute, I’m almost at peace.

Then ‘Queen Bea’ Jensen from The Pine Nest Bakery waltzes in wearing a “Bake It 'Til You Make It” apron and wielding a tray of bright yellow lemon bars like she’s officiating a wedding.

“For the happy couple!” she declares, setting the tray directly on the pass with a wink that could break the sound barrier.

I blink at the powdered sugar dust bomb now threatening my entire mise en place. “What?”

Josie, who’s plating a trout dish with way too much finesse for someone pretending not to notice the chaos, barely glances up. “Just go with it.”

“They’re ‘Lovebird Lemon Bars,’” Bea explains with far too much satisfaction. “On the house. And in honor of the cutest gossip Silver Peak’s had since Reverend Harold accidentally livestreamed his colonoscopy instead of his sermon.”

Josie snorts. I nearly choke.

“Also,” Bea adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “Knox, darling. I saw that video. And listen, if you aren’t in love with her, you might want to start, because the chemistry? Whew. Even my sourdough starter blushed.”

She pats my cheek with powdered sugar fingers. Then she sashays off like she didn’t just emotionally bulldoze me in front of the entire kitchen.

Josie, still calm as ever, raises an eyebrow. “You okay over there?”

“I’ve been through two-a-days in a hundred-and-four-degree heat, and I wasn’t this rattled.”

She grins, damn her. “You’ll survive. Silver Peak’s just a little enthusiastic.”

“A little .”

Sure.

Enthusiastic is one word. Unhinged is another.

Maybe this wasn’t the right place for me after all.

But I don’t move right away.

Instead, I stare at the tray of lemon bars like they might detonate, my brain still glitching from Queen Bea’s sugar-dusted prophecy. Josie doesn’t say anything, she keeps her head down, lips twitching like she’s trying very hard not to laugh.

For a second, just a second, I think I catch something else on her face. A flicker. A crack in the easy smile. Like maybe the spotlight’s hitting a little too hard. Like maybe this whole circus act of attention isn’t sitting quite as lightly as she pretends.

But then she shakes her head, hair bouncing, and tosses a garnish on the trout like she hasn’t missed a beat. Whatever I thought I saw, it’s gone.

I must’ve imagined it.

I clear my throat. “She does this kind of thing often?”

“Only on days ending in Y,” Josie says, carefully placing a sprig of chervil on the trout like this isn’t the most surreal moment of my professional life.

“She thinks we’re a couple.”

“She thinks anyone standing within three feet of each other is a couple,” she says, but her voice dips slightly, softer, like the idea isn't entirely unappealing. “I wouldn’t read too much into it. She’s a gossip and a matchmaker.

Or she likes to think she is anyway. You just have to…

” She sighs very heavily. “I don’t know, get through it. ”

“I see.”

“Oop, look, we have another guest.”

I follow Josie’s eye line to find Mayor Willa sweeping in with her dark eyes scanning the place as if she wants to make sure it’s good enough for her town.

She greets every table like a cruise director on caffeine and shouts into the kitchen, “Darlings! This place is divine !” before making a beeline for Josie.

“I expect full participation in the upcoming Pie Parade,” she tells her, hands clasped over her heart. “You’re a star, darling. A culinary revelation! Also, have you and Knox picked your float theme yet?”

“What?”

Josie grins, shaking off whatever was plaguing her before. “We were thinking 'Forbidden Fruit Tartlets.’”

Willa gasps. “ Scandalous ! I love it!”

I might pass out.

Then, of course, Eli and Jude show up like a pair of stylish hurricanes. Eli’s in a mesh shirt and combat boots, Jude’s wearing a “Kiss the Chef” tee that has clearly been altered to say “Kiss the Boss .”

They’re livestreaming within seconds.

“Say hi, Knox!”

I glare.

“Perfect,” Jude says. “Smolder cam activated.”

Josie saves me. Again.

She throws a towel over my shoulder and leans close. “Smile, grumpasaurus. This is good for business.”

And it is.

The restaurant is full. People are happy. The food is being devoured and complimented.

And yet, all I can do is watch her.

She moves through the space like she’s been here forever. Laughing with the staff, chatting with customers, calming the chaos with a flick of her wrist and a wink that probably shouldn’t make my stomach flip.

This isn’t what I’m used to.

My life in the city was all sleek lines and silent elevators. Stainless steel. Contract clauses. Clean breaks.

Josie?

She’s loud. Warm. Infuriatingly quick with a comeback. She knows everyone’s name. Knows who just had a baby, who’s renovating their porch, and who accidentally rear-ended the mayor in the grocery store parking lot.

She fits here.

She belongs here.

And for the first time in a long time, I want to belong somewhere, too.

By the time the last plate is cleared and the kitchen cleaned down to the tile grout, the only sounds left in The Marrow are the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft rustle of Josie’s apron as she takes it off and tosses it in the laundry bin.

She looks exhausted, but glowing.

The kind of glow you get when you’ve pulled off something big. Earned it.

And yeah. She has.

There’s a faint flush on her cheeks as she wipes down her station, her skin dewy with the lingering heat of the line.

A few loose strands of hair have slipped from the twist piled high on her head, where a pencil juts out like some kind of culinary wizard wand.

Her curls are frizzed from the steam, her lips curved in the kind of quiet smile that says we did it.

“Not bad for opening night,” she says, voice low, as if the kitchen might shatter if she talks too loudly.

I nod, drying my hands on a towel. “Yeah. You were good tonight.”

Her eyes flick up. “Thanks, boss.”

The word hits harder than it should.

I clear my throat. “We’re gonna need to keep things professional.”

Josie pauses mid-wipe, her hand still resting on the damp cloth against the stainless steel.

Her shoulders stiffen, just slightly, then she straightens slowly, setting the rag aside with precise care.

When she turns to face me, her expression is composed, calm.

But I catch the flicker in her eyes before she blinks it away.

Her chin lifts. Only a fraction.

She tilts her head, lips quirking in a way that doesn’t quite pass for amused. “Because of the video?”

“And the lemon bars. And the comments section. And the literal heart emojis someone put on the kitchen whiteboard,” I say dryly, folding my arms across my chest like it’ll anchor me. “People are already talking. And I’m starting to see that this town doesn’t do subtle.”

She lets out a soft breath, not quite a sigh, more like she’s releasing something she was holding onto. Her gaze drops for a beat, lashes brushing her cheeks, then lifts again. Steadier now, more guarded.

“Strictly business,” I add, quieter now. “Just so we’re clear.”

The silence that follows stretches long. Taut.

She presses her lips together, nods once, then pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the kind of smile you wear when you don’t want anyone to know it hurts inside.

“Of course,” she says with a bright, easy tone. “Professional’s my middle name. You know, if you ignore the part where it’s actually Marie.”

I almost smile. Almost . But it catches in my chest.

She shrugs, light and breezy, like it’s nothing.

“I should head out,” she adds, already pulling her bag over her shoulder, fingers tightening a little more than necessary around the strap. “My mom’s gonna call and ask how it went, and I’m legally obligated to give her a dramatic retelling or she’ll make one up.”

I nod again, slower this time. “Get some rest.”

“You too.”

She walks to the door, steps measured and sure, but there’s tension in the line of her shoulders that wasn’t there before.

Then she pauses and glances back.

“And Knox?”

I look up, and something about her standing there, looking so beautiful it hurts, makes it hard to breathe.

“Thanks for the job. Really.”

Then she’s gone.

Just like that.

And I stand there, surrounded by empty wine glasses and the faint smell of lemon bars, wondering why the words strictly business taste like ash in my mouth.