Page 9 of Twin Babies for the Silver Fox (Happy Ever Alpha Daddies #3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Josie

If I ever die of embarrassment, please know that this was the moment that did it.

Not the karaoke incident. Not the one-night stand with my future boss. Not even being flattened by his golden retriever and caught like a flailing squirrel in his arms in full view of two overcaffeinated content creators.

No, it’s the fact that last night was a disaster.

I mean, the food went well and work was fine, but things with Knox, they’re getting so much worse.

I don’t know how to handle the attention from the stupid Silver Peak Instagram.

Everyone seemed to have something to say, and sure, I batted it all away with a smile, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t dying inside.

I bury my face in a throw pillow and groan. “I’m never showing my face again. I’ll become a hermit. I’ll take up beekeeping. Change my name. Live in the woods.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Dee says, standing at the foot of my bed like the Ghost of Chill Vibes Past , wearing a beanie and holding a to-go mug the size of my head. “Now get up. You need pancakes.”

“I need a new identity.”

“You need carbs and perspective.”

She yanks the blanket off me like the traitor she is. “Let’s go. You’ve got a full day of pretending you’re not in love with your grumpy boss ahead of you.”

“I’m not in love with him!”

Dee snorts. “Your blush says otherwise. So does your search history. ‘How to recover from hot boss-related internet scandal’ is not subtle.”

I groan again, but sit up. “I’m going to fake my own death. Just until this blows over.”

“And Miss Lily’s cinnamon pecan pancakes? Girl, be serious.”

Hmm… she’s right about that.

Ten minutes later, we’re sliding into a window booth at Cold Snap Café, which smells like heaven and fresh espresso and also slightly like Mason Prescott’s cologne. Lily, his wife, flutters by with menus, her earrings shaped like tiny frying pans today.

“Well, look who’s back in town!” she chirps, handing me a mug shaped like a moose. “You want the ‘oh honey, you’ve had a week’ special or the ‘tell me everything, I’ll judge later’ breakfast?”

“I’ll take the combo platter,” I mumble.

“Atta girl,” she winks. “Mason! Double cinnamon, and make it a gossip portion!”

From behind the counter, Mason grunts but obliges. I love this place.

Dee stirs her coffee like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Okay. So. Knox.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, we’re talking about it. Because in that Reel, you looked like you were about to kiss him, and he looked like he forgot what decade it was.”

“He said it’s strictly business,” I mutter.

Dee pauses. “Oh, honey. That’s code for ‘I’m panicking because my feelings are making me short circuit.’”

I give her a look. “Dee. He’s a stone wall with dimples. He doesn’t do feelings.”

“And yet,” she says, pointing her spoon at me, “he caught you. He held you. And then looked like he was buffering for ten seconds, trying to decide if he could kiss you without combusting.”

“I’m telling you, it was awkward.”

“And I’m telling you, it was hot awkward. The best kind.”

I drop my head onto the table with a thunk. “I miss when everyone thought I was boring.”

“You were never boring,” Lily chimes in as she sets down two stacks of pancakes the size of small buildings. “You just had your sparkle dimmed. And look at you now! Back in town, running a kitchen, going viral! We love a comeback arc.”

“Oh no,” I whisper into my syrup. “I’m a meme.”

“A sexy meme,” Dee corrects.

I sigh. “You’re both menaces.”

Lily pats my shoulder with a grin. “That’s how we show love around here.”

And I can’t help but laugh, because honestly? I might be humiliated, overwhelmed, and perpetually one second away from tripping over my own emotions.

But I’m also home.

And pancakes help.

Dee insists on walking me to work like I’m being dropped off at kindergarten after a traumatic juice box incident.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says as we step up outside The Marrow. “You just need to walk in there, head held high, and pretend like you haven’t been turned into Silver Peak’s accidental romantic lead.”

I clutch my coffee like it’s emotional armor. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t caught in a slow-mo dip by Mount Rushmore in an apron.”

“You looked cute.”

“I looked stunned and mildly concussed. And everyone has seen it.”

Dee throws the car in park and leans over to squeeze my arm. “You’ve got this. You’re a badass, Josie Dawson. You left town to chase your dreams, and now you’re back, working in a gorgeous restaurant that smells like roasted garlic and sexual tension.”

“Dee.”

“Don’t deny it. I can smell it. Like pheromones and focaccia.”

Before I can throttle her with my travel mug, the front door swings open, and Knox’s assistant, Nova, steps out.

Cool, composed, with an espresso in one hand and a tablet in the other.

She’s dressed in a sleek pantsuit and combat boots, like she’s one well-timed thunderclap away from summoning lightning.

She stops when she sees us, one brow arching in greeting. “Ah, Josie!”

“Uh, yeah.” I step forward, try to look like I haven’t just been compared to focaccia, and offer a hand. “Hey, how are you, Nova?”

Nova smiles, a little sideways smirk that says she could run both a Fortune 500 company and a girl gang. “Oh, you know how it is.” She turns her attention away from me. “And you must be…?”

I swear, swear , that Dee stands up straighter as the spotlight turns on her.

“Hi,” Dee says, smooth and casual in a way she absolutely wasn’t two seconds ago. “I’m her sister. Dee.”

Nova’s gaze flicks to her, and there’s the tiniest pause.

“Well,” Nova says, voice warm but a little teasing, “good to know a bright smile runs in the family.”

Dee grins. “Oh right. Thanks.”

Oh, okay then.

Did that really happen?

I glance between them, watching Dee tuck her hair behind her ear like it’s an accident, it’s not , and Nova casually adjusts the sleeve of her blazer like she hasn’t just been momentarily struck by chemistry.

And listen, I might be in a professional tailspin, but even I can see a spark when it practically hums in the air.

I clear my throat, the tiniest bit of a smile tugging at my lips. “Well. I should, uh, go inside and start prepping. You two gonna be okay out here?”

Nova’s eyes flick to Dee. “I think we’ll manage.”

Dee gives me a wink that’s probably meant to be subtle but lands somewhere between smug and scandalous.

What the hell is happening?

Inside, the scent of roasted tomatoes and fresh herbs hits me like a warm welcome, and for a second, I let myself breathe.

Today’s a new day.

The internet may have turned me into a hashtag, and my boss may speak in growls and smolders, but this kitchen is mine now.

And I’m not going down without a fight. Or at the very least, a killer lunch service.

By the time we shut down for the night, I’m sweating, exhausted, and about five percent tomato sauce. I’m scrubbing down my station when I hear that familiar low voice behind me.

“You did good today.”

I glance over my shoulder. Knox is leaning against the counter, arms crossed, brow furrowed, but not in the “you’ve failed me” kind of way. More like “I’m thinking complicated thoughts, and I don’t know how to human.”

I smile. “Thanks. I didn’t even hide in the walk-in once.”

He grunts, which I’ve learned is probably a compliment.

Then he says, “We need more staff. Back of house. Maybe front, too. Can’t find anyone else good. We have Wes and Toni, obviously. And a guy called Marc was supposed to come in, but I’ve seen no sign of him.”

I blink. “Oh. Uh, yeah, it’s a tough market right now.”

He nods like he hates that fact personally. “You know anyone who can help us out? Even temporarily, until we work out exactly how busy we’re going to be all the time?

Actually, I do.

I wipe my hands on a towel and turn to him, nervous but hopeful. “My friend Gracie is looking. I went to culinary school with her. We both trained under Chef Adela Vaughn. She’d love it here. Maybe even permanently.”

His brows rise. “She cooks well?”

“Oh yeah, she’s the best. And she’s amazing under pressure. Like, she once made crème br?lée with a lighter during a power outage.”

He pauses, considering. Then gives the smallest, almost reluctant nod. “All right. Tell her to come in.”

And okay, I know it’s not a grand romantic gesture. I know it’s just staffing and logistics and his eternal need to plan three moves ahead.

But he trusted me.

With his kitchen.

With his team.

And maybe I should be able to take it at face value and say thanks like a normal person.

Instead, I blurt, “She also knows not to get her hair stuck on your shirt, so we’re already ahead of the game.”

His mouth twitches. Twitches.

And if that’s not the closest thing to a smile I’ll get today, I’ll eat Bea’s entire lemon bar tray.

I practically skip into the alley behind The Marrow, towel still draped over my shoulder and hair a mess, pulling out my phone like it owes me rent.

I scroll to her name, heart thumping with excitement.

Gracie Lin.

Sweet, brilliant, quiet as a mouse Gracie, who once beat a room full of cocky culinary bros at a blind taste test in under three minutes, then apologized to them while doing it.

I hit call.

She picks up on the second ring. “Josie?”

“Gracie!” I chirp way too loudly. “Hey. Are you still looking for a job? Like a new move? A cool opportunity? Maybe something with a view of mountains and an overly attractive but emotionally stunted boss?”

“I feel like that last part was specific.”

“It was.”

She laughs softly. “I mean, yeah. I’m still looking. My temp gig just ended, and I was planning on scouring job boards tonight while making sad mac and cheese.”

“Well, cancel the Kraft and hold the existential dread because I have a place for you.”

“You sound way too excited for this to be normal.”

“Because it’s perfect , Gracie. It’s a brand new restaurant here in Silver Peak. The Marrow. It’s gorgeous. Open kitchen, insanely cool menu, and actual foot traffic. And they need someone. Knox, he’s the owner, asked me if I knew anyone, and I immediately thought of you.”

There’s a pause.

“You sure?” she asks. “I mean, I don’t want to make things awkward for you if I’m not a fit.”

“Gracie,” I say, pacing beside the dumpster like a hyped up talent scout, “you could cook circles around anyone I’ve ever met. You’re soft spoken but deadly with a spatula. You’re Nigella Lawson with a heart of gold. Come work with me. Please.”

“Will I have to flirt with customers?”

“Absolutely not. This is not a flirt for tips kind of place. Although I can’t promise you won’t get harassed by our local baker, Queen Bea. She gives unsolicited romantic advice and shortbread in equal measure.”

Gracie hums thoughtfully. “Shortbread’s fine. Romance I can dodge.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Another soft laugh. “Okay. I’m in. When do I come in?”

I fist pump the air. “I’ll text you the address. Come tomorrow. Stay at the inn with me. Casual vibes. Bring your knives and your favorite apron. Maybe also, like, emotional armor if Knox is in one of his moods.”

Urgh, I keep mentioning him , don’t I?

I keep saying his name.

I have to try and stop that.

“Great,” she says, deadpan. “I’ll pack extra.”