I’ve seen it like this since the day I bought the building. Moody and sleek, intimate and cool. The kind of place where the food speaks louder than the crowd. Where I don’t have to speak at all.
A new chapter, I told myself.
A clean break.
I just hope Silver Peak is the right place to do it.
“The bar’s polished and stocked,” Martin adds. “You’re good to go.”
“Great. That’s good news.”
I move toward the pass-through, trailing my fingers along the smooth curve of the concrete counter.
It’s cold. Solid.
Unlike the way I’ve felt since last night.
“Hey, man,” one of the contractors calls from across the room, too loud for the early morning. He’s young, probably fresh out of trade school, with that overeager grin and zero concept of personal space. “You really Knox Knightly? Like…theKnox Knightly?”
I glance up from the plans, just long enough to pin him with a look. “Yeah.”
His grin widens. “No shit. My dad’s obsessed with you. Still watches your highlight reel from that Dallas playoff run, said you played like a man possessed.”
I exhale through my nose. “That was a long time ago.”
“Still,” he pushes, stepping closer, “was it true what they said? That you played that whole season with a torn rotator cuff?”
My jaw ticks. “Partial tear. Managed it.”
“Damn. And then you just… walked away? Whatactuallyhappened?”
I pause and level him with a look. “Is this relevant to the wiring?”
He blinks. “Uh, no. No, I was?—”
“Then maybe get back to it. Hood system’s still half wired.”
The smile drops from his face. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, man.”
His mouth snaps shut, and Martin gives me a tight smile. “Sorry. He’s new.”
I wave it off. I don’t care if the guy’s new. I care that the past keeps clawing its way into the present.
That part of my life is over. It died the day I walked off the field and swore I wouldn’t step back into the spotlight. I’m not here to talk about football. I’m not here to be recognized. I’m here tobuild something real. Quiet. Clean. No cameras. No chaos.
No mistakes.
I drag a hand down my face and shake off the tension, but it clings like humidity.
Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about her.
Josie.
That’s the only thing I know. Her name.
She tasted my food, moaned, actually moaned, and smiled like I’d handed her a piece of heaven on a paper plate. And then she looked at me likeIwas the one who could make a girl like her stay.
She smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and maybe a little rain. She sang like heartbreak and honey. And when she laughed?
