Then it’s gone. Vanished like it embarrassed him by showing up uninvited.
Still, the air between us stretches thinner every time our eyes meet. Like delicate feelings being pulled tight and tighter and tighter, and if we’re not careful, it’ll snap.
He’s trying. I can see it in the way he keeps his hands busy, in how quickly he looks away when Gracie floats by, humming along to whatever’s in her earbuds.
The second she’s gone, though, he shifts closer again, like gravity doesn’t care about professionalism. Like proximity is a reflex.
I bump his hip with mine. “If you’re gonna hover, at least pretend to be helpful.”
“I’m supervising,” he mutters, reaching for a spoon that I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need. “Can’t let the sous chef get cocky.”
“Oh, honey,” I say, sweet as sugar, “I was cocky before I got hired.”
But before either of us can lean into it, Nova storms past with a tray of microgreens and a death glare.
Knox straightens like he’s been caught doing something criminal. He takes two full steps back and mutters something about stock rotation before disappearing toward the walk-in.
Spoiler: it’s not working.
I’m not freaking out.
I’m not freaking out.
Okay Iam, but quietly. Internally. Loudly. Whatever.
I somehow make it through service without burning a single dish or announcing to the staff that I’ve been personally invited to an ex-NFL billionaire’s lair for post-work nonalcoholic bourbon and probably some emotionally confusing vibes.
No big deal.
Except it’s ahugedeal.
And as I head out of the kitchen to change, I swear his gaze follows me. Hot. Heavy. Curious.
Yeah, tonight’s going to be a problem.
And I can’t wait.
By the time I park in Knox’s driveway again, my nerves are bouncing like popcorn in a hot pan.
I’ve been here before. Iknowwhat to expect. And still, this place hits like a cinematic gut punch.
The winding road through the pines, the chalet straight out of an elite Aspen brochure, all glass and stone and quiet dominance, it’s the kind of place that dares you to feel unimpressive.
I guess it’s just hitting me that heownsthis gorgeous place. It isn’t just some vacation rental.
That’swild.
My beat-up Subaru looks like it needs therapy parked next to his matte black Range Rover.
I clutch my tote bag a little tighter.Deep breath. It’s just Knox.
Just Knox and his broody mountain lair, and the fact that I cannot seem to keep my heartbeat normal around him.
He opens the front door before I even knock, barefoot in joggers and a fitted long-sleeve that makes me forget basic math.
His hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it for hours. He looks unfair. Casual and devastating.
“You’re here,” he says, low and almost surprised, like he thought I might ghost.
