“I’m a glutton for punishment,” I reply, breezing past him like I’m cooler than I feel.
That earns me a smirk. A real one. It hits like warm whiskey and settles somewhere behind my ribs.
“You really do live like a retired Bond villain,” I mutter, scanning the space as I step inside, accepting it ashis. “Is there a secret escape tunnel or just the cold plunge?”
“Plunge is faster.”
My eyes drift to the massive gourmet kitchen. I point. “Iswearif that counter’s been custom-heightened to your wingspan, I’m going to scream.”
“It has.”
Before I can fire back, a happy thump of paws echoes from around the corner, followed by the sound of claws skittering across the hardwood.
Then he appears.
Tuck, full of joy and fluff, lumbers into the room like he owns it, tongue lolling, tail wagging like a metronome on double time. He makes a beeline for me and presses his head into my leg like we’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in years.
“Hey, buddy,” I laugh, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. “You remember me.”
He responds by flopping dramatically onto his side, offering his belly like some kind of bribe.
“He does that to everyone,” Knox laughs.
“He’s a shameless flirt,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I respect it.”
Tuck lets out a deep, satisfied sigh as I rub his chest.
“Drink?” he offers, already moving toward the bar.
“Please.”
He pours an amber sparkling liquid into two lowball glasses. Nonalcoholic, like always. He’s sober. And apparently, I am too, at least around him. Peer pressure never looked this good.
I settle onto the ridiculously plush leather couch while he drops into the armchair across from me, all long limbs and quiet power.
For a second, it’s just us. Fire crackling. Silence stretching. The air thick with what we haven’t said.
“You didn’t think I’d actually come,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
His eyes flick to mine. “Didn’t want to hope.”
And just like that, my chest flutters.
Because under all that control, beneath the muscle and the discipline and the cold steel persona, is a man who still thinks hope might be too much to ask.
And that?
That’s the kind of dangerous that could crash me back to earth with a crude thump.
Because the more I see past the armor…
The more I want to stay.
I take another sip, letting the liquid slide through me. It’s rich and smoky, with just enough of an aftertaste to make me feel like I’m doing something vaguely rebellious.
“So,” I say, swirling the drink in my glass. “Do all former football legends end up in luxury mountaintop retreats? Or is this your version of early retirement?”
Knox leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the armrest. “I think most of them end up in Florida. Golf carts. Bad shorts. HOA meetings.”
