Page 100 of The Silver Fox Brother

Neither of us acknowledges any of it.

By Friday afternoon, we're back at the construction site for the second visit of the week. Progress is visible—the two-bedroom unit has drywall now, the three-bedroom has rough electrical, and the penthouse level is taking shape.

My team disperses to document the changes while Knox observes from across the space. I'm directing a placement discussion with one of the contractors when I feel his gaze on me. Again.

I walk over. "Problem?"

"Just observing."

"See anything you like?" The question comes out with more edge than I intended.

Knox's expression doesn't change.

"The progress is good."

We end up walking the penthouse level together, and I describe my evolving vision for the master suite. The late afternoon sun pours through the window openings—the same golden light from our first visit—and we stand in what will eventually be the bedroom.

"This is where the magic happens," I say, gesturing to the space. "When someone walks in here, I want them to feel..."

"What?"

I turn to look at him.

"Home. Not impressed. Just... home."

Knox holds my gaze.

"That's what I want too."

The moment stretches between us—understanding, connection, something I'm not ready to name—before Tom calls Knox over to review a mechanical issue.

I return to my team and finish documenting the progress.

By 5 pm, we're wrapping up. Teams dispersing, everyone heading into their weekends.

Knox and I end up near the entrance at the same time.

"Have a good weekend," he says.

"You too. Safe travels to Dallas."

"Thanks."

We leave separately—him to his car, me to mine.

The weekend stretches ahead. For the first time in a week, I won't see Knox Sterling tomorrow morning at eleven. Won't review materials across a conference table, won't catch myself noticing the way he listens, won't feel that awareness that's been building with every meeting, every interaction, every moment we pretend isn't happening.

I should be relieved. But I'm not.

Chapter Ten

Winter

Iarrive at my design studio at eight-thirty Monday morning with coffee from the café downstairs and a mental list of everything that needs to happen today.

Maya is already at her desk when I walk in, her own coffee in hand, laptop open, calendar pulled up on the screen.

"Morning," she says without looking up.