Page 126 of The Silver Fox Brother

But even as I say it, I feel nothing. No excitement. No anticipation. No flutter of interest. Jake is exactly the kind of man I should be interested in. Successful, attractive, available, clearly not hiding a mistress for over a year.

But he's not Knox Sterling.

By 10pm, I'm exhausted. Kate and Amy are still going strong, ordering another round and debating which club to hit next, but I make my excuses and call a car.

"Text us when you get home," Kate orders, hugging me goodbye.

"And text Jake!" Amy adds. "He's perfect for you."

I nod and smile and promise to do both.

The car drops me off twenty minutes later. I take the elevator up, unlock my door, and step inside. The apartment is quiet. Empty. Just me and the fully furnished space that’s starting to feel like home a bit.

I drop my purse on the counter and check my phone; Three more messages from Rowan's number that I don't open and one text from Jake saying it was great to meet me.

Nothing from Knox.

I don't know why I was expecting anything. We’ve never really spoken on the phone. We barely exchanged words after what happened.

I change into pajamas, wash my face, and climb into bed. But I can't sleep. I grab my phone from the nightside and stare at the dark screen.

I could text Jake back. I could be normal and interested and available for someone who actually makes sense. Instead, I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, as I eventually drift off to sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

Knox

*ONE WEEK LATER*

The weather is perfect for golf—clear sky, mild temperature, just enough breeze to keep it comfortable.

I'm standing on the eighth hole at the Winged Foot Country Club with Fletcher and our mutual friend David, who's been complaining about his swing for the last twenty minutes.

"I'm telling you, it's the new driver," David says, lining up his shot.

"The weight distribution is completely off."

Fletcher leans on his club, watching with barely concealed amusement.

"Or maybe you just need to actually practice instead of blaming your equipment."

"Says the man who plays twice a week."

"Exactly. Which is why my handicap is better than yours."

David swings and the ball hooks left, landing in the rough about thirty yards short of the green.

"Perfect," he mutters.

I step up to the tee, set my ball, and take my stance. The familiar weight of the club in my hands, the quiet focus before the swing—this is the kind of routine that keeps me sane when everything else feels chaotic.

I swing clean and the ball sails straight down the fairway, landing just short of the green.

"Show-off," David says, but he's grinning.

Fletcher steps up next and drives his ball nearly as far as mine, just slightly right of center.

"Not bad," I say as we head down the fairway.