Page 20 of The Silver Fox Brother

I stare at those two words. They should make me feel warm, wanted.

Instead, I feel relieved that I have tonight to myself.

Winter: Miss you too.

I get in the car and give the driver our Gramercy Park address. The apartment will be empty when I get there—just me, my thoughts, and the Chen project materials I need to review before tomorrow's kickoff meeting.

For tonight, at least, I have space to breathe.

Monday morning hits Manhattan with the kind of humid heat that makes the air feel thick enough to chew. By the time I push through the heavy glass door of Winter Hayes Design at eight-thirty, my silk blouse is already clinging to my back despite the short walk from the subway. The blast of air conditioning is immediate relief, raising goosebumps on my arms as I step into the space I've spent five years building from nothing.

The studio occupies the entire third floor of a converted Tribeca loft—three thousand square feet of exposed brick, original hardwood floors worn smooth by a century of footsteps, and floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the space with natural light. When I signed the lease five years ago, it was raw space: concrete, exposed ductwork, the bones of something that could be beautiful if someone saw the potential.

I saw it.

Now, the eastern wall is lined with our materials library—fabric samples organized by texture and color, stone and tile specimens arranged on floating shelves, paint chips fanned out in gradient progressions that shift from warm to cool. The northern corner houses our design stations: four large drafting tables where my team spreads blueprints and sketches, surrounded by inspiration boards covered in tearsheets, material swatches, and photographs of completed projects. Three glass-walled offices occupy the western side—mine is the largest, positioned to catch afternoon light, with a view of the street below and enough space for a full conference table.

The center of the studio is open—a collaboration zone with a massive vintage farmhouse table we found at a salvage yard in Brooklyn, surrounded by mismatched chairs that somehow work together. This is where we gather for creative sessions, where ideas get sketched on rolls of trace paper and debated over coffee that's always too strong and never hot enough.

It's organized chaos. Controlled creativity. Mine.

Maya is already at her desk near the entrance—my assistant, a twenty-six-year-old with a degree from Parsons and enough organizational skills to keep this entire operation running smoothly. She glances up as I enter, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, tablet already in hand.

"Morning, Win. Coffee's fresh. Schedulewise, you have the Chen kickoff at ten, fabric samples arriving at eleven-thirty, and the Williamsburg loft clients are coming in at two for schematic design review."

I drop my bag in my office, grab the coffee she's already poured—black, no sugar, exactly how I take it—and scan the schedule she's pulled up on her tablet.

"The Chen meeting is here or at their penthouse?"

"Here. They want to see material options in person. I've pulled samples based on the palette you specified—warm grays, taupes, the ivory you liked from that last stone shipment."

"Perfect. What about the millwork drawings for the master suite built-ins?"

"On your desk. Came in from the fabricator Friday afternoon. I flagged two details that need your approval before they go into production."

This is why I hired Maya. She anticipates, executes, and never needs me to explain twice.

"You're a miracle worker."

"I'm well paid. There's a difference." She grins.

"Also, Architectural Digest called again. They want to feature the West Village brownstone restoration in their November issue. I told them you'd call back before end of day."

Architectural Digest. Six months ago, that would've made me scream. Now it's just another item on the list, another milestone that proves Winter Hayes Design has arrived.

"I'll call them after the Chen meeting. Anything else?"

"Your ten o'clock pushed to ten-thirty. Traffic from Connecticut. And you got a delivery this morning." She gestures toward my office.

"Flowers. No card."

I follow her gesture through the glass wall of my office. On my desk, next to the millwork drawings, sits an enormous arrangement—peonies, my favorite, pale pink and cream, overflowing from a simple glass vase.

My stomach tightens. Rowan knows I love peonies. He sent them after standing me up at dinner a few weeks ago, his apology-without-apology gesture that's supposed to make everything okay.

I set my coffee down, approach the arrangement like it might detonate. Pull the small envelope tucked between blooms.

No card inside. Just the florist's compliments slip.