Page 38 of The Silver Fox Brother

"That's what I said. But apparently there's a difference, and it matters deeply." He takes another drink.

"How about you? How's the Sterling Tower project?"

"Moving. Complicated, but moving."

"I heard about the designer situation. Vertex bailing for Dubai."

News travels fast in our circles.

"The Design team torched the contract with zero notice. Left me scrambling to find a replacement on a six-month timeline."

James winces. "That's brutal. You find anyone yet?"

"Working on it."

He studies me for a moment, the way he does when he knows I'm not telling him everything.

"Working on it as in you have options, or working on it as in you're stalling?"

Before I can answer, Fletcher arrives.

He's slightly out of breath, jacket slung over his arm, tie loosened.

"Sorry. Traffic was insane, and Sarah needed me to—never mind. I'm here. Did I miss anything?"

"Just Knox being cryptic about his designer situation," James says.

Fletcher drops into the third chair, signals the server for his own drink.

"Oh, this should be good. Knox being cryptic usually means he's about to do something either brilliant or completely insane."

"Sometimes both," I say.

The server returns with Fletcher's scotch—he drinks the same as I do, has for years. We've had this routine down for many years now: The Henley Club, Tuesday nights when schedules allow, expensive scotch and conversations that range from business to family to everything in between.

Fletcher takes a long drink, then leans back with a satisfied sigh.

"God, I needed that. Sarah's been on me all week about baby-proofing the apartment. We don't even have a baby yet, and she's already convinced he's going to electrocute himself on outlets we haven't even installed."

"He?" James asks.

"We find out next week. But I have a feeling." Fletcher grins.

"How are your kids, by the way?"

"Exhausting. Emma just started soccer, which means every Saturday is spent on a field watching seven-year-olds chase a ball in the wrong direction. And Michael's convinced he wants to be a paleontologist, so our apartment is now filled with plastic dinosaurs."

"Sounds like hell," I say.

"It's actually pretty great." James looks at me with that expression he gets sometimes—the one that says he pities me for not having what he has.

"You should try it sometime. The whole relationship thing. Maybe even the kids thing."

"I'm good," I say.

"You're forty-seven and you haven't dated anyone seriously in what, five years?"

"Three."