Page 21 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

“Sweetheart,” he says, in the tone of a man making a very reasonable observation, “you don’t strike me as the type who can sit still for five minutes.”

I turn to look at him. “How would you know what type I am?”

He leans forward.

It’s a small movement. Just his elbows coming to the table, his weight shifting forward, his eyes finding mine and staying there with the kind of focus that makes the temperature in the room do something it wasn’t doing a second ago.

“You like being told what to do,” he says. “Nothing wrong with that, baby.”

The room is very quiet.

Asher shakes his head slowly at the table in front of him.

“Not everyone likes having as much free time as you do, Maddox,” he says.

“You’d be surprised,” Maddox says, and he has not looked away from me, not even slightly. “Being bound in place can be fun. Don’t you think, Harper?”

Is it hot in here?

Did someone close all the windows? Did someone seal this building? Did someone replace the climate control system with a single lit match because I am suddenly and acutely aware of every nerve ending I have and several I didn’t know about and there is something happening between my legs that is categorically not sweat and I need everyone in this room to stop looking at me immediately.

I clear my throat and look at Killian.

Killian, who is watching me with an expression I can’t fully read, but that has something underneath it, something controlled and still and very focused. I decide that Killian is the safest place to put my eyes right now; I will be reconsidering that assessment later, but for now I’m committing to it.

“As much as I’d like to disagree with Maddox,” I say, and I’m proud of how level my voice comes out, “I would be genuinely grateful for something to do. Your vineyard is beautiful and I can already see a significant amount of potential in the hospitality programming and the event presentation. I just need to understand your goals so I can map out how to bring them to fruition.”

Killian is quiet for a moment.

Then he sits back in his chair.

And he smiles.

Not the controlled, minimal acknowledgment I’ve seen him produce in the direction of other people. An actual smile, unhurried, and it rearranges his entire face into something that makes me briefly forget what country I’m in.

“You’re hired.” He pulls out his phone. “Airdrop me your contact details. Now.”

He says it the way people say things when they’re used to saying them and having them happen immediately, which is a quality I usually find obnoxious and am currently finding unreasonably attractive, and I reach for my phone and pull up AirDrop and send him my contact card before I’ve fully processed that I’m doing it.

His phone chimes. He taps something and my phone buzzes in my hand.

“That’s mine,” he says, already typing again. “Asher handles all three restaurants on the grounds and catering for events. You’ll want his as well.”

I look at Asher. Asher nods once and accepts the incoming share from Killian’s phone without ceremony, then looks at me.

“Send it over,” he says.

I do. Another buzz. Another contact saved.

I now have Killian Thorne’s personal number in my phone. And Asher Beckett’s. For entirely professional reasons. Because I work here now, technically, which makes this completely normal and not at all something I’m going to think about later in the dark.

Killian is still typing. “My director of operations is Phillip Hayes. I’m forwarding your contact to him now. He’ll get a contract drafted and to you today.” He pauses, eyes on his screen. “Mallory will be cc’d on the documents.” Another pause. A nod at whatever came back. “She says she’ll meet you in the main tasting room tomorrow morning. Nine a.m.”

“I’ll be there.”

He looks up from his phone.

“Good.” He stands, which means we’re done, and I stand too and pick up my tablet and my bag and remind my legs how walking works. “Welcome to Thorne Estates, Harper.”