Page 66 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

When she pulls back she stays close, her hands still on my chest, and looks at me.

“One week,” she says.

“One week,” I confirm.

She nods once and drops back onto her heels and steps away and heads back toward Killian’s suite and I watch her go.

I look up.

Killian is in the doorway of his suite, shoulder against the frame, coffee in hand, watching me with the expression he gets when he’s already done the math and arrived at the answer three steps ahead of everyone else.

I hold his gaze.

He nods once. Small. Just enough.

I turn and go pack.

24

ASHER

The quiet hum of the exhaust fans is the only sound left in the Vine’s kitchen now. The clatter, the shouts, the splash of pans and ringing of tickets—gone. I step inside and the warmth wraps around me like a familiar coat. This space, stripped bare, stripped down, belongs to me. Tonight, it’ll belong to her, too.

She’s at the admin desk in the corner, backlit by the single lamp still on, her hair catching gold in the low light. Harper. Bent over files, pen between her teeth, the same way she was three nights ago. The same way she was last week. I watch her for a moment, the way her shoulders tense under that thin sweater, how she lifts her wrist to push hair from her face, the braid slipping loose. She hasn’t noticed me.

Not yet.

I move quietly, boots muffled on the tiled floor. “You eaten?” I ask, voice low.

She jumps, pen clattering to the desktop. “Jesus, Ash—don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re adorable, mon couer,” I say.

She sighs, rubbing her temple. “Just finishing up. There’s still the Rosewood guest list⁠—”

“No.” I step forward, hold her gaze. “You’ve been here since eight this morning. And you didn’t answer your phone when I called you on my break.”

She frowns. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Because you’re doing this.” I gesture to the stack of files. “And you didn’t eat.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Defeated. “No. I didn’t.”

“Come with me.”

“Ash—”

“Now. The kitchen’s closed. The staff’s gone. This place,” I say, spreading my arms slightly, “is ours.”

She studies me for a long moment. Then nods, slow, like she’s letting go of something heavy. She stands, stretches, a small groan escaping her lips. I don’t offer to help. I know her. She doesn’t want help unless she asks.

But when she stumbles slightly—the heel of her boot catching on a loose floor tile—I’m there. One hand under her elbow, not gripping, just there.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“Don’t mention it.”

I lead her into the kitchen proper. The stoves are cold now, but the ovens still emit a low warmth. I flick on the under-cabinet lighting—soft, amber. It glows across the stainless steel counters, the copper pans hanging like ornaments. I pull a stool up to the central prep table and motion for her to sit.