Page 12 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
And I already know I’m fucked.
* * *
I manage to avoid her for most of the day.
The event is in full swing. Guests are arriving by boat and private jet. The press has been limited to one photographer and two approved outlets, and even that feels like too much. I’ve made three phone calls before noon—one to Max, one to Silas, one to a very expensive lawyer who knows how to make NDAs airtight.
Silas wanted to know if the island bar stocked that obscure Japanese whiskey he’s obsessed with. Max asked if I’d managed to scare off the press yet, and then accused me of growing “weirdly territorial” over the event planner.
Neither of them asked how I was doing.
They wouldn’t. We don’t talk like that.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of staged perfection—guest greetings, venue walkthroughs, minor crises handled before they become real ones. I stay visible. Engaged. Professional. And nowhere near Genevieve St. Claire.
It’s not difficult. Not really.
She’s been just as busy. I’ve seen her out of the corner of my eye—hovering near the catering staff, coordinating timing with the musicians, scribbling notes on a clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. She hasn’t looked at me once. Not directly.
Which is for the best.
I’m on my way back to the main suite to shower and reset before the evening portion of the launch, when I round the corner toward the elevators and see her.
She’s alone, struggling to carry two oversized supply boxes stacked nearly to her chin. She can’t even see over them. So, she doesn’t notice how the top box is starting to tilt dangerously.
I’m in motion before I make the decision to help.
“You’re going to drop that,” I say as I reach her, already pulling the top box from her arms.
She startles. “I-I had it.”
“You didn’t.” I grab the second box, too.
She exhales, clearly too tired to argue. Her arms fall to her sides, and I can see the red marks on her skin where the box edges were digging in.
“You could’ve asked someone else to help,” I say as we walk.
“There wasn’t anyone else.”
I glance at her, but she doesn’t elaborate, just walks a step ahead, head down, sandals silent against the tile. Her hair’s coming loose from that tight twist she favors, a few strands falling into her face. She shakes her head to get them out of the way, but it doesn’t work.
I shift the boxes under one arm and reach out, tucking the strands behind her ear before I can stop myself.
She freezes.
My fingers graze her cheekbone. Her jaw. The soft, flushed skin there.
She turns her head slightly, just enough to look at me. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
The air shifts.
It happens before I can talk myself out of it.
I set the boxes down and step into her space. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Her body stills, but her eyes track every inch of me, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. Hell, so am I.
I don’t think either of us is expecting me to kiss her. But that’s exactly what I do.
Her lips part under mine with a sharp inhale, like she’s surprised but not unwilling. Not even close. She tastes like champagne and something sweeter. I deepen the kiss before I realize I’m doing it—my hand sliding to the curve of her jaw, angling her face toward mine so I can take more.
