Page 2 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
God, he’s—well, there are a dozen words I could use. Imposing. Polished. Power-wrapped-in-a-tailored-suit. But the one that comes to mind?
Unsettling.
Because nothing about Sebastian Wolfe says approachable. He doesn’t rise from the sleek leather chair at the head of the conference table. He just watches me.
“You’re early.”
Notnice to meet you. Notthanks for coming.
I smile tightly. “I always try to be.”
I move to the end of the table opposite him, attempting to walk with the kind of poise that saysI belong here, only to clip my heel on thin air. I stumble, overcorrect, and knock my laptop case into the chair. It topples sideways, nearly taking me with it.
I scramble to catch it, bumping the table with my hip in the process. A water glass rattles dangerously close to the edge.
He doesn’t say a word. Just watches me with that unreadable expression.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck as I right the chair and lower myself into it, my movements jerky and way too loud. I fumble with my laptop, willing my hands to stop shaking as I pull the cable from my bag.
This hasneverhappened before. Not like this. I’ve met powerful men. Ridiculously attractive men. I’ve sat across from CEOs and celebrities, pitched high six-figure budgets, handled clients with egos the size of small countries. And yet—none of them made my palms sweat. None of them made my pulse stutter or my thoughts derail just byexistingacross a table.
Get it together, Genevieve. You are not a teenager with a crush. You are a grown woman. A professional.
A professional who is apparently one prolonged eye contact away from complete neurological failure.
I finally manage to get everything turned on and plugged in. My hands are steady. My brain, less so. But I’m doing it. I’m making it through. I open my downloads folder, ready to launch the presentation.
Click.
The screen behind me flashes to life.
And I die.
Because it’s not my pitch deck on display.
It’s a picture. Of me.
In a sports bra and lacy thong underwear.
Taken at a truly unfortunate angle under fluorescent lighting. Oh God. Oh God.
There’s a moment of silence that stretchesjustlong enough to make me consider packing up and walking right back out the door. Then?—
Sebastian makes a sound. A low hum, maybe a cough. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s amused or simply horrified.
“I—this isn’t—it’s not what it looks like,” I stammer, slapping at the keyboard like that’ll magically erase the mortifying image. “My—my trainer told me to take before photos, and I must’ve accidentally—oh my God?—”
Somehow,somehow, I get the right file up. The pitch deck appears, and I keep my eyes glued to it like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the Earth.
I donotlook at him. My ears burn. I haven’t even started and I’m already spiraling.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Of course not.”
Not angry. Not amused.
Just...that low, smooth baritone that sounds way too intimate for a glass-walled conference room.
