Page 10 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
“That remains to be seen.”
I shoot him a look. He shrugs.
“Fine. But don’t pretend it’s just about the job. I’ve seen that look before, boss. It’s the same one you had with Elise. And we both remember how that ended.”
A muscle tics in my jaw. I don’t need a reminder of that disastrous encounter. Casual is cleaner. Simpler. I make the terms clear from the beginning, and they always agree. No strings. No expectations. And maybe they believe themselves when they say they understand. But it never lasts. Sooner or later, they all start wanting more. And when I don’t give it, things unravel.
Dom sighs. “I’m just saying—don’t start something you’re going to regret. She’s not built for this world. You know it. I know it. Hell, evensheprobably knows it.”
He walks off without waiting for a response, heading toward the service team, leaving me with a drink I don’t want and a problem I don’t need.
I’m a grown man. A disciplined one. I don’t get distracted by women, especially not when they’re half my age and vibrating with nerves.
But God help me, I want to see what happens when that control finally snaps.
The team is wrapping up late prep for tomorrow’s event, and she’s still out here, fixing a rig that isn’t her responsibility. Checking placement on the table decor that was finalized yesterday. Speaking with one of the electricians who clearly has no idea where his eyes should be.
She’s gesturing toward the string light conduit, but this imbecile isn’t listening. He’s not even bothering to pretend. No, he’s watching her mouth instead of listening. Then he slowly drags his eyes down her neckline when she leans forward to point something out, and I’m already moving before I think better of it.
“Everything running on time?” I ask as I step in behind her, close enough that she can feel the question rather than hear it.
She goes still.
The electrician startles and nearly drops his flashlight. “Uh…yeah. Yes, sir. We’re just clarifying placement on the uplighting units.”
Genevieve turns toward me with the same look she’s given me all week—measured, strained, but never defiant. She doesn’t like how close I’ve gotten, though she doesn’t say a word.
“Go take a look at the main panel,” I tell the man without shifting my gaze. “There’s a delay in the south end. Focus on that.”
My hand brushes her hip as I adjust my stance—a minor shift, nothing intentional. But she jolts like I branded her.
Good.
The man clears his throat. “I’ll, uh—I’ll go check the power panel now.”
“Do that,” I say.
He moves fast. She doesn’t.
She exhales a little too loudly as she steps away. “I had it under control.”
“You didn’t notice where he was looking.”
Her expression freezes. I watch the realization settle over her face, the sudden discomfort in the way she adjusts her blouse and shifts her weight. She doesn’t thank me. She does cross her arms under her chest, which hasmyeyes traveling south now.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she says instead, voice clipped.
“And I don’t like incompetence,” I reply, letting it land before I add, “He’s not on tomorrow’s roster. I’ll have him replaced.”
She blinks, caught off guard. Her mouth opens, then closes again. I expect her to argue. I’m surprised when she doesn’t.
Instead, she glances over her shoulder, as if she’s already trying to shake it off and move on.
It would be easier if she weren’t so easy to look at.
Even now—frustrated, defensive, barely holding herself together—she’s composed. That same prim, structured presence. Hair pinned back, makeup minimal. Every line of her body arranged like she’s trying not to take up too much space. Except her eyes. They’re expressive, even when she doesn’t want them to be.
And they’re on me now.
