Page 39 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
There’s something there. He’s not talking about it, but it’s not gone either. Not dismissed. I know Sebastian Wolfe. He doesn’t avoid women. He avoids attachment. If he’s dodging a subject, it’s because it stuck. And nothing sticks unless it matters.
“Is that why you’re brooding?”
“I don’t brood, asshole.”
Max smirks faintly. “You are now.”
I throw my hands up. “Unbelievable. How did I end up with two of the broodiest men in Manhattan as my best friends? And they lie. Constantly. About their feelings. Aboutthe brooding.”
Neither of them reacts. Which only proves my point.
I lean back, sip my drink, and shake my head like I’m genuinely wounded. “I bring charisma. Levity. Balance. And in return? I get glacial stares and denial. This friendship is wildly unequal.”
Sebastian doesn’t even blink.
Max looks vaguely amused. Which, by Max standards, is basically a standing ovation. Then, to really drive the point home, I raise my glass.
“To Genevieve,” I say. “May she survive all three of us.”
Max doesn’t smile. Sebastian doesn’t raise his glass.
But I do.
And something tells me this is just the beginning. Though the beginning of what, I’m not quite sure.
Chapter12
Gen
I’m dying.
Okay, not literally. But if someone wanted to slap a “may spontaneously combust” label across my forehead, I wouldn’t object. My skin feels too tight, my head’s pounding, and my stomach hasn’t been right since I woke up.
Which is inconvenient. And also deeply unfair. Because today I’m supposed to meet with Silas Whitmore—an ex-pro athlete, philanthropist, and co-founder of one of the biggest youth initiatives in the country. He also happens to be one-third of the terrifyingly powerful trifecta that includes Max Thorne and Sebastian Wolfe.
And I’m about to show up sweating through my blouse and vibrating with nausea.
I’ve felt like this all week.
Evie leans against the kitchen island, holding a thermometer and a scowl. “Still no fever. But, babe, I mean, look at you. Cancel.”
“I can’t.” I sip from the giant tumbler of ginger tea she made me, hoping it’ll work a miracle in the next ten minutes. “It’s a quick walkthrough and a pitch meeting. Nothing strenuous.”
“You look like you just crawled out of the underworld.”
“I can’t reschedule. It took three days to get this on his calendar.”
“Genevieve.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead. “Evie.”
“You’re not well.”
“I can rally.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t have a choice.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back. “Sebastian might be a cold, emotionally unavailable man-child with the communication skills of a damp rock, but he opened a door. I’m not about to shut it because I have a little headache.”
