Page 33 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
Max Thorne is tall—probably a few inches over six feet—with the kind of build that reads clean and athletic beneath layers of luxury. Broad across the chest. Lean through the waist. His dark blonde hair is just long enough to show the natural wave, but controlled. Styled without looking fussy. There’s stubble along his jaw and it softens the sharpness of his features just enough to make him look human. Almost.
If Sebastian looked like temptation in a suit, Max looks like the consequence. Sharp, composed, and unbothered by opinions that don’t matter to him.
“Ms. St. Claire,” he says, his voice smooth but not warm. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for the invitation." I manage to keep my voice steady as I reach across the desk to shake his hand. His grip is firm, brief, no-nonsense. But his eyes linger on mine for a beat too long.
There’s something in the air. Not flirtation. Not even tension. Just a kind of presence that demands more from the space around it. Sebastian filled a room with charisma and control. Max fills it with silence. With precision. With the weight of a man who doesn’t speak unless it matters.
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sebastian was impressed with your work. That isn’t easy to do.”
I suppress the gut punch the sound of his name causes. I think he catches it anyway.
“Thank you. It was a challenging event, but it came together well.”
“He mentioned that, too. Said you handled it without flinching.”
Not true. I flinched plenty. I just didn’t let it show.
Max watches me carefully. "Walk me through how you'd approach the Westchester project."
Right to the point. Direct, but not unexpected. Sebastian’s referral got me in the door—but I still have to earn this job.
“This should have a layered approach. You’re not just showcasing a development, you’re selling a lifestyle. And that requires more than just a venue and a guest list. It needs narrative. Texture. It needs to feel aspirational but grounded in something real. Every detail should make them feel like they’re already living the experience before they’ve invested a dollar."
His brow lifts, just slightly. "You talk like a strategist."
"I am one."
He nods slowly, then leans back in his chair, one hand braced against the armrest while the other taps against his thigh in a rhythm that doesn’t feel idle. Nothing about him feels idle. Every breath seems weighed and accounted for.
I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks, but not from nerves. At least, not just from nerves. It’s his presence. The way he looks at me—it’s like he sees things I haven’t said yet.
It’s unsettling. And oddly…exhilarating.
I swallow. Shift slightly in my seat. Max doesn’t miss it. His gaze drops briefly to my crossed legs, then lifts again.
“I’m not interested in an event that looks expensive but forgettable,” he says. “I want something that lingers.”
“I can deliver that.”
“Good. Because the investors attending this launch don’t just want to be impressed. They want to feel like they’ve already bought in before they ever sign the dotted line.”
I nod. “I can make them feel that way. I already have concepts mapped out. I was waiting to hear your priorities before finalizing a pitch.”
“You can leave the preliminary pitch here and send the final on to my CMO by tomorrow.”
There’s a pause. I should thank him for the opportunity, or reconfirm the deliverables, or at the very least gather my things like a normal person.
Instead, I just sit there for an extra second.
Because he’s still watching me.
And I still can’t figure out why I want him to keep doing it.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says, rising from his chair.
I rise too. Offer my hand again. He takes it, slower this time. His thumb brushes the edge of my knuckle before he lets go. A spark zips down my spine. It catches me so off guard that I nearly trip over my words.
