Page 48 of Filthy Rich Silver Foxes
“Thanks for not passing out,” he shoots back with a grin. “You’re too heavy to carry twice.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Then the doors slide shut between us, and I’m alone again—with my folder, my symptoms, and a truth I still haven’t said out loud.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant and the father doesn’t know. Doesn’t seem to want to. But I’ll keep trying.
Chapter14
Silas
Four brown paper bags sit beside me on the back seat, each one stamped with a high-end restaurant logo. Italian. Thai. Mediterranean. Indian. I even threw in a box of pastries from a bakery in Brooklyn that charges twenty-two dollars for a croissant. Because women love pastries, right?
Or maybe that’s just me.
My driver pulls to a quiet stop in front of a brownstone tucked into a residential street in Williamsburg. Genevieve’s address. I didn’t get it from Max or Sebastian—even though I know they have it. The two of them are too neurotic not to know everything there is to know about someone they hire.
No, I got it from my driver, who drove her home after our first meeting. I told him I was checking in on a colleague. He didn’t ask questions. Good man.
I stare up at the stoop, pulse beating faster than it should. This is probably a terrible idea. The kind of idea that ends with restraining orders or awkward headlines about washed-up athletes stalking young event planners. I haven’t stalked anyone though. I just…showed up. With food. On instinct.
Totally normal courtship ritual. Nothing to see here.
I grab the bags and head up the steps, ignoring the little voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Max telling me this is overkill.
Maybe it is.
But she didn’t look okay today. Not even close.
Even if I hadn’t been completely enamored by the pretty young event planner, I’d still be standing here. Unannounced. Bags in hand. Pretending this is what normal, well-adjusted people do when a colleague seems off.
Because that’s what this is. Concern.
Totally normal—definitely not reckless—concern.
I press the buzzer. Wait. Then buzz again. A beat passes before the door cracks open, chain still in place.
Genevieve peers through the gap, expression guarded. “Silas?”
“Hey,” I say, holding up the bags. “I come bearing carbs. And mild concern.”
She blinks. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking in. You didn’t seem great earlier. And I wasn’t sure what you like, so I panicked and ordered half the city.”
Her eyes drop to the bags. “Is that…Massimo’s?”
“Among others. I also have curry, falafel, and something I can’t pronounce but smells amazing. Please say you’re not allergic to anything. Or offended by spontaneous visits from unreasonably attractive men.”
She gives me a look. Dry. Tired. But a little amused.
Then the door shuts. I blink, wondering if that was a no.
The chain slides. The door opens wider.
“Come in before the neighbors think I’m running an underground Michelin delivery ring.”
