Page 28 of Silver Fox Puck

But even as I tell myself that, my fingers tighten around the gear shift of the rental car.

It’s temporary. Just like this whole transition phase.

Just like—

I exhale sharply, cutting that thought off before it fully forms. Because Kenzie doesn’t belong in my head right now.

I sigh as I roll through the next green light.

Enough.

Kenzie doesn’t matter. She’s not my problem. What is my problem?

The house comes into view up ahead. Lauren’s house.

I roll to a stop in front of the massive, meticulously perfect Southern estate—white columns, manicured hedges, a front porch so polished it practically reflects the sunlight.

It’s new.

Nothing like the Chicago home we shared before the divorce.

She sold that one almost before I even had a chance to fight for it—traded it for something bigger, flashier, with a zip code that screams money.

Because that’s Lauren. Always climbing. Always redefining herself.

And standing in front of it now, the familiar burn of resentment settles in my chest. Not because I give a shit about the house. Not because I care that she won the divorce.

It’s not the house. It’s who’s inside.

I take a slow breath and knock twice as I brace myself for the inevitable.

A long beat passes before the door opens. Lauren doesn’t smile. Doesn’t act like I’m welcome. This is part of her power move, to make me feel like an unwelcome outsider.

Lauren hums as she looks me over like I’m something she scraped off the bottom of her designer heels.

"Grant," she says, perfectly polite, but I know that tone.

That thinly veiled irritation.

That you’re an inconvenience just by existing kind of energy.

I don’t take the bait. "I’m here for Olivia."

Lauren sighs like this is a personal burden. "You’re early."

"It’s five minutes."

She crosses her slender arms, eyeing me. "So, you finally made your decision, then? Nashville?"

My jaw tics.

Of course she is going to make it sound like a bad idea.

Lauren has a way of keeping tabs on me and then making comments that reveal her disapproval. She doesn’t keep her nose in my business because she cares, but because she likes knowing what I’m up to, preferably before I even tell her.

I nod. "Yeah. I did."

She scoffs like it’s the wrong choice, then says, "I suppose that’s… for the best."

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