Page 48 of Silver Fox Puck

"Are you always this stiff, Maddox?" I muse, voice light and teasing. "Or is this your way of compensating for something?"

Jake barks out a laugh. "Jesus, Kenz."

Allie smirks, shaking her head.

But Grant?

Grant finally reacts. Not in the way I expect. Not with a sharp comment or an easy smirk or some cocky quip that lets me know I’ve gotten to him.

No.

Instead, he leans forward, just slightly. So slightly that no one else at this table would notice. But I do.

Now he’s closer.

So close that his familiar, woodsy, dark spice thing he has going on—that I really don’t need to be inhaling right now—wraps around me, threading through my thoughts, making my pulse jump.

I freeze.

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else can see.

But he knows. Because his lips curve. Slow. Subtle. Lethal.

"You really think you’re winning this, Flight?" he murmurs, voice so low that it’s just for me.

That tone? That voice? It’s dangerous. And I don’t have a comeback.

I don’t have a single damn word in my brain, because Grant Maddox just flipped the entire game on me without lifting a finger.

And he knows it. His mouth tilts into something barely a smirk. Then, as if to completely destroy me, he leans in even closer—his breath warm against my ear.

"Don’t start a game you can’t win," he murmurs.

My stomach drops. Not from nerves. Not from embarrassment. From the horrifying realization that I might be the one who just lost.

Suddenly, I’m not sure this is a game anymore. Or if he even believes it is either.

Then, just as smoothly as he invaded my space, he pulls back. Picks up his coffee. And goes right back to listening to Jake talk like nothing even happened.

Like he didn’t just completely obliterate my entire sense of control.

Like he didn’t just flip this whole damn thing on its head.

And now? I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

***

It’s been a week since that disastrous lunch and I’m fine.

If fine means working myself into exhaustion. If fine means smiling too hard, laughing too loud, pretending like every breath doesn’t feel too tight in my chest.

I’ve picked up every extra flight I can. Stayed later, worked harder. Smiled at passengers as if I’m made of sunshine and rainbows. Handed out drinks. Cracked jokes with the crew. Anything to keep my mind moving.

Because if I stop, I’ll think about him. And if I keep moving, I don’t have time to think about him.

I grip my cup of coffee a little too tightly, staring blankly at the airport terminal in front of me.

But I’m wired. Because no matter how many distractions I throw in front of myself—he’s still in my head. I exhale slowly.

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