Page 37 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“Because you saved me.”

“Team effort. Massimo likes you enough to let it slide.” I sip espresso, trying to ignore the profundity of the statement.

Massimo doesn’t like anyone. For him to participate in moving the conversation along instead of embarrassing her, that means he likes her a lot, and that is great for business.

We say final goodbyes amid a flurry of double-cheek kisses. Outside, cold air scrapes our lungs clean after the restaurant’s warmth. My earlier chest discomfort tries one more jab—sharp but brief. I mask it by adjusting my cuff.

Tabitha notices. Of course she does. Her hand grazes my forearm. “It’s back, isn’t it?”

“Merely indigestion.”

Her gaze refuses to yield.

I relent, exhale. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she says. “I like you in one piece.”

A laugh breaks free—gravelly, surprised. “Noted.”

The valet pulls up and before we slide into the car, Tabitha pauses, rises on tiptoe, and kisses the corner of my mouth. Not the hot, urgent kisses of our first night—a small, sweet peck. For some reason, it hits harder.

I let Nico drive, while he and Dante go on about the presentation. For once, my youngest brother is engaged in business talk, and yet, I can’t be bothered. Not with Tabitha leaning on my shoulder as though it’s her favorite place to be.

I fight the urge to kiss the top of her head. I’m not sure why I have the urge or why I’m fighting it. But it feels intimate in a way I’m not ready for. Hell, I’m not sure why I’m in my head about it. It’s just a kiss. I’ve kissed her plenty.

So, I dot the top of her head with one more, earning a sleepy, contented sigh from her that lifts the pressure in my chest.

As the villa gates appear, I admit—silent, careful—that I enjoy the weight of this woman leaning on me. That her steel-laced sweetness hits a spot I didn’t know I needed hit. She doesn’t let me get away with bullshit excuses, and I’m not sure why I find that alluring. But I do.

17

TABITHA

The more gilded the ceiling,the louder my conscience echoes under it. I pace the east-wing sitting room, working up the courage to hitdial. I promised Grandma Judy a phone call tonight, and procrastinating won’t make it easier.

Okay, Tabitha. Deep breath.I stab the contact and raise the phone.

It rings only twice.

“Tabitha Calloway!” Grandma’s voice barrels through the speaker—sharp, relieved, half-scolding. “Where on God’s green earth have you been? You vanish, then text some cryptic message aboutcalling soon. Erin’s worried sick.”

My stomach flips. “I’m sorry, Grandma Judy. Things happened fast. I’m safe, I promise.”

“Safe where?” Pots clatter in the background—she must be cooking for Erin. She only makes sandwiches for herself, so no pots needed. “You’ve never gone this long without checking in.”

“I…got a job,” I manage, fingers twisting the ends of my hair. “One that’s going to cover Erin’s surgery.”

Silence. I imagine her pausing, clutching the receiver. “Tabi, honey, what kind of job pays that kind of money in a day and a half?”

The question slices. I can’t tell her the truth—auction podiums, masked billionaires, month-long contracts. The lie leaps out before I edit it. “Consulting.”

“Consulting?” She tries to keep the skepticism gentle. “Since when does dog-walking qualify as consulting?”

“Dance consulting,” I blurt. There’s a credenza mirror across the room; my reflection actually winces. “For…Moretti Brands.”

Pause. Then Grandma’s quiet, confused laugh. “The purse people? They’re paying you to teach them pliés?”

“They’re branching out,” I say, pitching it casual. “Runway choreography, commercial shoots—lots of movement coaching.”

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