Page 42 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She laughs back—equal parts triumph and post-terror shakes. “My fear just got drop-kicked off a cliff.”

The operator jogs up with a thumbs-up, offering a second lap. Tabitha waves him off, dizzy. We stumble down the exit ramp into crunching snow. She spins once, arms out, like a kid dizzy from the tilt-a-whirl. Then she hurls herself at me—wraps arms around my neck, kisses me under the darkening sky.

The kiss is cold air and hot adrenaline, her lips chapped sweet, my heart still sprinting, the world still spinning. When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to mine. “Okay, Daredevil. I’m ready for your relatives.”

I grin, brushing a snowflake off her lashes. “They havenothingon Thunderhead. I, however, have one advantage.” I tuck a loose strand behind her ear. “I come with hand-holding included.”

She squeezes my fingers. “That helped more than the lap bar.”

The maintenance manager activates coaster lights for night photos—rails glow candy-cane red and white. It’s strange. I realize I’m not thinking about Aunt Caterina’s interrogation or investor small talk. I’m thinking about how Tabitha’s laughter felt as we plunged into free fall.

If fear is a compass, mine’s pointing straight at her.

Maybe it was stupid to tell her all that stuff. I know our situation isn’t real. She’s a rental, so to speak. But I couldn’t stop myself.

That should scare me more than it does.

19

NICO

I catchDante alone in the anteroom off the ballroom, where staff are still wiring hidden speakers into a garland the length of a commuter train. He’s smoothing a thumb along a silver frame—one of tomorrow’s table cards bearing “Tabitha Calloway.” The grin on his face could light the Rockefeller Tree.

I clear my throat. “You know, for a man who claims he fears nothing but commitment, you’re spending a suspicious amount of time fussing over seating charts.”

He jumps. Then shoots me a lopsided smile. “I wanted to make sure she’s not stuck beside Alessio. He’s a close-talker, terrible breath.”

I fold my arms, lean against the paneled wall. “Right. Purely humanitarian. Nothing to do with the fact you’d rather be within arm’s reach all evening?”

“Pot, kettle,” he fires back. “You were in the salon with her for two hours, measuring hem lengths to the millimeter. Since when do you play stylist?”

Touché. I wave him away. “Proper fit minimizes wardrobe malfunctions. Investor dinners rarely benefit from malfunctions.”

What I don’t say: She looked up at me over the measuring tape with such trust that it made my chest ache in the best way.

Dante’s grin widens, and he claps my shoulder. “We’re both in trouble, eh?” He pockets the place card and heads for the back hall. I shake my head, but the smile that tugs my mouth lasts longer than it should.

Maybe it’s not my place to play stylist for her, but I can’t help myself. Sal calls herdollsometimes, and she is. I want to dress her up, take her out, show her off, do filthy things to her, then soothe her every nerve. I’m not sure when I became that guy, but I am now. I’ve always enjoyed coddling my submissives, but it’s different with her. I don’t know why.

It’s not just the desire to do it. It’s theraw needto do it. Like breathing or blinking.

Undeniable.

I return to the dressing suite, where Tabitha stands on a low pedestal, wrapped in emerald silk. Eight yards of bias-cut fabric drape over her curves like liquid, pooling into a tiny train behind her bare heels.

“Ready to begin again?”

“If you’ll stop fussing so much,” she teases.

“Not a chance.” I’m kneeling, pinning temporary hems so the tailor can finish the stitch tonight.

“Hold still,” I murmur. She obeys, only her eyes tracking me. They’re storm-green under the chandelier—the exact reason I chose this shade.

“Am I breathing too much?” she asks.

“Silk likes oxygen. You’re fine.” I mark the final pin, then rise to check proportions in the three-way mirror. Perfect. The bodice’s asymmetric fold finds her smallest waist point, and the deep V stops just short of scandal. I meet her gaze in the reflection. “You’ll stop hearts at the party.”

She laughs, tension easing. I step back so the seamstress can slip a robe over the gown and carry it to the sewing room. Tabitha perches on the chaise, scrolling on her phone while I log alterations on my tablet.

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