Page 53 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I shrug, trying for breezy, but the heart behind the shrug pounds. Assuming the worst of Tabitha? He’s lucky all I threatened was his bonus.

The quartet strikes a new tune downstairs—“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in languid strings. We stay hidden behind the curtain, the distant chatter a muffled hum. I notice her breathing has steadied.

“I meant what I said earlier,” I murmur. “You’re ours tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” She asks it lightly, but I hear the undercurrent.

I should deflect. Crack a joke about never planning that far ahead. But the cavern in my chest where fear lives demands honesty.

“Tomorrow will take care of itself,” I say, still trying for lighthearted.

She smiles. “That’s the best kind of plan.”

I want to kiss her. Ialmostdo. But footsteps approach, and we step apart just as Aunt Caterina appears, cheeks flushed from eggnog, ready for another round of matchmaking interrogation. Or is it an intervention? I’m not sure.

Antonio never circles back. Word travels fast in our clan—no one else dares a disparaging syllable. Tabitha laughs freely through the rest of the night, and each laugh fixes another crack inside me I didn’t know was there.

The party bleeds into early-morning hours. After the last guest departs, we escape to the snow-dusted terrace. The chill bites my skin, but I don’t mind when champagne bubbles in my blood. Tabitha stands at the balustrade, moonlight pooling on her shoulders.

“I should probably let you drag race down the mountain to burn off your adrenaline from tonight,” she teases.

I step beside her, hands in pockets. “Tonight was enough.” I exhale white steam. “Confrontation scares me more than cliffs. But you…” I swallow, meeting her gaze. “You’re worth the fear.”

She slips her hand into mine. “Then we can be scared together.”

I squeeze once—promise, permission, plea. Snowflakes start to fall as the orchestra packs away instruments inside.

For the first time since I ran with bulls in Pamplona, my heart hammers not from danger but from possibility.

This might be the wildest ride yet.

23

NICO

The product-launch dashboardglows on my monitor like an accusation.

Fourteen influencer kits still undelivered, three TikTok edits overdue, one final budget column stubbornly flashing red.

None of this should be on my plate.

I massage the bridge of my nose. Normally, I thrive on numbers—clean, obedient, predictable. But it’s only days until Christmas, the Shanghai factory’s cargo is weather-stalled in Anchorage of all places, and Dante still hasn’t approved the final social-media concept because he’s busy building a snow luge for “a surprise.”

Add Tabitha’s quiet slump these last forty-eight hours, and even pivot tables feel brittle.

She appears in my doorway now, hair braided, sweater hanging loose—as if oversized knit can shield sorrow in her shoulders. “Got a minute?”

“Always.” I shut the laptop halfway, the universal gesture ofyou have my attention.

She steps inside, fingers tracing a faint scratch on the antique desk. “Erin’s pre-op labs looked good,” she says, trying for brightness. It falters. “But Grandma’s house might not.”

I straighten. “Foreclosure?”

“Not yet. But the mortgage forbearance ends January first. With time off to stay near the hospital, she’s behind three months.” She shrugs, brittle. “One crisis at a time, right?”

The instinct tofixflares—boost her line of credit, buy the note from the bank outright, bury the paperwork in a trust. But I log the urge internally. Tabitha hates feeling like a charity case.

Better to surprise Grandma with a quiet purchase in her own name after Erin’s surgery.

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