Page 55 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

When Costas calls cut, dancers high-five me. Tabitha hands me water, eyes bright. “See? Not uptight at all.”

“I’ll deny that in tomorrow’s earnings call.” I wink.

While the crew resets, we retreat to craft services—a foldout table of espresso and pistachio biscotti. Tabitha dips a biscotti, humming to herself. Her earlier heaviness has thawed, and mischief glints in those mesmerizing eyes.

I lean against a gear crate. “Your instinct for camera angles is…valuable.”

She snorts. “Instinct is cheap. The degrees everyone cares about? Those are pricy.”

“A piece of paper never told me about someone’s instinct.” I break a biscotti in half. “If you can choreograph, coach talent, and translate brand language into kinetic content, you’re already ahead of half our contractors.”

Her chewing slows. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” I dust crumbs from my lapel. “Post-holiday, we can pilot a movement director role. Part-time at first—Paris, digital capsules, maybe VR runway. We’ll budget, test KPIs, iterate.”

She sets her biscotti down, eyes bright but wary. “Nico, that’s…a lot.”

“It’s a ladder,” I counter. “You choose how high you want to climb it.”

Silence lingers, charged. She traces a powdered-sugar line on the tablecloth. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” I sip espresso. “But know that paper credentials matter less than results. We value talent and dedication above all else. That’s why we employ most of our family, pre- or post-graduation. We care about the people, not the paper.”

“I’m still paying off my college loans?—”

“We can discuss tuition reimbursement,” I offer without thinking, then grin at her startled laugh. “Kidding. Mostly.”

We wrap shoot number two with Tabitha coaching center stage—shoulders back, chin up,“smile like you just found an extra thousand dollars in your pocket.”

The dancers nail it, which makes sense. She speaksdancer.

Costas yells, “That’s a wrap!” and I feel the rare post-production high. Numbers met, creativity sparked, morale up. Even Cranky Costas is in a good mood when we leave.

Outside, snow begins again. The drive home is quiet, both of us worn from the production.

When we step out of the car, Tabitha hugs her cardigan tighter. “Thank you for today.”

“Thankyou,” I reply. “Your flair salvaged dull marketing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Dull? You danced.”

“Under duress.” But the moment her laughter cracked my composure, something lifted—like finding color in a grayscale spreadsheet.

Snowflakes catch in her lashes. She brushes them off, gaze drifting over the dark pines. “If I take that role, I’ll be in your orbit longer than our contract.”

“Is that a problem?”

She searches my face. “Depends if orbits decay.”

Ah. That. The fear of becoming a temporary satellite, crashing once its usefulness ends. I inhale the cold air, deciding to tell her the truth. “Some orbits stabilize,” I say quietly. “Attraction and gravitational pull aren’t always destructive.”

You don’t have to leave when the contract is over.

I’m not sure if she understands my meaning, and even though I danced in front of my employees today, I don’t have the spine to say that to her now. It feels rushed. Or inappropriate. Or something.

Or like she could reject me outright.

She nods, folds arms across her chest—but there’s hope in the gesture. I shrug off my suit jacket, drape it over her shoulders. “Come on. The world’s best hot chocolate waits inside.”

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