Page 66 of The Silver Fox Brother

Working with Knox would mean... what? Meetings. Site visits. Weeks of collaboration on design direction, material selection, all the details that go into creating threefully staged luxury residences. It would mean being in his orbit regularly, professionally, unavoidably—while living with his brother.

How would that even work?

I imagine lying in bed next to Rowan, knowing I'm working with Knox. Keeping that secret across dinner conversations, family gatherings, all the small moments where truth is supposed to exist between people in a relationship.

Could I do that?ShouldI do that?

My phone buzzes again. I don't pick it up immediately. Just stare at it vibrating on the glass coffee table.

This is a business decision. That's what Knox said in his office.

"This is business."

And he's right. Developers reach out to designers all the time. It's how the industry works. There's nothing inappropriate about accepting a project from someone based purely on professional qualifications.

Except when that someone is your boyfriend's estranged brother.

I pick up my phone. Another text from Rowan.

Rowan: Looking forward to tonight. Been a long day. Need to see you.

My chest tightens reading it.

He doesn't know I spent the afternoon with Knox, doesn't know about the offer, doesn't know I'm sitting here weighing whether to accept the biggest opportunity of my career. And I'm not going to tell him—not tonight—maybenot ever. That thought should bother me more than it does.

I stand, head to the bedroom. I need to change, freshen up, be ready to meet Rowan for dinner at eight like everything is normal. Like I didn't just spend two hours with his brother discussing a project that could change everything.

The restaurant is tucked into a quiet corner of the West Village, the kind of place with white tablecloths and candlelight and prices that don't appear on the menu.

I arrive at eight exactly. Rowan is already there—seated at our usual table by the window, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when the hostess leads me over, stands, and kisses my cheek.

"You look beautiful," he says.

I'm wearing the emerald green dress I changed into after getting home—fitted, knee-length, safe.

"Thank you."

He pulls out my chair. I sit, and he returns to his seat across from me.

The server appears immediately.

"Good evening. Can I start you with something to drink?"

Rowan glances at me. "Wine?"

"Please."

"We'll take a bottle of the Barolo," Rowan tells the server.

"The 2016."

The server nods and disappears. Rowan sets his phone on the table—screen down, as always—and leans back in his chair.

"How was your day?"

The question catches me off guard. When was the last time he asked about my day without prompting?

"Busy," I say. "Client meetings. Site visits."