A Shot at Love

The Golden Owl

Two booming knocks rattle the front door—hard enough to make me jump. It creaks open slowly, and sharp footsteps click against the marble floor, headed our way. I realize I've been holding my breath and let out a shaky sigh as the visitors step into view.

"Knock, knock," a deep, husky voice calls out, breaking the silence as a man in his early-fifties strolls in, a bottle of Dom Pérignon swinging casually from his hand.

He's tall—easily 6'3"— and built like he's never missed a day at the gym. His tailored navy blue suit and crisp button-down cling to him, with thick silver hair combed back, framing a chiseled jaw.

The moment his piercing blue eyes lock onto mine, a chill prickles down my spine.

I know exactly who he is.

It's Noah's father.

A second man steps in behind him, his presence a darker, more brooding contrast. Late forties, with espresso hair and a permanent scowl etched into his forehead. His energy feels sharp, edgier, like he's coiled too tight. The all-black ensemble only adds to his intensity.

Noah's gaze shoots to Jacquelyn, tension tightening his jaw. "Mom, seriously? The night I'm introducing Kingston to everyone?"

Jacquelyn's expression crumples with guilt, her shoulders sagging. "Oh, sweetheart. Your father was so persistent, practically begged me. He just... he really wants a chance to be in your life."

Noah's laugh is bitter, hollow. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?" He drops his hand from my thigh, his movements sharp as he tosses his napkin onto the table. His grip on my elbow is firm but careful as he pulls me to my feet. "We're leaving," he growls, his tone leaving no room for argument.

His fingers twitch against my skin, his chest expanding with a deep, controlled breath. Sophie looks like she's forgotten how to breathe entirely, her eyes frozen wide. I'm rooted to the spot, my pulse pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.

Everything about the moment feels wrong. Why is Noah's father here? And who the hell is the man standing beside him?

"Son, please," his father steps into our path, blocking the exit like he has every right to be here.

"Really, Sterling?" Noah snaps, his fingers lacing tightly through mine as he shifts in front of me.

Oh boy, he doesn't even call him Dad. That's got to sting.

"One drink? That's all I'm asking. Just a conversation. Maybe meet this famous girlfriend of yours." Sterling's gaze shifts to me, his smile polished and practiced. Oh, hell no. "I've been hearing about you—making waves at Sports Digest. Impressive, little lady. I'm Sterling Westbrook of Sterling Enterprises. Nice to meet you."

Every word drips with charm, but there's an edge to it, like he's testing me. He extends a hand, Rolex glinting.

My spine jolts straight. Years of manners scream at me to be gracious, but Noah's tension radiates against my side. His father gets one second. No more.

"Thanks, you too." The words come out tight, my smile forced as I take Sterling's hand—one firm shake and that's it. The moment my skin leaves his, I'm already turning, my fingers seeking Noah's. When they lock together, his clasp says everything I can't: We're done here.

"That's enough, gentlemen," the second man cuts in, striding over and clapping a hand on both Sterling and Noah's shoulders. His fireside bourbon cologne hits me before his words do—rich, overpowering, like he bathed in it. "Happy Birthday, Noah." He turns to me with a slick, rehearsed smile. "I'm Eric, Noah's Uncle."