Page 3 of Silver Foxed

I grumble a curse under my breath before I type out FINE in all capital letters like a petulant child. While I know Oliver is messing with me, I wouldn’t put it past him to make me suffer a consult with my ex if I don’t follow his instructions. He’s a good friend and boss, but for a fifty-five-year-old man, he sure is meddling.

With my phone now off, I reach for my brown leather messenger bag I had placed on the floor near the passenger seat and slip my phone inside. Did I go against Oliver’s blabbering and bring my computer? Yes. But not for the reason he would think.

If I’m going to take a weekend away from work, I may as well spend it doing something I love. Writing. And not copywriting for work, but creative writing. Something I haven’t been able to do in a long while considering how busy I’ve been.

Ever since Oliver made me Vice President of Client Relations last year at Spark Life Creative, I feel as if I haven’t been able to breathe. While the money is nice, and I enjoy the travel, I’m tired. I know it’s not Oliver’s fault, and his convincing me to come to his lake house for the weekend was his attempt to get me to maintain a work/life balance. But I haven’t wanted one.

Since my divorce from Deb, I purposely took more work than I should and offered to travel globally when needed. Not only does it soothe the part of me that is a complete control freak, but most importantly, it takes my mind off the loneliness I feel. How at forty-five years old I have everything people dream of—a secure, well-paying job, good friends, a full bank account, and a robust retirement fund—but nothing I would truly call achievements.

I thought by now that I’d have a family, maybe have started my own business or published a few novels. That I would have something to leave behind when I die, something to be proud of. But if I were to keel over right now, my tombstone would read:

Elijah Michael Astor

He was a nice guy with a good job. People liked him.

As my father would say if he was still alive: How pathetic, son.

With that lovely thought in mind, I get out of my sports car and stretch my tall body, my knees popping and back cracking as I do. I probably should’ve rented a better vehicle for the long drive and mountain terrain up here, but summer is winding down, so I decided against it. I opted instead to drive the seven hours from Los Angeles with the top down and the wind in my hair, enjoying the weather.

I’ll never admit it to Oliver, but it was nice to finally use my car for what I initially bought it for—joy rides—though my friends all like to joke it was a midlife crisis purchase. Maybe they’re right, since I bought it last year after my divorce.

With a sigh, I open the small trunk and grab my travel bag, slinging it over my shoulder while holding my messenger bag in my other hand. Then I study the front of the house.

It’s massive. Oliver wasn’t kidding when he said I would love this place. While I would never buy a mansion, I can appreciate the mid-century architecture. It’s sexy, sleek, and unique.

Feeling a little more excited about the idea of hanging out alone in an expensive home where I can write and enjoy the quiet out of the city, I walk up the stone drive and look at my watch. It’s just after six in the evening, which means there’s still a couple of hours of daylight left. Oliver said there’s a hot tub in the backyard that overlooks the lake and private beach. He also said the sunsets are unreal. And while I don’t like the outdoors, I do enjoy hot tubs and nice patios with a good view. Especially if a glass of wine is involved.

My stomach growls, and I’m reminded I haven’t eaten since breakfast, a matter I should take care of before I drink wine and end up getting drunk alone. However, at this point, that sounds like it could be a good idea. I need to do something different to get myself out of the monotonous routine I’m in.

With my evening now officially determined, I fish out the key Oliver gave me and insert it into the lock of the massive multi-paneled mahogany door that probably cost more than my mortgage. When the interior is revealed to me, I let out a low whistle. This place is…beautiful. That doesn’t seem like the right word, but it’s the only one I’ve got right now.

Once I’ve closed the door and locked it behind me, I set my bags down and look around, taking in the whole space. The floor plan is open, seamlessly connecting the different living areas. There are large floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors that allow natural light to flood the spaces, which are decorated with sleek furniture and minimal art. While I haven’t seen the house in its entirety, from what I can see, the space feels homey and inviting.

More excitement fills me at the prospect of spending time exploring this place like a museum, studying all the clean lines and geometric shapes. I know Oliver’s wife likes art, too, so I bet there are some beautiful and rare pieces in here.

I rub the back of my neck, chuckling to myself at how giddy I just got. But I can’t help it. I enjoy the simplicity and functionality of things. I’m also a sucker for homes that are made of sustainable materials. It’s one of the personality traits that Deb never appreciated nor cared for in the ten years we were married.

I let out a grunt. Why did Oliver have to bring up my ex? He wants me to be relaxed this weekend. But now I’m irritated thinking of her and our excruciatingly long, drawn-out divorce that was made final this past year. A milestone I haven’t had time to fully celebrate yet. Maybe I’ll toast to that while I’m in the hot tub tonight.

Thump!

The soft and sudden noise has the hair rising on the back of my neck. I stay still and try to attune my hearing toward the origin of the noise. For a moment, I think I imagined it—or maybe something in the home was settling—but then I hear another noise, almost like a clanging. Followed by another soft thumping noise.

If I was rational, I would get out of the house and call the police to come investigate. But this is a small town, so I doubt the cops would get here quickly. It’s more likely that an item fell over, or an animal got in, especially in a big house surrounded by forests and mountains. And there’s a part of me, the overly confident part, that says I can handle myself against an intruder. I’m tall, lean, and work out every day to stay fit and active, especially as I get older. I trust that if I needed to, I could defend myself.

When I hear another clanging sound, I pick up my pace, looking around for anything I can grab in case I need to take action. This is when minimalism doesn’t help anything. It would be nice if Oliver collected baseball bats or swords.

With a quiet exhale, I clench my fists at my sides, turning a corner to be met with an expansive dining room. I look straight ahead, and I stand there awkwardly when my brain takes in what I see beyond it. The open floor plan does nothing to hide the state-of-the-art kitchen with a panoramic view of the lake beyond. But that’s not the view that stops me in my tracks. No, that’s not it at all.

It’s the naked back and ample round ass of a ginger-haired woman. She’s standing at the sink washing a pan in a tiny white thong. Her hair is tied in a high ponytail, the soft waves of it landing between her pale freckled shoulder blades. As I allow my eyes to study her further, I see there’s a red string tied around her generous waist, which I assume is an apron.

Fuck me. My mouth goes dry, and my cock stirs beneath the placket of my dark-wash jeans as time freezes and my brain stops working altogether. When she starts humming a tune I don’t recognize, it’s as if my trance deepens, and I can’t help but admire the rest of her. My eyes make their way down and up the curves and lines of her bare, full-figured thighs before settling on her flared hips.

I swallow, my tongue like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth. I should be a decent man and make myself known. I should let whoever this insanely sexy woman is know that she’s not alone in the house.

As I debate my options for the best way to handle this, I pray that she doesn’t turn around. Because if she does, I have a feeling this will not end well for me. Unless Oliver hired her? No. I shake my head. He wouldn’t do that. If he did, he’d at least warn me. He’s the type of friend who tells you too much information, not less.

Maybe if I cover my eyes and clear my throat, she won’t be as afraid? Or I suppose I could just turn around and walk back the way I came, and she’ll be none the wiser that I was even here, ogling her like a pervert. Yes, that’s what I should do. I should walk away. With my decision made and my gentleman brain coming back online, I start to turn on my heel.

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