Page 4 of Silver Foxed

That’s when I’m met with a blood-curdling scream.

Chapter three

Alex

There’s a man in my house. There’s a fucking man in my house. From what it looks like, a very sexy man. But a man that I do not know is in. My. House! Okay, my parents’ house, but sort of my house. Oh my god, I’m freaking out. I am freaking out.

I scream again as I press my bare ass against the cool sink, using my arms to try to wrangle my boobs that are falling out from the sides of the too-small apron. At least I was smart enough to put it on in the first place. Not that I thought a man would show up to find me mostly naked, but I didn’t want to get oil burns.

Why the hell am I thinking about oil burns? A stranger is in my house.

I open my mouth to scream again, but he holds up a hand. “Please don’t scream,” his warm voice pleads. “I swear I’m not going to hurt you.”

My eyes dart from his large palm to his salt-and-pepper beard and perfectly styled silver hair. Then I do the thing he asked me not to do—I scream then grab the first thing I see: a wooden spoon. I hold it up and stare at the stunned man in the dining room, glad there’s at least some space between us.

“Who the fuck are you?!” I yell, my question a high-pitched screech.

His stunning blue irises that remind me of the lake stare into me, unblinking. I shake the wooden spoon at him and try to ignore the way his penetrating gaze sends a zing straight to my lady parts.

“Hello! I asked you a question. Who are you?”

His attention travels from my face to the wooden spoon, the corners of his lips tilting up slightly before he looks back at me. He shifts on his feet, and I wave the spoon at him.

“Don’t come any closer! Answer me; who are you?”

He holds up both his hands and doesn’t move, his eyes still trained on mine. At least he’s keeping his gaze on my face instead of my almost naked form.

“My name is Elijah. I’m friends with Oliver Martin, the owner of this house.”

My dad has friends? I mean, of course he has friends. And I guess this attractive silver fox is his friend. But I’ve never heard him talk about an Elijah. I repeat his name again and again in my mind, but I don’t know any Elijahs.

“How do you know him?” I ask, confused.

“I’m the Vice President of Client Relations at Spark Life Creative.”

Elijah. Vice President of Client Relations. I repeat it again and again until it finally clicks. My body flushes pink when I realize who he is.

“You’re Astor?”

The man nods, his perfectly angled jaw flexing along with the well-developed lean muscles in his arms that he has clenched at his sides. “Elijah Astor,” he confirms. “Oliver likes to call me by my last name. But we’re close friends. He gave me access to this house for the weekend. I swear, I’m not going to hurt you.”

My body still tense, I gently lower the spoon and place it on the counter, crossing both my arms over my chest to give me more coverage. “My mom said it was going to be empty this weekend.”

I watch Elijah’s brow pinch as he processes my words and drops his head back to look at the ceiling. His mouth moves silently as if he’s praying or maybe he’s cursing. When he drops his head down to his chest, I hear him ask, “Are you Oliver’s daughter, Alexandra?”

“Yes, I’m Alex.” This time, I do hear him curse. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. I watch his chest move up and down in heavy breaths, the muscles of his biceps ticking beneath the fabric of his fitted gray T-shirt. “Elijah?” I ask when the silence becomes too much.

“I’m sorry, I should go. This is highly inappropriate,” he says, his tone tight and eyes on the ground.

A smile tugs at my lips. This is highly inappropriate I want to mimic back in a British accent, but I don’t. I find it amusing that he sounds so proper for a man who looks like he does, someone who’d take you over his knee and call you a bad girl. Not a man who averts his gaze and apologizes for doing nothing wrong.

He turns to leave, taking a few steps forward with his hands still clenched at his sides. I don’t know why, but I find myself going after him. “Wait!” I call.

As if he forgets the reason he turned to leave in the first place, he spins on his heel to face me. But as soon as he sees my apron-clad form, he spins back around.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again.

“It’s fine. Let me go put something on. Don’t leave.” Before he can say anything, I rush out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Breathing harder from my efforts, I untie the apron and lay it on the California King before grabbing the first thing I see in my suitcase. I pop the emerald sundress over my head and tug it down. It’s a skimpy thing with thin fabric and a short hemline that I’d normally wear over a bathing suit, but it will have to do for now. I’m in a rush to get back downstairs.

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