Page 3 of My Small Town Silver Fox Billionaire

The wrought iron gate creeks open, revealing the familiar driveway that winds up to a large white cottage atop a hill. I drive slowly until I get to the parking spot next to the garage.

They still refuse to let this place go.

My parents are older, and I don’t know how they manage the size and stairs every single day. Then again, like me, they tend to keep to themselves, so this must feel like a trusted cocoon.

It runs in the family, after all.

I park the car and take my keys out. Automatically, my hand pushes through my brown hair to tuck loose strands to the side.

Mom’s gonna be annoyed if she sees a strand out of place, even at my age.

Her doting is par for the course with her, but definitely not something I like to deal with. I lock up the car and head to the door. I don’t have to, but locking up is just force of habit. Who knows, maybe some woodland creature is lurking in the bushes, ready to take my briefcase.

At the door I see the nested camera to my right turn with a hiss. It clicks, probably taking a picture of me. A second later, the door opens slowly, and a woman with dark brown hair, even darker brown eyes, and a short, stocky frame appears.

“Robert, right?”

“Yes. I’m here to see Dan and Becca,” I reply. It feels weird calling them that, even though I’ve taken care of documents that use those exact names. But the formality of my family does not lend itself to asking for my mom and dad.

She opens the door wide and gestures me inside. In the foyer, I take off my shoes and put them in the shoe cabinet next to the door. Laughing to myself, I think how regimented a visit to my own parents is at my age.

“This way.”

“Yes, I know where to go,” I reason. But she doesn’t listen. The stocky woman walks down the hallway until we get to the first threshold.

“In here.”

“Thanks,” I reply, holding back from telling her she didn’t need to give me the grand tour to get here. As I step through, I see the familiar red leather couch, a coffee table with three cups of tea on it, and a small tray of pastries right in the center. My father stands up and approaches.

“Robert! Good to see you again, son.”

“Hey, Dad.” Okay, face to face I can get away without the formal.

He embraces me for a brief moment. Mom joins in, and I look into her eyes.

She’s getting older. The wrinkles on her face are deeper than before. As her big, blue eyes take me in, she grins, and I see her teeth getting a little gray despite all of the work I know she’s had done.

“Robert! You finally made it out here!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

We embrace, and as she pulls away, she gestures to the chair next to the couch.

“Have a seat.” And as I do, my father doles out the Danishes. I take a bite, savoring the taste of the sweet treat. “Not bad.”

“Yes, our new housekeeper, Alena, makes these for her family, so we seem to get the benefit of her expertise,” my father says.

“Oh yeah. We met at the door; glad she can bake up a storm. These are delicious.”

So that’s her name. Alena. She’s nice, and I’m not surprised that they have a housekeeper to help with everything due to their age.

“Indeed.”

We sit there and eat the pastries, not saying much else. A few minutes later, my father clears his throat.

“So, how’s business been?”

“Good. I’ve had a couple of new properties along the lake go up.”

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