Page 11 of My Silver Fox Savior

I end the voicemail, gritting my teeth. I don’t want to learn all the different ways my body has turned against me. I don’t want to hear the case the cancer is making against my life. Tomorrow, I promise myself. I’ll call and make arrangements tomorrow, do the mature thing, and make a reasonable choice.

But now, I want to see Lily.

As I drive through the city, I don’t overthink this desire. It’s difficult to remember her as the small, shy girl she was anyway. Mostly, I can recall the desperate look in her eyes, the way she stared at me with saucer-wide eyes as if I was the only person who could save her. She had that glint of determination even back then.

I pull up outside her new apartment building in a superior area of the city. After shooting her a text letting her know I’m here, I lean back and compose myself. I have to remember that this is a business meeting, sharing info. Two warriors in the fight against the darkness this city can inflict on people.

When I spot her walking across the street, an alarm goes off in my head.Now-or-never-now-or-never. I push the thought as far down as I can get it. It’s that damn C-word. It’s that damn doctor. He has me feeling on edge, like I have to act now. Yet even if I did, where would it lead? What would it mean? So much for not overthinking.

I climb out of the car and walk to the passenger side, trying not to take too much notice of her outfit. She’s wearing a casual dress with a light sweater over her shoulders. Her hair is down today, framing her face in an endearing, beautiful, impossible-not-to-note way.

“Thank you,” she murmurs when I open the door for her.

“No problem …”

As I return to the driver’s seat, I try not to notice her bare legs, the thickness, how perfect they look. I want to grab them, massage them slowly, and make her feel every subtle movement until she’s gasping and moaning right on the edge of a release.

“It’s not far,” I tell her. “I’ve got my files in the back.”

I’m looking at the road, so it’s difficult to be sure, but I think I see her shoulders slump out of the corner of my eye, almost like she’s disappointed I’m making this about work right away. “Oh … good.”

“How did your mom react when you told her you’d run into me?”

“I didn’t,” Lily murmurs. “Honestly, she hates talking about before she got clean. I think she feels as ifeverythingwas her fault. It doesn’t matter if I tell her she’s wrong. She was a good mom despite everything.Hewas the problem.”

“That’s a mature perspective,” I say, “but I shouldn’t be surprised. You thought the same back then. You were determined to stay with your mom.”

“I knew she was a good person in a bad place, that’s all.”

“That’s one hell of an insight for a girl in your spot,” I tell her.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve always been a genius.” She laughs, then says, “That was a joke, but clearly not very funny.”

She’s talking about the fact I didn’t laugh. As we stop at a red light, I turn to her with a smirk. Her hands are resting on her legs, almost like she’s trying to draw attention to her flawless shape.

“Maybe I don’t see it as a joke.”

She rolls her eyes. “So I’m a genius, then, am I, Mr. Cross?”

“See, you remembered my surname. You must have a next-level intellect.”

“Haha,” she says, slapping my arm. She quickly snatches her hand back when we make contact, and then the light changes, so I’m forced to focus on the road.

The moment seems to hold more meaning. The warmth and sensation of her touch lingers on my arm, sizzling through my body.Months, not years… “Months” is so vague. It could be as few as two. I may only have sixty days to take the chances I never took before, to stop being so reserved and cautious, always making intelligent decisions, weighing the pros and cons.

“Have you had a busy day?” she asks.

“Yeah, meetings, meetings, and more meetings.”

“It must be tough working with so many depressing cases, huh?”

I glance at her when I hear the hitch in her voice. She looks back at me with compassion in her eyes, with true meaning in her expression. That’s when it hits me. She thinks I do this charity-style work all the time. She thinks it’s my main job. I hope I’ve got it wrong, but I don’t think I have. Even worse, I don’t correct her.

“Coming from you, that means a lot,” I say.

“I argue with my boss about this,” she replies. “I always tell him we shouldn’t have to be miserable. If we build a wall between work and our home life, we should be able to stay sane. He thinks I’m just green.”

“Hmm,” I mutter.

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