Page 24 of My Silver Fox Savior

“You’re joking.”

“You’ve flirted with clients in the past,” he points out, walking toward the door.

He’s right, in a sense. I’ve put up a front when necessary, using the logical approach of doing what’s best for the business. Yet it never felt like flirting then because there was nothing behind it, no nugget of truth. This is different. If I flirt with this woman, I’ll feel like I’m betraying Lily.

Christ. What thefuckam I thinking? What does that even mean, betray her?

Ethan leaves the room, walking down the stairs to let the client in. He’s already removed my photo of Damon from the wall. Ethan’s a chill, nonconfrontational person, so this is a big step for him to take, a definite line in the sand.

“Oh, sweetie, thank youeverso much,” the heiress says as Ethan holds the door open for her. “Oh, andthisis the famous Landon Cross.”

She’s around my age, which should make her seem more appropriate for me, but I instantly dislike something about her. I think it’s the thin smirk as if I’m here as a gift for her or a piece of personal entertainment.

Technically, I suppose she’s not an unattractive woman. She wears a designer dress and looks like she goes to the gym, but she does nothing for me. I note these details with the cold, clinical nature a particular doctor might have while telling a man he has months, not years, to live.

“Landon …” Ethan walks up next to her, laughing awkwardly. “Are you suddenly mute, bro?”

“Bro,” Rosita says in delight, looking around at our East Coast decor, modern office. At least, that’s what Ethan calls it. “This place is soquaint.”

Ethan smiles, then gives me a look. It’s mostly the seriousness on his face that makes me snap out of whatever mood I’ve fallen into. Ethan’s a good person, my best friend. He’s been there for me every single time I’ve ever needed him. He was there at the most crucial time; he saved my life.

I won’tflirt, but standing here like a jackass isn’t helping anyone.

“Rosita,” I say with a forced smile, hoping she can’t tell it’s forced, “it’s so nice to meet you.”

The day goes slowly, with countless meetings. I do my best to play the game with Ethan, but two things are constantly on my mind. The first is Lily and the car ride this morning: her blush, her heat, biting her lip like her sole goal is to drive me nuts.

The second is the bar—Damon, the bastard who threatened an innocent woman just trying to do the right thing. She’s been through enough without dealing with that crap.

As soon as I can leave, I get in my car and drive across the city. I take my gun with me this time, which is a considerable risk. I check my phone more often than I should, thinking of Lily and inventing scenarios where she texts me. What do I think she’s randomly going to say, exactly?

Hey Landon. I was biting my lip earlier because I was thinking about sliding to my knees and kissing the head of yourmanhood, then opening my mouth and sucking as much of you as I can take. I was biting my lip because I wanted to feel how hard you get when you thrust between my legs and …

I snap myself out of it. Work needs to be done, and I need to focus.

This time, The Bear is open, with music blasting. I stare at the door as a heavyset man in a leather jacket falls out, stumbling onto the street, snorting, and then spitting on the ground. There’s no reason for a place like this to be so close to where families live, sleep, and try to study.

Usually, logic would keep me in the car, but there’s nothing logical about what that prick Damon did to Lily. There’s nothing logical about the fear and the pain it instilled in her. It’s just wrong—evil. Nobody gets to talk to her like that.

Since I might be dead soon anyway, what harm is there? I push open the car door and hurry across the street, throwing the bar door open. It slams into the wall loud enough for a few people to hear it over the music.

The bar is small and musty, with a low ceiling that almost makes me duck my head. A table in the corner has a bright light shining over a poker game. Two other tables have three or four people sitting at them, all with a bottle of whiskey. Rock music blares from the jukebox.

I see them all staring at me, and I’m sure I’d usually feel fear. These are rough men, clearly capable of violence, thick and stinking of nicotine, and looking at me with that calm, dead expression I remember from the apple tree case. I haven’t thought about that in years, but it’s the closest I’ve experienced.

They hate me, and they’d hurt me if they had the chance.

I walk over to the bar and lean against it, nodding to the bartender. The man is old with wispy white-red patches of hair on the sides of his head. “A dr-drink?” he says.

“Is there an issue?”

The man visibly trembles, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t be here. The Bear is mainly for regulars.”

“Maybe I’m interested in becoming a regular,” I say, letting my voice get a little too loud. “Get me a beer.”

“Please, it’s on me.”

I turn at the sound of his voice, knowing who it will be immediately. He’s got the sleazeball tone of voice I knew he’d have and the confidence that he can bully and blackmail and break anybody he wants. Damon smirks and walks to the bar, resting his elbow against it.

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