Page 17 of The Fox

Rhodes takes another bite of his Pad Thai, deep in thought.

“What about you? What is your family like?”

“Dad was military, stationed in Poland. He met my mom at a local cafe one afternoon and was immediately in love. She came from a small village and wanted a better life for herself, so she was working to go off to school. Eventually, they married and she moved with Dad as his assignments changed. Then, when she was pregnant with me, he was honorably discharged. My mom died last year and my dad passed away three winters ago. I’m an only child; everyone else that is related to me still lives over in Poland.”

“I’m sorry,” I say between bites of my samosas. Gods, I love samosas.

He tilts his head before grabbing a napkin to wipe his lips. “I’m not. They were wonderful parents. I wouldn’t be the person I am without them.” He moves, putting the takeout containers in the bag he’d brought them in, before taking a look around my living room. As I scrutinize his movements, I feel my anxiety starting to creep in.

He runs his fingers against the back of the couch, rubbing the fabric of my blankets between his fingers; it mimics the same motions he did along my body the other day. Gentle, unhurried, assured. I like him here, the scent of him mingling with the comforts of my home. I catch him glancing at me as he picks up my faded pink cardigan from the coffee table. It is my favorite. Sure, it is a chunkier knit and no, it doesn’t have pockets. But, it does have a slouch to it and the sleeves roll up nicely.

“This is very much you, Amelia.” He brings it to me, his gait slow and measured. Reaching around me, he drapes it along my shoulders and smiles. “You are more relaxed here compared to the other times we’ve been together.”

“This is my home, Rhodes.” I squint, trying to circumvent the conversation.

“True, but you are different tonight. It’s like you’re on this razor edge. You are nervous having me here, but at the same time, you are more yourself than I’ve seen.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Rhodes smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as he rubs one hand along his jaw. “I like this side of you, though, the best.”

I duck my head, hiding my grin as my hands reach for the hem of my sweater. “Thanks,” I whisper, “I like her too.”

He reaches Lennon, who is sleeping on the cushion of his favorite yellow armchair and places a gentle pet along his ears. The cat raises his head before chipping softly and going back to sleep.Weird, he normally hates touches from anyone but me.

“He’s stunning, Amelia.” I smile at his affection toward Lennon. Yes, Lennon is a gorgeous Maine Coon, but he is also a grump of the tallest order.

“He’s the best.”

I turn back toward the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher and attempting to hide from Rhodes. It is nearly ten at night; the hours have passed quickly and the conversation was not forced at any given moment. Maybe Parker was right. Having him here isn’t so bad and if anything, he’s been the perfect gentleman. I shouldn’t trust it.

“Do you need help?” His voice is loud behind me and I don’t turn around before responding.

“Nope. I’ve got it. Feel free to hang out with Lennon or sit at the island.” Footsteps retreat and I’m lost in my thoughts for a little bit.

Rhodes is here, touching my things. Lennon likes him…well, tolerates him. I’m not sure if Lennon actually likes anyone, honestly. Gods, he smells so good. Like the most dangerous combination of leather and clove—warm and sensual—and his hands. Those hands. He’s been so considerate all night and fuck, I just want him to snap. I want his hands on my body. Amelia, get it under control. You can’t let him in. He can’t stay. I want him to stay. He fits here, it feels like home with him here.

“Who is this?” he calls from the other room. I dry my hands before joining him.

He’s holding a picture frame with an old photograph in it and I know exactly who is looking back at him through the glass.

“That’s my mother.” Rhodes glances at me before returning his gaze to the gilded frame. “It was two weeks before my sixth birthday. We’d had a garden picnic. I remember the way she laughed that day; I swear sometimes I hear it echoing when I close my eyes. She was happy that afternoon. I was too.” A sad expression covers my face as I think about her. “She loved my father the best she could, and I like to think he loved her too.” I pause, reaching for the frame and running my index finger along its photograph.

“She sounds like a wonderful mom, Amelia.”

I smile in agreement. “She was.”

Setting the frame back down, I turn to him. I know it is getting late but I don’t want him to leave right now. It feels nice to have someone else here, in my safe space. I plop down on my couch, reaching for the blanket to cover my feet as Rhodes snatches it from me, fluffing it before letting it settle and placing my feet in his lap after he sits down as well. I laugh, slightly uncomfortable with the intimate position but I find that I’m not shaking at his contact.

We sit there for a while, sharing more stories—of adventures with Parker, and Rhodes sharing more of his background in the military. He shares stories of him and his buddies in the military, telling me that his callsign was Veles, the Polish god of the Underworld. My heart flutters at the thought of that; him being perceived as such and my ruling of the city’s underworld. Rhodes tells of stories where he’d get in cahoots with fellow soldiers but then demand nothing but the best from them. It doesn’t surprise me; he just has this air about him that is quietly commanding no matter the situation he’s in. Eventually, my stomach growls and I roll my eyes.Of course, it growls. I haven’t had my nighttime snack yet.Rhodes laughs and stands, reaching his hands out to help me up, his hands warm against my cool skin.

The kitchen is bathed in moonlight as we share a midnight snack of cinnamon sugar toast. Rhodes is across from me, his body hidden by the kitchen island, the maroon shirt stretching across his broad chest. There’s a mess to his hair, the slight curls falling along his brow before he pushes them back.

“What’s your favorite thing to make?” Rhodes asks in between bites of toast. I pause, slowly chewing before picking up my mug of tea.

“What do you mean?” My tongue darts out to lick a bit of sugar at the corner of my lips.

“If you could make one thing every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

---