Page 11 of The Silver Fox Bidder

I stretch, my bare skin brushing against the sheets that still smell like him. The scent of pine, cedar, and paint lingers in the air, grounding me in the moment. I glance to my side, and there he is.

Tank.

He’s still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm draped loosely over the pillow. In the soft morning light, the hard edges of him look a little less intimidating. The lines that usually crease his forehead are smoothed out, his breathing slow and steady. It’s rare, I think, to see him like this.Unguarded, peaceful.

I prop myself up on my elbow, trailing my fingers lightly over the broad expanse of his back, tracing the lines of rippling muscle.This man. He’s everything I never let myself dream about. Steady, protective, strong in ways that have nothing to do with his body and everything to do with his soul.

And he’smine.

My fingertips barely graze his shoulder when his eyelids flutter open. His blue eyes land on me, still hazy with sleep, but the slow smile that tugs at his lips is pure awareness.

“Hello,” he rumbles, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Hello,” I murmur, feeling a ridiculous warmth flood my chest.

He reaches for me, wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid, naked body. Heat sparks all over again as I press a kiss against the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his scruff.

His fingers trail lazily up my spine. “Didn’t dream you, then.”

“Nope,” I say, smiling against his skin. “I’m still here.”

He rolls onto his back, bringing me with him, so I’m sprawled across his chest. His large hands slide over my thighs, squeezing, grounding, but there’s something softer in his gaze this morning. Something deeper.

“It’s time to tell me a little bit about yourself,” I say, propping my chin on his chest.

Tank’s fingers skim my hip, absentminded but possessive. “Ask whatever you want.”

I glance around the cabin, my gaze landing on the paintings lining the walls. I’d noticed them last night, but now, in thedaylight, Iseethem. They’re wild, textured, layered with depth and movement, each brushstroke full of life. They’re not just paintings. They’re pieces ofhim.

“You did all of these?”

His chest rises and falls beneath me. “Most of them.”

“So you’re a professional artist?”

His hand stops moving. A muscle in his jaw tics before he exhales, rubbing a palm over his face. “Used to be.”

I push up, resting my weight on my forearms. “What does that mean?”

His lips press together for a moment before he speaks. “My older pieces sell for a lot of money. Wylie Cole has one of my paintings above his mantel.”

I blink. “TheactorWylie Cole?”

Tank chuckles. “Yeah. Of course, he doesn’t realize the infamous recluse on the mountain painted it.”

I gape at him. Wylie Cole has a vacation home in Hawks Roost. He’s our most famous resident. And he’s known for his expensive tastes and impressive art collection. “How much did he pay for it?”

I know it’s rude to ask, but Tank did say I could ask anything.

A tiny smile dances on his lips. “Six figures.”

My jaw drops. “You’rekidding.”

He shakes his head.

I glance at the paintings surrounding us, my heart stuttering. “Does it have bits of earth in it, like the painting we did yesterday?”

“No,” he says. “No one but you has seen my current work. Wylie has one of the abstract cityscapes that made me famous.”

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