Page 7 of The Silver Fox Bidder

“Come here,” he says, holding out a hand.

I hesitate. “I can jump.”

Tank lifts a brow, amused. “I know you can. But let me.”

Something about the way he says it makes my pulse stutter. I place my hand in his, and in one smooth motion, he lifts me effortlessly, his hands strong and sure as he carries me across the water. My boots hit the ground on the other side, but I barelyregister it. All I can focus on is the way his hands linger for just a second longer than necessary.

His touch is warm, steady.Commanding.

I clear my throat, taking a step back, needing some space before my thoughts spiral any further.

After nearly an hour, we reach a clearing, and my breath catches.

An easel and canvas are already set up, waiting beneath the shade of an old oak tree. A plaid blanket is spread out on the grass with a picnic basket resting beside it. The scene is unexpected, intimate in a way I hadn’t prepared for.

“What is this?” I ask, turning to Tank.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Thought we could paint for a while before we share a meal.”

I arch a brow. “Are you an artist or something?”

His lips twitch. “Something like that.”

I don’t have time to press further before he holds out one of his paint-stained button-downs. “Here. So you don’t ruin your clothes.”

I slip it on, the fabric soft and worn against my skin. It smells like him. Like pine, cedar, and something inherentlymale.

Meanwhile, Tank moves to the easel, rolling up his sleeves as he mixes earthy pigments with practiced ease. His forearms flex, strong and dusted with paint from past work, and I suddenly understand why women in romance novels always get flustered over men with rolled-up sleeves.

“To me, painting’s not about making something perfect,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s about feeling it.”

He dips a brush into a deep green, then hands it to me. “Try it.”

I hesitate. “What if I mess it up?”

He meets my gaze, steady and sure. “It’s a blank canvas. There’s nothing to mess up.”

“But what if—”

“Just trust me.”

There’s something in his tone that settles me. I swipe the brush across the canvas, the first stroke uncertain, but Tank nods approvingly.

“Good. Now, let’s build on it.”

We spend the afternoon layering colors, pressing wildflowers into the paint, laughing when I accidentally smear blue across my cheek. Tank is focused, his hands moving with an artist’s precision, but there’s a looseness to him too. A softness I hadn’t expected.

And then, something shifts.

I glance up at him, mid-stroke, and find his expression unguarded. He’s watching me, but it’s different now. Not intense, not brooding. Just… open.

For a man who keeps so much of himself locked away, it’s the first glimpse of vulnerability I’ve seen.

The air between us tightens.

I swallow, suddenly unable to ignore the warmth curling low in my belly. My past boyfriends never made me feel like this. They were fun, charming,easy.

But Tank?

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