Page 15 of Sly Like a Fox
She doesn’t hesitate.“That sounds perfect.Who doesn’t appreciate less pressure to use the right fork?”
I laugh, surprised by how natural it feels.“Something like that.”
We make plans for seven o’clock at Café Luna, a small restaurant that’s intimate enough for conversation but public enough to seem safe.
After hanging up, I realize I’m looking forward to seeing her again for reasons that have nothing to do with maintaining my cover story.That should concern me more than it does, but the prospect of genuine human connection after years of professional isolation proves difficult to resist.
Chapter 5
Jenna
Afewdayslater,I’ve had four successful dates with Fenton that have me more confused than ever about my usual strategies.He’s clearly wealthy—his clothes, restaurant choices, and casual references to expensive hobbies confirm it—but he doesn’t flaunt his money in the ostentatious way I’m used to from rich men.More puzzling is how much I genuinely enjoy his company.
Our third date at Café Luna was even better than the first and second.The casual atmosphere let us talk without the pressure of formal dining.I found myself watching his hands while he talked, noting the way he gestures when he’s passionate about something.His movements show the precision of someone comfortable with detailed work, though his palms have calluses that don’t match his current white-collar lifestyle.When I asked about them, he mentioned helping a friend with construction projects, but something in his expression suggested there was more to the story.
The fourth date sealed it for me.He took me to an art gallery opening where I expected to spend the evening pretending to understand abstract paintings while he networked with other wealthy professionals.Instead, we spent two hours debating the merits of various pieces, and I realized he was genuinely interested in my perspective rather than just trying to impress me with his cultural sophistication.
He’d gestured toward a massive canvas covered in violent slashes of red and black paint.“What do you think of this one?”
I studied the piece, trying to access whatever artistic sensibility I might possess.“It looks like someone was really angry when they painted it.Or maybe having a mental breakdown.”
Fenton read from the placard beside the painting.“The artist created it after his divorce, so you’re probably right on both counts.”
I moved closer to examine the brushstrokes.“Great.I’m developing art appreciation skills, though I still don’t understand why people pay thousands of dollars for something that makes them uncomfortable.”
“Maybe that’s the point.Art isn’t supposed to be easy.”
The comment stuck with me because it seemed to apply to more than just paintings.Nothing about Fenton is easy to understand, which should frustrate someone whose survival depends on reading people quickly and accurately.Instead, it makes me want to know more.
Now I’m sitting in my apartment, staring at the text he sent this morning asking if I want to grab lunch tomorrow, feeling like I’m in completely uncharted territory.
The problem is I like him.Not just his bank account or his potential as a provider, buthim.The way he thinks, the way he listens, and the way his eyes light up when we find common ground on something unexpected excite me.It’s dangerous territory for someone whose survival has always depended on maintaining emotional distance.
My phone buzzes with another text, this one from Chloe:Coffee break in twenty?You’ve been weird lately.
I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror.I do look weird.My hair is disheveled from running my hands through it, and I’ve been stress-grooming without realizing it.Copper strands litter my couch cushions, which is evidence of how much mental energy I’ve been spending on analyzing my situation with Fenton.
I text back what seems to be my usual response of late:Can’t.Broke.
Her response comes immediately:My treat.Something’s going on with you.
Chloe’s persistence is both endearing and problematic.She’s an excellent friend, but I’m trying to keep my secrets.I need to talk to someone about my confusion, but I can’t exactly explain I’m having an identity crisis because my latest mark is too decent to exploit properly.After a hesitation, I text back:Fine, but somewhere cheap.
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in a dingy coffee shop three blocks from my apartment.This place serves burned coffee in mismatched mugs but doesn’t judge customers who nurse a single drink for hours.Chloe ordered us both pastries that smell like heaven and cost more than I should let her spend, but I’m too hungry to protest.I’m still on the ramen and peanut butter diet except for the nights I’ve been out with Fenton.
She settles into the wobbly chair across from me, already scanning my face for clues.“Okay, talk to me.You’ve been off the last week or so.”
I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, noting a chip in the rim.“It’s about Fenton.”
“The gorgeous tech consultant you’ve been dating?”Chloe breaks off a piece of her croissant.“Did he turn out to be a secret psychopath or something?”
“The opposite, actually.He’s...perfect.”
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline.“And that’s a problem because…”
The question forces me to articulate feelings I’ve been avoiding.“Because I don’t know how to handle perfect.I know how to handle jerks who want to use me, or rich guys who think I’m a novelty, or men who are threatened by intelligence.I don’t know what to do with someone who actually seems to like me for who I am.”
Chloe sets down her pastry and leans forward.“You’re falling for him.”
