Page 17 of Sly Like a Fox
When he sees me, his expression shifts from casual interest to something more intense.“You look incredible.”
“Thank you.”I accept the kiss on my cheek he offers, noting how the simple contact sends electricity through my nervous system.“This place is perfect.”
The hostess leads us to a corner table surrounded by wine racks and low lighting.Fenton orders a bottle of something I’ve never heard of but arrives with reverent attention from the sommelier, indicating the bottle is both expensive and of exceptional quality.
“So,” he says, settling back in his chair with a wine glass in hand, “tell me about your day.What does Jenna Johnson do when she’s not charming men at expensive restaurants?”
The question catches me off guard with its directness.Most of my dates involve verbal dancing around personal details, but he seems genuinely interested in my actual life rather than the selectively edited version I usually present.
“Today?I had coffee with my neighbor, Chloe, who told me I should stop being scared and go for what I want for once instead of always playing it safe.”I take a sip of wine, which is possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted.“She pointed out I’m terrified of actually letting someone matter to me.Then I spent three hours online looking for legitimate job opportunities, which is depressing because I’m overqualified for positions that pay nothing and underqualified for positions that pay enough to live on.”
“What kind of work interests you?”
Another unexpectedly direct question.“Honestly?I’m good at reading people and figuring out what they want to hear.I have a talent for making complicated things seem simple and making people feel like they’re the most important person in the room.”I pause, realizing how that sounds.“Those skills aren’t exactly in high demand in the legitimate job market.”
“They are in consulting, sales, client relations… maybe even event planning.”Fenton leans forward.“You’re describing emotional intelligence and coordinated communication, which are incredibly valuable in the right context.”
Before I can ask more, the server appears with our food, which are small plates that look more like art than dinner but taste incredible.The conversation shifts to safer topics as we eat, but underneath the surface discussion of favorite books and travel experiences, I sense undercurrents I don’t fully understand.
Fenton tells stories about his work that sound perfectly legitimate but occasionally include details that don’t quite add up with references to clients who seem to require unusual levels of security, casual mentions of systems that need to be “creatively optimized,” and comments about problem-solving that indicate experience with more than database management.
“You’re very good at that,” I say as he finishes an anecdote about helping a client recover from a “complicated data situation.”
“Good at what?”
“Talking around things.Giving just enough detail to sound forthcoming without actually revealing anything specific.”
His expression shifts to something more guarded.“It’s an occupational hazard.Client confidentiality is crucial in my line of work.”
“What exactly is your line of work?And don’t say IT consulting because I’m starting to think that’s about as accurate as calling me an administrative assistant.”
For a moment, I think he might actually tell me the truth.Something vulnerable flickers across his face, and I can almost see him weighing options before the moment passes, and he’s back to charming evasion.“I help people solve problems that can’t always be solved through traditional channels.”
I let out a small sigh of irritation.“That’s incredibly vague.”
He winks.“And your employment history is incredibly transparent?”
Touché.We’re both playing games, circling around truths we’re not ready to reveal.The difference is, I’m starting to want to stop playing.
As we finish dinner and order coffee, the atmosphere between us grows more charged.Every casual touch makes me tingle.When he tells a story that makes me laugh, I lean closer, drawn by the intelligence in his eyes and the way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
“We should probably get going,” he says as the server brings our check.“It’s getting late.”
I nod but neither of us moves to leave.Instead, we sit in the flickering candlelight, the conversation gradually becoming more personal and intimate.He tells me about growing up in a construction family, and the pride his father took in building things that would last.I surprise myself by sharing stories about my childhood dreams of sophistication and the way I used to practice elegant mannerisms in front of my bedroom mirror.
“You wanted to be someone else?”
“I wanted to be someone better.Someone who belonged in places like this instead of just visiting them.”Someone who went to bed hungry most nights and looked forward to school because of breakfast and lunch.Of course, I don’t say that.
“You belong here, Jenna.You belong anywhere you choose to be.”
The conviction in his voice makes something tight in my chest loosen.When was the last time someone told me I belonged somewhere based on who I am rather than what I could provide?
Eventually, we leave, walking slowly through the quiet streets toward the parking garage.“I had an amazing time tonight,” I say as we reach my car.
“So did I.”He moves closer.“Jenna...”
“Yes?”
