Page 16 of Romanced By the Silver Fox

That’s when I realize the sheet has fallen down to my hip. Since I am wearing exactly nothing, my former fiancé and current lover is getting quite the show.

Heat paints my cheeks. Grant has never been shy about his appreciation of my body, but in the last forty-eight hours, he’s taken it to a new level. The intensity in his eyes snatches away my breath.

He pretends to weep when I pull the sheet up beneath my arms. I roll my eyes. I’m grateful that despite the intense attraction, we can keep things light between us. That way, it’ll be easier when I go.

“Tell me.” I take another long sip of my coffee. “What are your two words?”

“Snowshoes and reindeer.”

“Technically, that’s three words, but I’m in.”

I hop into the shower, intrigued by Grant’s plans. This week hasn’t been anything like I thought it would be. I’d mostly packed sensible, go-to-a-job-interview clothes for this trip. I haven’t needed them once. And this morning, just as he promised, there are multiple outfits in my size waiting for me. I choose a pair of fleece-lined leggings, another long-sleeved t-shirt and a buttery soft merino wool cardigan in my favorite shade of red. To complete the outfit, I pick out a comfy pair of fur-lined boots from my favorite brand. I make a note to thank my sister — and Grant’s assistant — for the outfits.

Two hours and more 90s jams later, we’re at a farm in windy, rural Washington state.

The hosts offer a brief introduction of facts about the animals, then make sure we’ve disinfected our hands and cleaned our shoes. The effort is one hundred percent worth it, because just like that, I am inches away from my very first herd of reindeer.

They’re magnificent. Around four feet tall, they wander up to us on long, skinny legs. I’m not sure how those limbs support them, but each of the deer is as graceful as a ballerina. They’re covered in a light brown coarse-looking fur that I immediately want to stroke. The bulls don’t have antlers at this time of year, but the cows still boast absolutely enormous racks of antlers that add about three feet to their height.

I hold out a handful of oats. Peaches, one of the bigger cows, wanders just close enough to take it out of my hand. Ever so gently, I reach a gloved hand out to stroke an antler. It’s shockingly soft, as is the coarse-looking fur covering her sides.

She stays next to me, nudging my hand when I put out a fistful of grain too slowly for her liking. I look over at Grant. He’s got his phone out, taking pictures of me and Peaches. One of the other deer dips into his pocket, pulling out a few of the apple leaves tucked in there. We take a few selfies with Peaches and her herd mates, then settle in until all the leaves are gone. I flatter myself that we’ve made a genuine connection, but once she’s sure I’m all out of treats, Peaches huffs out a breath and walks away.

We warm up with a cup of hot cider before heading over to Cooper Spur Resort for lunch. Then we spend the afternoon snowshoeing.

After lunch, we get back into our ski gear and into snowshoeing lessons. Once our lesson is complete, our instructors lead us on a track that spans from the late afternoon into early evening. By the time we return to the trailhead, the sky overhead is full of stars and magic.

Back at the cabin, we devour the simple dinner laid out for us— crusty bread with three cheeses, salami, soup and fruit. Then we play strip Scrabble until one of us deliberately loses his shirt and we both get distracted by other things.

In the morning, we head back into the city. It’s Christmas Eve, and day three of Grant’s whirlwind plan to get us back together involves spending quality time in Portland proper. I can’t imagine how he plans to top the previous two days. He’s got something elaborate up his sleeve, I’m sure.

But it turns out I’m wrong. When we get back to Portland, Grant and I leave the car at the hotel’s parking lot and walk down to the riverfront.

“What’s so exciting down here?” I ask.

“You’ll see.” Grant’s expression is gleeful. He gets like that sometimes, I remember. Whenever he had a gift, he knew I would love or a blockbuster idea, he’d practically bounce off the walls, like he couldn’t wait to share it with me. I honestly think he got more pleasure out of giving it to me than I got out of whatever the present was.

I’ve missed this side of him.

If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve just missedhim. His sense of humor, his dedication to taking care of me, his intense passion… all of it reminds me forcefully of why I loved him so much— and why, in my heart of hearts, I love him still.

My secret plan to walk away at the end of this week? I don’t know if I can.

But I have questions. This week has been full of extravagance. I know he’s been very successful working for that tech company, but while it’s nothing to sneeze at, tech company money is not this kind of “throw it around and never notice” kind of money. Where did all of this come from? How is he going to fund the charity he wants me to run? And why does he want me back in Portland now? I need answers before I can seriously consider coming back to him.

Grant taps my shoulder. “Look over there.”

When I turn my head in the direction he points, I see a line of a dozen boats all decked out in Christmas gear. When I look more closely at the lead boat, there’s a man and woman dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus. I turn to Grant, beaming.

“Christmas Ships?”

While we weren’t poor growing up, neither of our families were exactly rolling in it. And my mom’s schedule at the restaurant often meant we were working at least part of Christmas Day. But every year, we made time to see the Christmas Ships parade down the Willamette River. I was obsessed with the tradition and waited for this all year long. I swore that when I grew up, I would get to ride on one of those vessels in the parade if it was the last thing I did.

“Let’s go.” In shock, I meekly follow along as Grant grabs me by the hand and leads me down to the dock.

Once we get down to the gangplank, Santa — a jaunty fellow with rosy cheeks and a long beard I’m pretty sure is real — calls out to us.

“I hear there’s a very good girl who wants to help Santa steer his water sleigh,” he says. “Is that so?”

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