Like a Fox (2 page)

“Sex sells,” she embarrassingly admits.

That it does, but for my mom to give in must mean she’s desperate. She usually keeps all the erotica in back, not wanting to offend anyone or blush every time she has to see it.

The rest of my shift happens basically the same as it does every day, going back and forth between helping my sister and dad if the café gets busy and cataloging the new book shipment with my mom.

On my way home she gives me two new releases: a book by a man who’s supposed to be the next “Great American Writer” and a candy book. My mom has this weird thing that you have to first read a book that challenges you before you can indulge in one that is for pure fun.

I walk the mile it takes to get home, having purposely chose it for its close proximity to work. I bought it a year ago with my sister. The outside is fairly typical looking, but on the inside we’ve combined our eclectic tastes of my love of antiques and her bohemian spirit. It clashes, but we love it.

I collapse onto the antique Victorian couch I found last spring, kicking my shoes off so they fling across the room. I start the first book, only to fall asleep within the first ten pages.

Chapter 2

My sister slaps my ass to wake me, “Get up! I want to get there before the crowds come, and I’m hungry.”

I’m surprised to find I passed out for over two hours. Oh well, at least I’ll be ready to stay up late.

I go to the fridge, nab a beer, head up the stairs, and drink it in my room while examining my closet.

“What are you wearing tonight?!” I shout loud enough for Maya to hear in the bathroom where she’s getting ready.

“Not sure!” Maya hollers back.

Figures. I’ll stand here for ages analyzing my options, while she’ll throw on the first thing that’s clean and kill it.

I play it safe (big surprise) and throw on my best pair of jeans and white lace top. I fish out my favorite jacket: a red kimono-inspired one that crops at the waist, with a mandarin collar and embroidery in a rich gold. My hair’s been up all day, so all I do is fix it into a sleek bun that crowns my head. The diamond earrings my grandmother left me are the only jewelry I’m wearing (or ever wear for that matter).

Maya sticks her head into my room, which had been spotless until I decided to rampage my closet, “Ready?”

I grab my money clip and phone, placing them in my front pockets, “Yup.”

All my sister did was throw on a flowing skirt and tight fitting top, boots, and chandelier earrings. She let her hair down so it’s mildly wavy and tousled. I love how effortless it is, but on her it’s jaw-dropping. I wish I had an ounce of her charisma.

We walk the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the brewery. A major perk of living in a small town is being able to walk everywhere and get daily exercise just from living your life.

“Hey,” Flynn, Maya’s boyfriend of almost three years, greets us as we approach the brewery. He’s the epitome of a surfer dude: unkept blond hair bleached from the sun, bronzed skin, blue eyes, always relaxed, and incredibly sexy. He’s also about the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.

We go in to get a table before the crowds hit. Every Saturday night the brewery has a local band play. Paired with the homebrewed beer and brick oven pizza, the place is packed by seven.

We order a few pitchers for the table to share, and within minutes of it arriving the rest of our crew joins us.

“What’s up sexy bitches?” Chloe slides into the seat next to me. She’s been Maya’s partner in crime since high school. Her husband Keith is with her, the two practically on top of each other when they sit down, always having to touch in some way.

Keith was my first boyfriend and the guy I lost my virginity to. You would think that would make this awkward, but it isn’t. We parted on mutual terms, so there was never ill-will or jealousy between us. I was even a bridesmaid at their wedding last summer.

“Look! Tight Buns is here,” Maya eagerly nods her head to where my new favorite regular is sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, right next to the wall, with a beer in hand, taking a few drinks while staring at the area in front of him, which happens to be the bar and the gigantic mirror behind it that reflects the rest of brewery.

“Tight Buns?” Keith questions with a chuckle, referring to how we give nicknames to customers when we don’t know their names. “You guys are still doing that?”

“Of course,” Maya answers like “why would we stop?” She nudges me, “Go talk to him.”

“Talk to who?” Liza, my best friend since kindergarten, pries. She’s the best kind of friend to have: loyal, honest, and wears the same size clothes.

“Tight Buns,” Maya says around her pint. Liza’s well aware of my infatuation, but Maya still informs the rest who he is, “She’s had a crush on him since the first day he came into the café. She ogles him the whole time.”

I don’t deny it; it’s the truth. Look-wise he’s my exact type, the type I didn’t think I’d ever find living around here. I like my men with muscle, but not big and obvious ones; the kind you notice when he reaches for something or is simply brushing his teeth and they flex. The kind that can make you drool in a suit and have you stripping off your clothes in basic jeans and a shirt, with old-fashioned handsome features like James Dean or Marlon Brando. Nobody like that has ever been to our town. Until now.

Chloe perks up in her seat, trying to take a peek.

“Stop it,” I hiss. “He’ll notice.”

“Go talk to him,” Liza encourages, even though she’s no better than me with approaching guys.

“He’s a customer,” I remind her.

“So?” Chloe cuts in, always ready to play devil’s advocate.

“
So
, you know I don’t date customers.
Especially
regulars.”

Chloe wiggles her perfectly groomed brows, “So go make him someone you sleep with that also happens to eat where you work.”

She makes it sound easy. It’s not that I lack confidence, I’m just not comfortable putting myself out there. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“
Look
at him,” I gesture towards him. “He’s definitely older than us. I’m probably just a child to him.” If I had to guess I’d say he was early thirties, which was part of my attraction to him. He was a
man
, and I was ready for one.

“Twenty-four’s not a child,” Chloe chastises.

“You know what I mean. He needs a
woman
.” I still feel like a teenager half the time, and the other half I haven’t a clue what being an adult actually means.

My sister shrugs, “Sounds like excuses to me.”

“I’m not like you. I can’t just bat my lashes and have guys fawn over me.”

“You could,” Flynn encourages.

“Maybe, but that’s not me, nor do I want it to be.” I have insecurities and uncertainties just like everybody else, but for the most part I’m happy with who I am.

The food comes and the table drops the subject.

I dare a peek over at the bar every so often. Tight Buns remains focused on his beer and food, but occasionally his eyes roam, looking through the mirror behind the bar while he chews. A few times he catches
me staring. I smile, but it is never returned.

I know he isn’t interested; I know how interested people behave. However, it doesn’t stop me from lusting after him. That’s the horrible reality of crushes.

“We need more beer,” Flynn pouts in his cute, boyish way. The brewery’s at its maximum capacity and we haven’t seen our waitress come by.

“I’ll go get some,” my mouth stupidly suggests without my permission. I know what my body wants: to be close to his, like this is middle school and I’m finding an excuse to tug on his hair.

They all smirk knowingly and I stick out my tongue.

Yup, definitely not old enough for a man in his thirties.

Rollercoasters zoom around in my stomach as I approach the crowded bar. I wait on the outskirts for an opportunity to slip in. Miraculously, the crowd parts and a path becomes available that will land me right next to Tight Buns, who has his body twisted on the stool, surveying me. I then notice so is the sea of parted people who made room for me, waiting impatiently for me to move. I thank them as I pass, sliding through. They close in around me. I’m now sandwiched between a woman on a barstool and Tight Buns.

“Hi,” I feel the need to say even though he has gone back to his meal. “Did you get them to let me in?”

He nods, wiping his mouth with the napkin on his lap.

“Thanks.”

He places a finger up to get the attention of the bartender. I’m about to tell him that won’t work when one appears. I’m shocked; you normally have to be pretty aggressive to get served.

They are staring at me, waiting for my order. I request two pitchers, one of each of my friends’ favorites.

Tight Buns frowns at me. It makes me uneasy, like I’ve said something wrong.

“Why do you do that?”

I jump in surprise at the sound of his voice, rich and deep, his accent sending chills down my spine. What is it about men with accents?

I clear my throat, “Excuse me?”

He motions towards the bartender getting my pitchers, “Order what your friends like and you don’t.”

Now I frown and respond in a defensive tone, “I like them.”

The way he eyes me makes it seem like he knows I’m lying.

He goes back to his own drink and I wait for my pitchers.

“I’m Freya by the way.”

“I know.”

I figured, since it’s on my nametag at work. I just hoped it would get him to tell me his.

A couple of minutes tick by and I have to ask, “And you are?”

The bartender places down the pitchers. I go to pay but Tight Buns is already laying out his money. He has to reach over to do so, causing his leg to bump mine. He leaves it there.

I’m momentarily speechless from the explosion of tingles where we connect. I’ve never been so physically attracted to a guy before.

I force myself to pull it together.

“Thank you,” I say, referring to the beers. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

Our eyes meet in the bar mirror and neither one of us looks away, his knee and thigh still against mine.

I don’t want to leave and stop this warmth spreading through me.

I see his mouth move in his reflection, “Vic.”

“Vic,” I repeat, breathless from our stare.

I know I can’t stand here forever so I reluctantly leave, and I’m pretty sure his eyes follow me from the way my spine prickles.

Maybe I’m wrong about him not being interested. A flush creeps up my neck at the idea.

“You okay?” Maya asks, standing to help take a pitcher and refill glasses.

“Mm hm.” I’m dazed, still feeling the effects of contact with him.

My staring gets worse and I’m disappointed when he leaves.

A couple of hours later, I call it quits myself. Nobody argues, knowing I have early mornings.

The night is far too chilly and I wish I had my scarf. I rub my hands along my arms, feet clicking the pavement, echoing through the night.

I don’t normally get spooked, but some nights, like tonight, when the streets are vacant and everything is so still, I do.

Shops have already closed down and I pick up my pace. Despite being in a small town, nowhere is safe from crazies anymore.

My sister, mom, and I take a self-defense class every year, but tonight it doesn’t ease my nerves; I feel like I’m being followed.

I reach behind my back and scratch a pretend itch between my shoulder blades, forcing my head to swivel a bit, and I try to slyly peek over my shoulder. Nothing but looming fog.

The feeling of someone behind me intensifies. I contemplate if I should turn around and shout, hoping to scare them off, or run like hell.

I swear I hear a faint echo of a footstep and a small cough.

I book it, running like hell the rest of the way home. I know there’s a good chance I’m overreacting but I don’t care, I’m too spooked.

Arriving at the front door, I remove the key I always keep inside my shoe, my fingers icicles as I try to unlock the door. I hurry in, lock it, and spy through the peephole for a full five minutes, expecting to find someone there. Nobody appears; not even a cat.

Once my breathing returns to normal, I call my sister to make sure Flynn’s coming home with her. He is. I go to bed, unable to shake the feeling that I was being followed.

Chapter 3

“Psst,” Maya whispers, nudging me with her elbow, “Tight Buns is watching you.”

I glance up to find him doing exactly that. I give a small, nervous smile. This is when I wish I was more like my sister and didn’t get timid and unsure of myself around the opposite sex.

He doesn’t smile back, his mouth staying the way it always does: hard and straight, as though nothing ever agitates or excites him; it’s all blasé. He goes back to his paper.

“He’s kind of hot.” Maya truly takes the time to admire him. “In that elusive, off-limits kind of way. It gives him an edge.”

It does. It makes me even more uneasy around him.

I’m staring and I don’t even realize it until he glances up and catches me still looking.

To say I turn red would be an understatement.

I duck under the counter, pretending like I’m getting more straws, which is silly for two reasons: he can’t see what I’m doing, and I refilled the straws when he first came in.

It’s beginning to get embarrassing how many times he’s caught me staring. I’m surprised he still comes in here; I’d be on high creep alert if I were him.

I come up with straws in both my fists.

Now what the hell do I do with them? I look around, not noticing right away that he has gotten up and is now standing on the other side of the counter.

Luckily my mouth remembers how to work even if my brain has gone to shit, “Can I get you something?”

“What time are you off?”

God, his voice. It’s so freaking sexy.

My mouth stops working.

“Four-thirty,” my sister jumps in, taking the straws from me. “Thanks,” she says, like I had gotten them for her. I love my sister.

“I’ll be waiting out front. We can get dinner.” He doesn’t wait for a reply (not that I would have been capable of giving him one), and leaves.

“That was strange.” Maya spoke what I had been thinking. “You’re going though, right?”

“Yes.”

She pats my head, “Good girl.”

~~~~~

“I’m not going,” I declare in the back office after my shift. “I’ll leave out the kitchen.” It exits to the alley and then I can escape Vic.

“Don’t wuss out,” Maya scolds, putting some vanilla extract behind my ears. “Hopefully this will make you smell less like bacon and syrup.”

“Wouldn’t that be a turn on to guys?”

“Good point. Why hasn’t anybody bottled that shit yet?” Maya turns serious and frowns as she examines me from top to bottom, “You should have gone home to change on your break like I told you.”

I shrug, it’s too late for regrets.

She removes her floral peasant top that doesn’t have any stains, “Switch with me.”

I comply, giving her my cornflower blue fitted V-neck shirt with the mustard stain in the middle from a toddler that was treating the table like art class.

“What kind of person doesn’t let a girl go home and change first?” Maya grumbles, obviously not pleased with my appearance as she undoes my hair, unable to get the ponytail kink out.

I take back the hair tie and put it back up, “Maybe it isn’t a date. Maybe he’s just looking for a friend.”

“Ha!” My sister barks, “Guys don’t want pretty girls to be their friend. They want pretty girls to be naked and riding them.”

I know she’s right, I’m just making excuses.

Right before I go out front to leave, I splash some cold water on my face then blot it with a towel so the sheen it always has by the end of the day will hopefully be gone.

I wave goodbye to whoever’s still around, exiting with a deep breath.

Vic’s standing there in different clothes than he had on earlier: jeans and a tucked in dress shirt, his hair combed perfectly. It’s basic, but sexy on him. His arms are crossed over his chest, nothing revealed in his features to show if he’s just as nervous or excited.

He taps his watch that takes up his wrist, “You’re late.”

I lean over to get a view, catching a whiff of aftershave and soap. It’s nice. Really nice.

“Only by seven minutes.”

“Next time, say four-thirty-seven if it takes you that long.”

My eyes get wide at his apparent time management issues.

He begins walking down the street, closer to downtown.

I follow, almost running to catch up. So far, I’m
totally
nailing this date.

“I’m actually the punctual one in my family. I was just nervous to come,” I explain, even though I don’t think it’s that big of a deal to be seven minutes late.

“Nervous?” He considers, tasting the word out in his mouth like he’s never said or heard it before.

I try matching his strides, but they are longer than mine so I look like I’m one notch down from speed walking. “Yes.”

Vic comes to a sudden halt and I almost crash into him.

He opens the door to the French restaurant that charges for appetizers what we do for entrees.

I point to my casual attire, “I’m not dressed for this.”

He gestures for me to go in, “You’re fine.”

Okay, whatever; luckily, most fancy places around here don’t have a dress code.

Vic follows behind me, the hostess greeting us.

“We have reservations at four-forty-five under Fox,” Vic informs her.

I’m tempted to point out that we are a few minutes early.

The hostess leads us to a table for two in the far back by the wall. My date takes the seat in the corner, but not before helping me into the one that has my back to the rest of the room.

“We’ll have a bottle of your two-thousand-eleven Cuvee Keltie Syrah,” Vic immediately tells the host as we accept the menus.

The host nods and scurries off.

“I love Syrahs. They’re my favorite,” I say, trying to make conversation.

I get nothing back as he examines the menu.

I do the same. I’m tempted to ask if he still wants to carry on with tonight. I obviously put him off with my tardiness.

Our waiter comes and has Vic taste the wine. I watch the way his masculine hands delicately take his glass by the stem, carefully swirling the crimson liquid around. He brings it under his nose before taking a sip, swishing it in his mouth. He nods his approval and the waiter pours us each a glass.

We place our orders and I take a few sips of wine, not having a clue what to say. Vic seems content examining the room, taking in every square inch with his eyes.

“Have you been here before?” I finally ask a few minutes later, needing to fill the silence.

He takes a sip from his own glass, “Once.”

“We come every year for my mom’s birthday.”

“Mm,” is his response, eyes focused on something behind me.

An elderly couple is placed by a window seat. The four of us are the only customers here.

“Do you usually eat this early?”

“No,” he replies, removing his cloth napkin and placing it on his lap.

I keep going, determined to get more than one word answers from him, “Fox, huh?”

He looks up from straightening out his silverware so they are perfectly placed on either side of his plate.

No answer.

This date is an epic fail, and we haven’t even eaten yet.

Vic moves his water glass two inches to his right, “I use it for reservations.”

Ah, I’m getting somewhere. “Why?”

He sits back in his chair, fingers resting on the edge of the table, “Easy to spell, easy to say, easy to understand.”

I’m beginning to think this man might plan out every detail, move, or thought he makes. I hope some of that will rub off on me, though maybe not quite to his level.

“So what
is
your last name then?”

His hands smooth out the linen in front of him, face still expressionless, “It varies.”

“It varies?” I repeat.

“Yes.” He takes another sip of wine.

I wait.

And I wait.

I lift both brows, wanting him to reveal more to such a vague, mysterious answer.

We take a drink at the same time, mine larger than his. My glass is now empty, so I refill it. He frowns.

I lift my full glass, “Does that bother you?”

“We haven’t eaten yet.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. He is by far the strangest person I’ve ever met, and I grew up with family trips to Burning Man.

I take a sip in case he’s a control freak in all aspects of his life. I want to make it clear I’m not something or someone to be controlled. Now, if he wants to get freaky in the bedroom, that’s another thing.

He makes no further comment, focusing far too heavily on my neck. It makes me self-conscious and I place a hand to it, thinking something might be there.

He averts his eyes. They resume scanning the room.

I honest to God for a split moment thought he might be a vampire with how heavy his stare was. Then I remembered that he comes to breakfast in the morning, and the sun was out when we walked here. Also, there’s the tiny fact that they don’t actually exist.

Our food can’t get here fast enough.

As though reading my mind, the waiter appears with our plates.

I’m always ravenous this time of day from work and scarf down a few bites, slowing it down when I notice he takes one to my three.

For someone with such big hands, he holds his silverware and cuts with a precision one would expect from royalty.

“How long have you been living here?” I ask after I swallow, remembering my manners. Usually I talk around my food; not the most lady-like thing to do, I know.

He gently sets his silverware down on his plate, barely making a sound when they hit, wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin, and gives me his full attention, “Five weeks.”

“That’s not very long. Are you enjoying it?”

For a moment a twinkle gleams in his eyes, but it’s gone quicker than a blink, “Parts.”

I don’t bother asking him for specifics. I’m quickly learning how he works.

We go back to eating.

I give up on trying to make conversation. He seems content with the silence.

I finish before him. He doesn’t seem to mind, and even offers me some from his plate.

“No thanks, I’m stuffed.”

He nods and I watch him eat. It’s rather sexy the way his lips wrap around the fork, a hint of tongue peeking through to help slide it off. His jaw flexes as he chews, accentuating it, lips slightly moist and moving in a way I can imagine how they would move against mine.

I’m turned on from watching a man eat. I mean really turned on.

I squirm in my seat, which captures his attention. I blush, afraid he can read my dirty thoughts. His eyes flick to one cheek, then the other. He’s trying to figure out what made me blush. I’m beginning to find tiny tells he has that give him away, like a quick subtle squint to the eyes or twitch to the brow. Whether he figures it out he doesn’t let on, and I get to go back to watching him.

The waiter is there with a dessert menu when Vic has cleared his plate.

I hand it back, “No thank you.”

“Do you not like dessert?” Vic asks, also handing off his menu.

“I do.”

His lips curve down ever so slightly, “Ready to go then?”

“We haven’t paid.”

He takes his wallet out and places down more than enough to cover it all.

Vic stands up, and I’m surprised when I feel his hands on the back of my chair, helping to glide it out. I’m even more surprised when my bare arm accidently touches his and my nerve endings spark to life, lighting my body up like lights on the Vegas strip all the way down to my toes.

He opens the door for me and then walks further into town. He stops when I remain in place.

“You coming?”

“Where?”

“Home?”

“Home?” I squeak. I don’t know what kind of girl he thinks I am, but I don’t ever sleep with a man on a first date. Never. Ever. Even ones who eat with a sensuality that doubles as foreplay.

“You are going home tonight, aren’t you?”

I let out the air I was holding, “Yes. I just assumed we’d go back to the café?”

Vic points behind him, in the direction he was headed, “Your shift is over. You live that way.”

“How do you know where I live?” I accuse in a tone I’m not ashamed of.

“I’m staying at the inn close to you.”

“So?” I continue to accuse.

“So,” he breathes out, seeming to be growing frustrated with me. “I’ve seen you leave your place on more than one occasion.”

I don’t move.

“I’m walking you to your door whether you want me to or not. I’ll follow behind you if I have to. I won’t allow you to walk home alone.”