Page 8 of Tattooed By Her Silver Fox

“I don’t need anything.” My words are clipped. The water is getting cold, so I stand and dry off. “Besides, he’s...older.”

“Who cares.” Her answer is so fast and loud, I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “He’s hot as sin, Vi. Did you see his forearms? Girl, if he’s even an ounce into you, you better go for it.”

I wrap my hair in a towel and lay in my bed. Claire isn’t going to let this go, but she’s also the head of the school gossip mill, so I choose my words carefully. “Even if he was, I’m not in the right headspace for a relationship right now.”

“Oh, you’re ready. But I get not wanting to put your heart at risk again. But Vi, he’s the kind of man who can make you forget you were ever hurt in the first place. Give him a test drive and see if I’m right.”

I agree with her to get her off the phone, then hang up and pull the covers up close. Fox is the kind who could make me forget. He’s also the kind who could break my heart for good. Unless I don’t let him in all the way. Lots of people have relationships based on sex. Why can’t I? He even alluded to not wanting another marriage.

Why am I even thinking about marriage? I met the guy two days ago. He’s already got my brain scrambled.

Tomorrow is an early day, so I snuggle in and turn on an ocean soundscape to drown out my thoughts of Fox. I’m almost asleep when my phone dings and up with a text.

Sweet Dreams, Sweetness.

So much for getting him out of my head. Instead, I type out several different texts, but none sound as sexy as the three words he sent me, so I settle on three of my own.

Dreaming of you.

With the phone clutched to my chest, I run a finger along the rose he tattooed into my skin, and I drift off into sleep, hoping I find Fox in my dreams.

Fox

I force myself to stay clear of Vi for three whole days. After she left the other night, I texted to make sure she made it home okay. That’s the last I’ve heard from her, and it’s killing me.

The shop is packed, which keeps my hands busy, but my mind is still fixed on Vi and the memory of taking her in the very chair I’m inking customers in today.

Around lunchtime, I decide I’m too old for this shit, and I send her a text. I wait until after time for the kids to be picked up from her school before I begin to worry about why she hasn’t answered back.

I’m not the type to play games. When I want something, I go after it. I want Vi. I need her. If she doesn’t feel the same way, that’s something we need to discuss. The sooner, the better.

It isn’t hard to find her address. A quick real estate search by last name, and I luck out that she owns a small two-bedroom on the south side of town. Her car is in the drive when I pull my hog up on the street.

She answers at the first knock, and my balls are in my throat. Her honey brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail near the top of her head, and she’s wearing an oversized sweater and black yoga pants that show off every delicious curve of her. I’m salivating at the thought of rubbing my hands on those same dips and peaks, and I almost forget why I came.

“Fox,” she says, a healthy dose of surprise in her voice. “I was just working on some lesson plans. I wasn’t expecting company.”

She’s flushed. I love the shade of pink, her cheeks turn when she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“I won’t keep you long then,” I say with more control than I thought I could muster. “The other day was…I think we started things off on the wrong foot and I…”

“I understand,” she interrupts me. “You were stressed, and you needed an outlet.”

“God, no.” I’m louder than I intended, but damn, that comment hit like daggers in my heart. “I was stressed, but you would never be an outlet for me.” I am fucking this all up. Maybe it’s our age difference that is making it so hard to explain to her how I feel.

Her cheeks are glowing red now, and she can barely look me in the eye. Fuck, this is going about as bad as it could.

“What I mean is, we started things off backward. We went right for the dessert before we had the first course.” I hook my finger under her chin and lift her face to meet mine. “I want to get to know you better. I’m asking you out on a date.”

“A date,” she repeats as if she thinks she didn’t hear me right.

“People do still date, right.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’d like that.”

“Great.” My heart is pounding into my ribs like a jackhammer. I’m too old for this shit, but apparently, my body doesn’t agree. “Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up around eight?”

“I’ll be here.” She smiles, and that one small act makes the last five minutes of awkwardness worth it. I’m slowing remembering what it’s like to be young and in love, and it’s as unnerving as it is oddly exciting.

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