Page 93 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“You sure that’s off?”

“Hope so.”

The rest unravels. Her underwear slides off, my zipper parts, and she sinks onto me with a heated gasp that routes every ounce of blood from my head south. Movement director indeed. She sets the tempo, hips swirling slow, then faster, until I’m gripping the desk’s edge, paperwork scattering to the floor.

We climax nearly together, her moan muffled by my shoulder, my groan swallowed into her neck. For a moment, I know nothing of budgets, contracts, cardiologists—only the neon pulse behind my eyelids and the scent of lemon-sweat on her skin.

She collapses against me, laughter lilting. “Didn’t wrinkle your spreadsheets, did I?”

“Margins love dynamic stress testing.” My voice is hoarse.

She presses a kiss to my jaw. “This is the happiest I’ve ever been, Nico.”

“I know what you mean.” I stroke her hair, feel the slow deceleration of her heartbeat against mine.

Her phone buzzes on the floor—Costas, no doubt. She sighs, slips off me, and cleans up, thanks to the wipes I keep in my top drawer. Then she checks her phone. “They need approval on stage wings by four.” She pulls her panties up, smooths her skirt. Professional yet again.

I tuck my shirt, retie half the knot. “That’s your call.”

She opens the door, peeks. Hallway clear. “Thank you, boss.”

“Any time, director.”

She blows a kiss, then disappears, heels clicking down marble.

I sink back onto the desk, exhale. Sal may worry about his heart. Dante worries about his next thrill. Me? I worry aboutlosing this sense of purpose. But as I glance at the open laptop—numbers humming in perfect rows—I realize work never felt this invigorating until it became a scaffolding for love.

I gather fallen papers, tap them into order, then pause, and smile. One sheet is creased near the corner—our meeting schedule was wrinkled by Tabitha’s knee. I smooth it, but leave the faint ridge. A souvenir.

40

SALVATORE

The solarium wasGrandfather’s favorite room. Multi-pane windows, wrought-iron mullions, and a ceiling that curves like a glass cathedral. In midsummer, the light is so fierce you need sunglasses. In January it’s gentler, silver—perfect for a convalescent’s complexion and for a man relearning patience. Assuming the snow doesn’t reflect the daylight straight into your eyes.

Erin sits opposite me at the marble café table nearest the windows, her wheelchair tucked so close her knees barely clear the rim. Her hair is still thin from chemo, but today it’s tucked under another one of those caps Grandma Judy makes. It’s white with snow fox ears, making color contrast in her cheeks. Her bright blue eyes hold the unmistakable gleam of strategic mischief. She’s looking better every day.

“You sure you want to be red?” she asks, cheeks puffing theatrically. “Red loses more than black, statistically speaking.”

I smother a smile. “Citing data? Have you been e-reading game theory behind my back?”

She shrugs, mock casual, but her grin slips. The shrug is weaker on the left—post-op muscles still re-finding signals. I steady the board so it doesn’t slide. With more cockiness and wisdom than her age allows, she says, “I may have read a few game theory books in my time.”

We’ve played six times in the past four days. She’s won three, and I’m clinging to that tie. My brothers crow that I let her win, but the truth is Erin has the same cunning spark as Tabitha. I lost because I underestimated her. Not today.

I move a red disk to square C3. “Your turn, sneaky girl.”

She taps her chin, eyes narrowed, then slides black to block me. Grandma Judy watches from the wicker love seat, crocheting something lavender and humming Édith Piaf under her breath.

For half an hour, pieces slide, the sun lifts to the solarium’s apex, and my chest floods with a warmth that has nothing to do with the ceiling heaters we installed last winter. Erin’s laugh, sudden and bright, makes me forget boardrooms and blood-pressure cuffs. This, I think, is legacy—the moments you bank in hearts, not ledgers.

Mid-game lull. I nudge the bowl of cut fruit toward her. The hospital dieticians gave us marching orders—vitamin C, low sugar, high protein. Erin skewers a strawberry, chews thoughtfully, then wipes juice with the corner of her blanket.

The solarium’s scent now is citrus rind and the faint mint sliced thin on the fruit salad. It helps with iron, apparently. But I know what she really wants.

“Erin,” I say softly, “the first time we met, you told me you wanted to eat crêpes in Paris.”

She sets her checker in midair. Surprise flashes, then embarrassment. “Oh. That was…before.” She places the piece, not looking up.

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