Page 1 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Savannah

" T hat dress is a thirst trap if I've ever seen one."

My best friend Zoe circled me with a critical eye, adjusting the delicate strap that had slipped off my shoulder.

The hotel suite mirror reflected back a woman I barely recognized—polished, poised, and packaged in a silk slip dress the color of champagne.

“That's not what I'm going for,” I said, though the lie landed like a pebble in my throat—small, sharp, and impossible to swallow.

Because it was what I was going for. Or at least what I wanted to go for. A version of myself that looked hard to forget. Someone men stared at, not because she tried too hard—but because she didn’t have to.

I knew the dress was too much. I also knew I wouldn't have changed it, even if Zoe had handed me a sweater and an escape plan.

I wanted to be seen.

Worse—I wanted to be chosen.

"Bullshit." Zoe's reflection smirked behind mine. "You didn't spend two hundred dollars on a dress to blend into the wallpaper, Savannah. It's been—what? Almost a year since the breakup?"

I applied another coat of lipstick, a shade darker than I'd normally wear. "Yeah And this isn't about Miles."

Another lie.

Everything was always about Miles.

About proving I was enough to hold his attention. About bending, shrinking, reshaping myself into someone he might finally choose without hesitation.

I told myself I’d moved on, but the truth was, I was still orbiting the ghost of what we never really were.

Zoe handed me a glass of the actual champagne we'd been steadily working through while getting ready for the wedding. “Eleven months of you wearing emotional widow's weeds. It's time."

"Time for what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what she meant.

"Time to stop allowing him to haunt you. Time to let someone else touch you." She squeezed my shoulders, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

"Time to get back on the?—"

"If you say 'get back on the horse,' I will stab you with this mascara wand."

Zoe laughed. "I was going to say 'get back on the dating scene,' but I like where your head's at. Ride that stallion, girl."

I groaned but couldn't suppress my smile.

This was why I'd agreed to be Zoe's plus-one to this destination wedding in wine country—I needed her irreverent humor.

Her refusal to let me wallow. Her insistence that there was life after Miles Reid.

"I'm not looking to meet anyone," I said, slipping on the gold heels that would have me towering over half the groomsmen.

"I'm just here to drink expensive wine, eat cake, and make sure you don't hook up with any of your exes."

"Unlike some people," Zoe said, gathering her clutch, "I don't have a type."

My type.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Ambitious.

Charming.

Emotionally unavailable.

Men who loved the chase more than the catch—who kept their hearts locked behind career goals and carefully rationed affection.

I’d spent months trying to earn more than crumbs from Miles. Telling myself his detachment was just depth in disguise.

That his ambition was admirable, not self-centered. That his lack of warmth meant mystery, not apathy.

Seven months of therapy had helped me name the pattern.

Seven months wasn’t enough to break it.

"Let's just have fun," I said, downing the rest of my champagne. "No expectations."

"That's my girl." Zoe linked her arm through mine as we left the suite.

"Besides, Cami said the bride's side is stacked with eligible bachelors. It’s a good thing we opted for separate rooms.”

She says with a smile and wink. “Who knows what adventures might happen this weekend.”

"Cami thinks anyone with a pulse and a penis is an eligible bachelor."

The elevator doors closed on Zoe's laughter, and my stomach fluttered with something that wasn't just nerves. Anticipation, maybe. Or a warning.

The Stone Creek Vineyard estate was a California dream of Spanish-style architecture and sweeping vineyards.

Rows of white chairs faced an altar draped in roses and greenery, with the golden hills rolling behind it like something from a painting.

The late afternoon sunlight cast everything in a honey glow that felt almost magical.

The pre-ceremony was a work of art. A string quartet played softly as guests mingled, champagne flutes catching the light. I recognized a few faces from Zoe's stories—college friends, cousins she actually liked.

Nobody I knew personally, which was exactly what I needed. Anonymity felt like a luxury after the claustrophobic social circle I'd shared with Miles, where every gathering became a performance review of our relationship.

"I'm going to find Cami," Zoe said, spotting her friend near the rose garden. "You good?"

I nodded, already scanning for the bar. "Perfect. Go ahead."

As I weaved through clusters of guests, I caught fragments of conversation—opinions on the bride's dress, speculation about the cost of the venue, gossip about which groomsman was already drunk.

Normal wedding chatter that required nothing from me.

"Scotch, neat," I told the bartender, earning a raised eyebrow. "Please."

"Most of the ladies are drinking the signature cocktail," he said, gesturing to a tray of blush-colored drinks garnished with rosemary.

"I'm not most ladies."

A low chuckle came from beside me.

"Clearly not."

I turned, the retort dying on my lips as I took in the man who had materialized at my elbow.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.

Silver hair that looked intentional rather than aging, cropped short on the sides but with enough length on top to show a slight wave.

The kind of face that improved with time—strong jawline, laugh lines that suggested he used his smile sparingly but genuinely.

But it was his eyes that snagged me.

Dark blue, almost navy in this light, with an intensity that felt physical, like a caress.

"Most men would know better than to comment on a woman's drink order," I said, accepting my scotch from the bartender.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'm not most men."

"That line usually work for you?"

"I don't usually need lines." He signaled to the bartender. "The same."

I took a sip, the scotch warming my throat. Good quality—smoky with a hint of sweetness.

Like him.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome.

"Bride or groom?" I asked, the standard wedding small talk.

"Neither, technically. Business associate of the father of the bride."

I nodded.

"Friend of the maid of honor."

"Ah. The dreaded plus-one."

He accepted his scotch with a nod of thanks.

"The role with all the social obligations and none of the emotional investment."

That startled a genuine laugh from me.

"You've clearly done this before."

"More times than I care to count." He studied me over the rim of his glass, his gaze a tangible weight.

"Though usually with less interesting company."

It was a practiced compliment, delivered with the confidence of a man who knew his effect on women.

I should have found it off-putting. Instead, I felt a traitorous flutter in my stomach.

"What makes you think I'm interesting?" I asked. "You know nothing about me."

"I know you drink scotch at a wedding where the open bar offers fifteen different kinds of artisanal cocktails. I know you came with the maid of honor but let her wander off while you found the bar. And I know that dress wasn't chosen to blend in."

Heat crept up my neck. "Maybe I just like scotch."

"Maybe." He didn't look convinced. "Or maybe you're tired of playing a role you've outgrown."

The accuracy of his assessment felt invasive.

Months ago, I would have been drinking whatever Miles preferred, wearing whatever Miles thought appropriate, and staying by his side like the perfect accessory.

"You're making a lot of assumptions based on a drink order," I said.

"Not assumptions. Observations." He tilted his head slightly. "Am I wrong?"

The quartet shifted to a new song, the opening notes of the wedding march.

Around us, guests began moving toward their seats.

"Saved by the bride," I murmured, finishing my scotch.

His smile was slow and knowing. "For now."

As we joined the flow of guests, he stayed beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive.

I should have moved away, found Zoe, sat with the friends I was supposed to be with.

Instead, I let him guide me to an empty row near the back.

"I didn't catch your name," he said as we sat.

"I didn't offer it." I watched the groomsmen take their places at the altar.

"Let's keep it that way."

He raised an eyebrow. "Anonymous encounters not typically your style?"

"What do you know about my style?"

"I'm learning." His gaze trailed from my face down to where the silk of my dress draped over my thighs. "Rapidly."

The bride appeared at the end of the aisle, radiant in vintage lace, and the guests rose.

As we stood, his hand brushed against the small of my back—the contact brief but deliberate.

Electric.

I held my breath, waiting for the guilt or discomfort to follow.

It didn't come.

Instead, something reckless unfurled inside me—a wildness I'd kept carefully contained since the day I met Miles Reid.

Maybe even before that. The knowledge that this man, this stranger, saw me more clearly in five minutes than Miles had in years.

When we sat again, I was hyperaware of the inches between us.

Of every shift and adjustment that narrowed the gap.

Of his profile in my peripheral vision and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The ceremony passed in a blur of vows and music and applause.

I registered none of it. My entire focus had narrowed to the electric current running between me and the silver-haired stranger beside me, who had said and done almost nothing to warrant the chaos he'd created in my carefully ordered world.

As the newlyweds recessed down the aisle amid cheers and flower petals, he leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.

"I'm going to get another drink," he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard.

"And then I'm going to find somewhere quiet in those gardens. You can join me. Or not. Your choice."

He stood, straightening his suit jacket, and walked away without a backward glance.

Confident.

Commanding.

Certain I would follow.

The worst part was, he was right.

I waited exactly five minutes before I went looking for him.