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

Lucas

I wasn't looking for her.

That's what I told myself as I waited in the garden, scotch in hand, watching the fairy lights flicker on as dusk settled over the vineyard.

After finishing my first drink, I'd stopped at the small outdoor bar nestled among the roses to get a fresh one before finding this quiet spot.

I'd attended John Parker's daughter's wedding out of obligation, not interest.

Another business associate's milestone event, another appearance to maintain relationships that kept Turner Holdings at the top of the industry.

I certainly hadn't expected to find myself waiting for a woman whose name I didn't know.

"Mr. Turner? Is that you lurking in the shadows?"

I turned to find Eleanor Chen, John’s director of operations, approaching with a flute of champagne.

Her shrewd eyes assessed me with the kind of sharp efficiency I’d only heard about in whispers from his staff.

Not lurking," I said.

"Appreciating the solitude."

"At a wedding?" She laughed.

"That's ambitious even for you."

"The ceremony was lovely."

"Which part? You were distracted the entire time." She sipped her champagne.

"The mystery woman in the gold dress?"

I kept my expression neutral.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Please. I've worked with you long enoughto know when you're interested in something—or someone."

"Careful, Eleanor. I might tell John you’re misbehaving again.”

She raised her glass in a mock salute. "And I'm still the woman who saved your Madison Street deal last quarter. Which earns me the right to say: she's too young for you."

"Goodbye, Eleanor,” I said pointedly.

She laughed again.

"The reception's starting. John's looking for you—something about introducing you to potential investors."

"I'll be there shortly."

Eleanor studied me, something like concern flickering across her features.

"Just remember who you are. Your name means something in this room."

As she walked away, I sipped my scotch.

She was right, of course.

My name was currency in business circles.

My father had built the company from nothing; I'd tripled its worth.

Our real estate developments spanned three states.

Everything I did reflected on that legacy.

Including who I pursued.

Not that I was pursuing anyone. I was simply offering a drink and conversation to an intriguing woman at a wedding.

A woman who looked at me like she saw the man beneath the exterior, who challenged rather than deferred.

A woman whose smile held secrets I suddenly wanted to uncover.

A woman who was now walking toward me through the garden, light folding over her like a slow pour of honey.

Her dress—a gleaming gold that hugged every curve—moved like liquid heat against her skin, clinging in all the places a man’s hands might linger.

All long waves of dark hair and a body that made that dress look like it was designed just to worship her.

I felt it hit me low, sharp, uninvited, undeniable.

Want, like a reflex.

I straightened, an unfamiliar tension tightening my chest. At forty-seven, I was long past the age of nervousness around beautiful women.

Yet something about her—the directness of her gaze, perhaps, or the deliberate way she'd made me wait—had thrown me off balance.

"I almost didn't come," she said, stopping a careful distance away.

"Yet here you are." I gestured to a stone bench partially concealed by flowering vines.

"Join me?"

She considered for a moment, then nodded.

As she sat, the silk of her dress whispered against her skin.

I remained standing, unwilling to crowd her.

"Your friend won't miss you?" I asked.

"Zoe's in her element working the room."

She looked up at me. "And yours?"

"I don't have friends at these events. Only associates."

She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds lonely."

"It's efficient." I sat beside her, close but not touching.

"Names and friends complicate things. Expectations. Histories."

"Is that why you haven't asked for mine again?"

I studied her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the intelligence in her green eyes, the slight vulnerability she was trying to hide.

"Would you have given it to me?" I asked.

"No."

"Then why waste the question?" I offered her my fresh glass.

"I’ve barely touched it."

She accepted it, taking a small sip before passing it back.

"You're used to getting what you want, aren't you?"

"Usually."

"And if you don't?"

"I reassess whether it's worth pursuing." I watched her reaction carefully. "Or whether I need to change my approach."

She laughed, the sound genuine and surprising. "That's the most honest answer I've heard from a man in... maybe ever."

"I don't see the point in games."

"Says the man who asked me to meet him in a secluded garden."

"Not a game," I corrected. "A choice. Freely offered."

She tilted her head, studying me with that direct gaze that had caught me at the bar.

"What do you want from me? Really?"

The question deserved honesty.

"Your company. Your conversation." I paused. "And yes, I find you attractive. But that's not why I'm here."

"No?"

"No. I'm here because you looked at me and saw a man, not a name or a bank account or a status symbol." The admission came unbidden, more vulnerable than I'd intended.

"That's... unusual in my experience."

She considered this. "Maybe I just don't know who you are."

"Maybe that's the appeal."

Music drifted from the direction of the reception pavilion, along with the hum of conversation and laughter.

The garden had grown darker, the fairy lights more pronounced against the deepening blue of the sky.

In this in-between space, reality seemed suspended.

"Dance with me," she said suddenly.

I blinked. "Here?"

"Why not?" She stood, holding out her hand. "Unless you don't dance."

I took her hand—delicate, warm, and soft against my larger, cooler palm.

Hers was the kind of hand that didn’t belong in boardrooms or around contracts.

No, she belonged to something slower.

More dangerous.

"I dance," I murmured, letting my thumb graze the inside of her wrist. "But not usually without a proper introduction."

"Tonight’s about breaking patterns, isn’t it?" she said, stepping into my space like she’d always belonged there.

She guided my hand to her waist, the silk of her dress slipping beneath my fingers like water.

"For both of us."

She fit into my arms like she'd been poured into them.

A perfect balance of softness and heat, molded effortlessly into my frame, her body brushing close enough for me to feel the whisper of her breath against my throat.

Her perfume wrapped around me—jasmine, vanilla, and something darker underneath.

Something intimate.

It made my thoughts stumble, my chest tighten- again.

I drew her in against me until our hips touched, the gold fabric of her dress catching faint moonlight as we moved.

She was lush, full, the kind of woman made to ruin a man’s self-control—and she moved like she knew it.

We found the rhythm without effort, each step pulling me deeper into her orbit.

Her long, dark hair spilled down her back in waves and made me want to bury my hands in it just to see if it felt as soft as it looked. Her body was sin sculpted into silk—voluptuous and soft, where a man could rest his hands, firm where temptation held tension.

And she held herself with a kind of confidence that didn’t beg for attention—it demanded it.

Dancing with her didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like foreplay.

"You're good at this," she murmured.

"Surprised?"

"A little. You seem more boardroom than ballroom."

I smiled, turning her in a slow circle.

"My mother insisted on lessons. Said a man who couldn't dance would never truly understand partnership."

"Smart woman."

"She was." The old grief flickered and faded, still familiar after thirty years.

"What's your excuse?"

"For dancing?"

"For being good at it."

She laughed softly.

"Six years of ballet as a child. Two years of dance team in college. And one ex-boyfriend who thought ballroom dancing would help make us the perfect power couple."

"The ex whose ghost you're trying to exorcise tonight?"

Her steps faltered momentarily.

"What makes you think that?"

"The way you looked while at the bar. Like someone searching for something they lost."

I adjusted my hold, drawing her fractionally closer. "Or maybe something they never had."

Her green eyes narrowed. "You're very perceptive for a man who doesn't want complications."

"Perception isn't the same as involvement."

"Isn't it?" Her hand tightened on my shoulder.

"Why did you ask me here? The truth."

The truth.

Such a simple request, yet so rarely honored between strangers.

Between anyone.

"Because when I saw you," I said carefully, "I recognized something. A specific kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with being alone."

She stilled in my arms, her expression suddenly unguarded. Vulnerable.

"And what would you know about that kind of loneliness?"

"Everything." I traced my thumb across her knuckles where our hands remained joined.

"It's the kind that follows you into crowded rooms. The kind that sleeps beside you in a shared bed."

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to our hands. "You're married."

“Never married but currently not taken.”

"Children?"

Something in her tone made me hesitate. "One son. Adult."

She nodded, processing this.

"I should go. My friend will be looking for me."

"But she won't find you," I said, making no move to release her. "Because you don't want to be found right now."

Her eyes met mine again, defiant.

"You don't know what I want."

"Tell me, then."

The challenge hung between us, charged with something more complex than mere attraction.

I'd built a career on reading people, on sensing weakness and opportunity in equal measure.

But this woman was a contradiction—vulnerable yet strong, hesitant yet brave, running from something yet standing perfectly still in my arms.

"I want," she said slowly, "to forget who I'm supposed to be. Just for tonight."