Page 2 of Silver Fox Daddies

But I’m still curious.

Carefully, I rise from my seat and peer up over the counter. They’re tall, their heads peeking up over the top of the bookshelves as they navigate through to the nonfiction section. They all have gray hair. Lots of it. From a glance, they all look of a similar age to Daddy, except these guys look like they’ve aged better.

A lot better.

My heartbeat spikes for some reason.

Why I feel the need to creep around, watching them like some obsessive stalker, I have no idea. I think it’s because they’re dangerous. Or at least, people like them are supposed to be.

“…Grizzly will teach you the basics,” I overhear one of them say to another. “But you’re best learning about this stuff yourself. It shows willingness, and as a prospect, the quickest way to earn your badge is to show independence. We’re a team, but also, the Prez is searching for people that are proactive.”

“Yeah,” adds another voice. British?

I leave my desk and tiptoe toward the closest bookshelf to hear more of the conversation. Their voices make them sound like trouble, each of them dark in tone.

A knot forms in my stomach as I advance closer, peering around one of the shelves to glimpse them again. I don’t know why I’m so curious to see their faces.

“Thanks, guys,” says the third. “Appreciate the help.”

One of them nods. And then they start making their way back to reception.

Shit.

Heart spiking even more, I rush back toward the desk, not wanting to be caught spying.

That’s when I crash into the returns cart, not looking where I’m going.

Fuck!

Pain pulsates through my shin. I stifle a wince and limp the rest of the way back to reception, gripping the desk as I sink back into my seat.

Close call.

They appear from behind the bookshelves just as I make it back, and now they’re approaching me.

Fabulous.

I swallow the lump in my throat, composing myself. Suddenly aware that my hair is all over the place, I comb a hand through it as they make their way over, using the black monitor screen as a mirror to hastily fix up my appearance.

“Are you okay?” asks the British one. He stands on the right.

I look up, hoping the embarrassment hasn’t heated my cheeks too much. “Oh. Yeah.”

“We heard a crash,” says the one on the left.

“It was nothing.”

Am I okay?

No. Definitely not.

First up, I’m pretty sure I damaged my leg. Secondly, I’m alone with three motorcyclists who look like they could kill me with their bare hands.

I don’t know why this excites me so much.

They’re all very handsome, around Daddy’s age, give or take a few years.

The one on the right is the British one. He has a mustache that hasn’t turned completely gray yet. Under the leather vest, he’s shirtless, so it’s a struggle to keep my eyes up when I see hard muscle peeking through. He wears blue-wash jeans and a slanted smile, green eyes trailing up and down my body like I’m a cake he’s desperate to devour.