Page 3 of Silver Fox Daddies

His gaze lingers at my breasts for a while.

Then, there’s the one in the middle. He’s the one holding the book. He’s the palest out of all of them and has freckles dotted around his nose. Maybe he was ginger before he turned gray. Fine lines enhance his facial features, and he watches me with a pleasant smile, like he’s got all the time in the world.

The one on the left wears full leather. I don’t notice the gold tooth until he smiles. But he doesn’t smile for long, soon returning back to his stoic self. He has incredible bone structure, dark gray stubble contouring his cheekbones. I don’t quite know what to make of him. I think that’s why he intimidates me the most.

“Just this one, please.” The one in the middle hands over the book.

Fuck, his voice is so rich and deep, the southern drawl a nice touch.

“Of course.”

A shiver runs up my spine as I take the book from him, our hands brushing.

“Do you, um, have a lib…library card?”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The British one slides a card across the desk, the slanted smile widening.

I swipe it up with trembling fingers.

Harley Davidson Illustrated Guidebook.

Interesting.

Wiggling the mouse to revive the computer, I scan the card and then the book, fingers slipping over the keys. The name on the card comes up as Greg Finch. Huh. The name seems too ordinary for a guy with a gold tooth.

“All done. You have two months to return it,” I say, sheepishly handing the book back to the middle guy. Normally, when I’m processing borrowed books, I’m more conversational, but now I make sure to keep my words short and to the point.

It’s embarrassing that I stuttered the first time. I don’t want to trip up on my words again.

I hand back the library card, the strong smell of gasoline wafting into my nose.

It’s that kind of smell youwantto smell, but can’t—it’s harmful.

“Thank you,” I say, expecting them to go now.

“No,” says the British one. “Thankyou.”

Six eyes watch me.

I don’t know what to do.

“Um…”

The British one then brings his attention below the counter to the flat surface that visitors use to sign out borrowed books. No one’s required to do that anymore since we computerized the system, but my boss hasn’t got rid of it yet.

He concentrates there, writing something down.

“It’s okay. You no longer need to?—”

BAP!

My voice is cut off by the shutting of a book.

“I’d like to return this one too, whilst we’re at it,” he says, handing over another book.

The Devil’s Advocateby Iain Morley.