Page 4 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)

I order a whiskey and water while I wait, using the time to observe the other diners.

The restaurant attracts a mix of business professionals, wealthy retirees, and couples celebrating special occasions.

It is the type of place where Fenton Nielsen seamlessly belongs, though my true self would feel out of place, like an imposter.

I grew up upper-middle-class, so my family didn’t eat at places like this often.

Only when my rich grandmother was visiting, for the most part, so I never got acclimated to such luxuries until assuming the Fenton mantle.

She walks in at exactly seven o’clock.

Red’s description didn’t do her justice.

Her copper hair catches my attention right away, and her amber eyes reveal the quick intelligence of someone who automatically catalogs potential threats and opportunities.

She’s wearing a simple black dress that somehow manages to be both elegant and approachable, and she moves with the unconscious grace that comes naturally to most shifters.

Our gazes meet across the restaurant, and I stand to wave her over. Her smile seems genuine, but there’s something calculating behind it that I recognize from my own mirror. She’s working just as hard as I am to make a good impression.

“Jenna?”

“That’s me. You must be Fenton.” Her handshake is firm and confident. “Thank you for choosing such a beautiful restaurant.”

“My pleasure, but Red actually chose it.” I smile to put her at ease. “She spoke very highly of you.”

She dips her head slightly as I help her get seated. “She said wonderful things about you, too. Something about appreciating intelligence and strategic thinking?”

A slight emphasis on “strategic” suggests multiple layers of meaning. “I find intelligence attractive. Nothing’s more boring than someone who can’t hold up their end of a conversation.”

She looks a bit startled as she nods. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The server appears to take our drink orders. She requests a glass of the house red wine—nothing too expensive but not the cheapest option, either. The practical choice shows financial awareness without seeming cheap.

“So, technology consulting,” she says once we’re alone again. “That sounds fascinating. What kind of projects do you work on?”

I launch into Fenton’s prepared background, spewing out information about database optimization, security upgrades, and helping small businesses modernize their systems. It’s all technically true, just incomplete.

She listens with focused attention. “That must require a lot of problem-solving skills.”

“Every day brings a new puzzle. I like the challenge of finding elegant solutions to complex problems.” True enough, though my most complex problems lately involve digital forensics and evidence compilation. “What about you? Red mentioned you’re between careers right now.”

Something flickers across her expression—embarrassment, maybe, or frustration. “I’m exploring my options. I’ve done some administrative work, but I’m looking for something that better utilizes my skill set.”

“What skills are those?”

“Reading people. Strategic planning. Finding creative solutions to difficult situations.” She pauses, seeming to choose her words wisely.

“Fox shifters have certain natural advantages that most people either fear or want to exploit. I’m looking for a situation where those advantages are appreciated. ”

Her honesty surprises me. Most people try to downplay their species’ stereotypes on first dates. “That sounds frustrating.”

“It is. People hear fox shifter and immediately assume I’m either trying to trick them or I’m some kind of exotic novelty.” Her voice carries genuine annoyance. “I’m just someone who happens to be good at reading situations and adapting accordingly.”

I nod in appreciation. “Adaptability is an asset, not a liability.”

“Try telling that to my last few dates.”

The server returns with our drinks and takes our dinner orders. Jenna chooses the salmon with a side salad—again, mid-range price point. Either she’s genuinely budget-conscious or she’s being considerate about not taking advantage of someone else’s generosity. Both possibilities intrigue me.

“So what went wrong with those dates?” I ask once we’re alone again.

“The usual. They either wanted me to tone down my natural instincts or they expected me to be some kind of master manipulator.” She takes a sip of wine. “One guy actually asked me to teach him how to lie more convincingly for his sales job.”

I nearly choke on my whiskey. “Seriously?”

“Completely serious. Apparently, my species’ reputation preceded me.” She shakes her head. “What about you? Any dating horror stories?”

More than I can count, though most involve maintaining my cover identity rather than genuine romantic incompatibility. “I’ve had a few experiences with people who were more interested in my bank account than my personality.”

Her eye twitches slightly. “The hazards of being successful?”

“Something like that.” I study her face, looking for signs of the same gold-digging tendencies. Her expression seems genuinely sympathetic rather than calculating, aside from the eye twitch. “It gets old, being valued for what you have instead of who you are.”

She seems thoughtful for a moment, as though she’s genuinely contemplating my words. She sounds almost surprised when she responds. “I imagine it does.”

Our conversation flows naturally through dinner. She’s quick-witted and well-read, with opinions on everything from local politics to classic films. There’s something refreshing about talking to someone who doesn’t seem intimidated by intelligence or success.

She also asks excellent questions that reveal she’s paying attention to details and building a comprehensive picture of who she thinks I am. Fox shifter instincts at work, probably, but it’s still more engaging than the usual first-date small talk.

“Can I ask you something?” she says as we finish our main courses.

“Of course.”

“What are you really looking for? In a relationship, I mean. Beyond the obvious compatibility stuff.”

The question catches me by surprise. Most people don’t ask for that level of honesty on a first date. “Someone who understands life is complicated. People aren’t always what they seem on the surface.”

She arches a brow. “That’s very diplomatic.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not a problem. Just interesting.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Most people want simple. Easy. You’re specifically looking for complicated.”

I give her a half-smile. “Complicated can be more honest than simple.”

She laughs softly. “That’s a very fox shifter philosophy.”

“Maybe I’m more adaptable than most bobcats.”

She laughs once more, and the sound is genuinely delighted rather than politely amused. “I like that answer.”

The server returns with dessert menus, but we both decline in favor of coffee. The conversation continues through two cups each, covering everything from favorite books to travel experiences to theories about why certain shifter species seem naturally compatible.

By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s nearly ten o’clock, and I’ve had one of the most intellectually stimulating evenings I can remember. Walking her to her car, I’m genuinely reluctant for the night to end.

“I had a wonderful time,” she says, fishing her keys out of her purse.

“So did I. Would you like to do this again?”

“I’d like that very much.” She pauses with her hand on the car door. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Are you always this cautious?”

The question startles me. “What do you mean?”

“You’re very polished and prepared, like you’ve thought through every possible response.” She’s not accusatory, just observant. “It’s not a criticism. I’m naturally cautious, too, so I recognize the signs.”

For a moment, I consider telling her I’m not really Fenton Nielsen, my entire life is a lie designed to bring down a man who destroyed my family, and I haven’t had a genuine conversation with another person in so long, I’d forgotten what it felt like.

Instead, I go with partial honesty. “I’ve learned to be vigilant. Bad experiences tend to make you guarded.”

“I understand that.” She opens her car door but doesn’t get in. “For what it’s worth, I think the watchful version of you is pretty interesting. I’d like to see what the unguarded version looks like sometime.”

With that, she slides behind the wheel, shuts the door, and waves. She drives away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the restaurant parking lot wondering what the hell just happened.

Back home, I skip my usual evening security check and go straight to the kitchen for another whiskey. Jenna Johnson is dangerous in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Not because she’s trying to manipulate me, though she might be, but because she’s perceptive enough to see through my constructed facade.

I pull up her basic information on my secure computer, verifying what I know.

She’s twenty-eight years old, has no criminal record, and has bounced between several administrative jobs over the past few years.

Her financial records show someone living paycheck to paycheck, which explains the considerate ordering at dinner.

Nothing looks suspicious, but also nothing explains why spending three hours with her felt more real than the last three years of my life combined.

My phone buzzes with a text from Red: How did it go?

I stare at the message for a long time before responding: Better than expected. We’re going out again.

I told you she was perfect for you. Sometimes, I amaze even myself.

With a smile and a shake of my head, I set aside the phone and return to the Anklor files.

Surprisingly, my heart isn’t entirely in the work.

Part of my mind keeps drifting back to Jenna.

I briefly let myself wonder what it would be like to tell someone the truth about who I really am.

The thought frightens me almost as much as it tempts me, and I scold myself with reminders to maintain the barriers I’ve erected to ensure Anklor finally pays for what he’s done.