Page 5 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)

Jenna

I slide into my car and let out a deep breath. Fenton Nielsen exceeded every expectation I had walking into Meridian tonight.

The drive home gives me too much time to think. Traffic moves slowly through downtown. I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when I mentioned him being careful, like I’d seen something he thought he’d hidden better.

I spent my entire morning preparing for this date, using every trick I’d learned about maximizing my appeal on a minimal budget.

I watched hours of YouTube tutorials to perfect my makeup technique, steamed Chloe’s black dress in my tiny bathroom until it hung like it was made for me, and practiced conversations in my mirror, rehearsing ways to seem both interesting and appropriately impressed by wealth without appearing desperate.

The preparation paid off. My reflection had looked better than good.

The cut on my forehead was small enough that concealer covered it completely, and my hair fell in smooth waves around my shoulders.

I’d practiced my most charming smile while running through conversation topics that would make me seem sophisticated.

Somewhere between the appetizer and dessert coffee, I stopped performing and started actually enjoying myself. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

My phone buzzes from the passenger seat. It’s probably Chloe, dying to hear every detail. I ignore it and focus on navigating the familiar streets back to my neighborhood, where the buildings get shorter, and the cars get older with each block.

The evening had been everything Red promised when she set us up. Fenton was intelligent, successful, and genuinely interested in what I had to say. More importantly, he didn’t seem threatened by my fox shifter nature or disappointed that I wasn’t some exotic fantasy come to life.

Yet a few moments of fleeting expressions and thoughtful pauses hinted at layers beneath his refined exterior. When I’d asked what he was really looking for in a relationship, something raw had flickered across his face before he gave me that diplomatic answer about life being complicated.

“Maybe I’m more adaptable than most bobcats,” he’d said when I mentioned his philosophy sounding like fox shifter thinking.

The comment had made me laugh, genuinely delighted by his quick wit. Most people either fear fox shifter abilities or want to exploit them. He seemed to appreciate them as simply part of who I am.

I pull into my apartment complex and sit in the car for a moment, the engine cooling as I think about his question: “What went wrong with those dates?”

I’d given him the sanitized version of men who wanted me to tone down my instincts or expected me to be a master manipulator.

I hadn’t mentioned the married businessman whose wife had excellent aim with my own shoes weaponized against me or the tech executive who’d asked me to help him cheat on his taxes because “fox shifters are naturally good at that sort of thing.”

Fenton’s reaction had been genuine surprise, maybe even indignation on my behalf, like the idea of someone trying to use my abilities for their own gain actually bothered him.

When was the last time someone was bothered by injustice toward me rather than frustrated they couldn’t be the one benefiting from it?

My phone buzzes again. This time, I check it.

Chloe: How did it go? Need ice cream therapy or celebration cake?

I consider my answer while climbing the stairs to my apartment.

The date was successful by every measure that matters.

Fenton is wealthy, interesting, and wants to see me again.

He didn’t run screaming when I mentioned fox shifter abilities, and he seemed genuinely attracted to my intelligence rather than threatened by it.

So, why do I have this nagging sense that I’m missing something important? Impulsively, I decide to focus on the positive as I text her back: Definitely celebration cake.

She responds in seconds: On my way with supplies. Can’t wait to hear everything.

I unlock my apartment and flip on the lights, immediately feeling the contrast between Meridian’s sophisticated atmosphere and my modest living space.

Walking through it, I head to my bedroom, where I change into comfortable pajama pants and an oversized sweater, washing off makeup while mentally reviewing the evening.

Fenton’s answers to my questions, his body language, and the way he sometimes paused before responding as if choosing his words selectively were all signs of someone with secrets.

Most people have things they’d rather not discuss on first dates, but his secrets feel bigger than typical discretion.

There was something almost...professional about his judicious responses, like he’d been trained or practiced to deflect personal questions without seeming evasive.

A knock at my door announces Chloe’s arrival. When I open it, she bounces in carrying a bakery box and wearing her brightest smile, her dark curls bouncing slightly.

“Okay, spill everything. Was he gorgeous? Charming? Rich enough to solve all your problems?”

I laugh at her directness. “Yes, yes, and potentially yes.”

“Perfect. Tell me everything while we eat cake.”

We settle on my small couch with plates and forks, demolishing what turns out to be chocolate cake with raspberry filling.

I give her the edited version. Fenton was handsome, intelligent, and genuinely interested in getting to know me.

The restaurant was incredible, the conversation was stimulating, and we’re going out again soon.

“He sounds amazing,” she says, licking frosting off her fork. “What’s the catch?”

I arch a brow. “Why does there have to be a catch?”

“Because you have that expression you get when you’re trying to figure out something.”

Her observation is uncomfortably accurate. She’s seen me through enough bad relationships to recognize when something’s bothering me.

“He’s very...sophisticated, as though he’s thought through every possible conversation topic and prepared appropriate responses.”

She looks thoughtful. “Maybe he’s just nervous. Some people over-prepare when they’re trying to make a good impression.”

“Maybe.” I take another bite of cake, considering. “Or maybe he’s hiding something.”

“Everyone’s hiding something on first dates. Bad breath, weird hobbies, embarrassing families… It doesn’t mean he’s a serial killer.”

She’s right. I’m probably overthinking because I’m not used to dates going this well.

Usually by now, I’ve either been rejected for being a fox shifter or I’ve identified some fatal flaw that rules out long-term potential.

Money only goes so far to counterbalance some of the issues I’ve encountered in various men.

“So when are you seeing him again?”

“He said he’d call.” Which reminds me to check my phone again. No missed calls or texts, but it’s only been two hours since we parted ways. “Hopefully soon.”

“This is so exciting. I haven’t seen you this interested in someone since...” Chloe pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this interested in someone.”

The comment is enough to make me freeze for an instant.

She’s right. My previous relationships have been deliberate endeavors with clear goals and defined parameters of getting close to wealthy men, charming them into taking care of me, and enjoying the financial security until they inevitably dump or disappoint me.

I’ve never been genuinely excited about getting to know someone for their own sake. “It’s probably just because the date went well,” I say, but even as I speak the words, they’re not entirely true.

She grins. “Or maybe you actually like him.”

“I barely know him.”

“That’s what second dates are for.” She studies me for a minute. “When’s the last time you talked about a guy without mentioning his net worth or his potential to improve your situation?”

I open my mouth to protest but then close it. Tonight, describing Fenton to her, I’d focused on his intelligence, his humor, and the way he made me feel. His wealth was a factor, but it wasn’t the only factor. “That’s different,” I finally say.

“How?”

“Because...” I struggle for an explanation that doesn’t sound shallow. “Because I need financial security. You know what my situation is like.”

“I do know, and I’m not judging you for being practical. I also know you, and you’ve never looked like this after a date. You’re glowing.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I am not glowing.”

She chuckles. “You absolutely are. You look like someone who just had an amazing evening with a man she finds genuinely attractive, not like someone who just completed a successful business transaction.”

The distinction makes me squirm slightly. My previous relationships have felt like business transactions, with most being pleasant enough and sometimes mutually beneficial, but ultimately disposable. Tonight felt different. Personal. Real.

“It’s probably just because he didn’t try to grope me or ask me to demonstrate my fox abilities for his entertainment,” I say, deflecting with humor.

“The bar is so low, it’s practically underground,” she says with a grin, “But I think this is more than relief at meeting a decent human being.”

When Fenton calls around lunchtime to suggest meeting for dinner at Coastal, a waterfront restaurant, I’m both relieved and slightly disappointed.

I’m relieved because it’s still upscale but not quite as intimidating as Meridian.

Appetizers there cost twenty dollars instead of forty.

I’m disappointed because part of me had been looking forward to another evening in that rarefied atmosphere, where everything gleamed with expensive sophistication.