Page 8 of Sly Like a Fox (Romance Expected Dating Service #3)

Jenna

A few days later, I’ve had four successful dates with Fenton that have me more confused than ever about my usual strategies.

He’s clearly wealthy—his clothes, restaurant choices, and casual references to expensive hobbies confirm it—but he doesn’t flaunt his money in the ostentatious way I’m used to from rich men.

More puzzling is how much I genuinely enjoy his company.

Our third date at Café Luna was even better than the first and second.

The casual atmosphere let us talk without the pressure of formal dining.

I found myself watching his hands while he talked, noting the way he gestures when he’s passionate about something.

His movements show the precision of someone comfortable with detailed work, though his palms have calluses that don’t match his current white-collar lifestyle.

When I asked about them, he mentioned helping a friend with construction projects, but something in his expression suggested there was more to the story.

The fourth date sealed it for me. He took me to an art gallery opening where I expected to spend the evening pretending to understand abstract paintings while he networked with other wealthy professionals.

Instead, we spent two hours debating the merits of various pieces, and I realized he was genuinely interested in my perspective rather than just trying to impress me with his cultural sophistication.

He’d gestured toward a massive canvas covered in violent slashes of red and black paint. “What do you think of this one?”

I studied the piece, trying to access whatever artistic sensibility I might possess. “It looks like someone was really angry when they painted it. Or maybe having a mental breakdown.”

Fenton read from the placard beside the painting. “The artist created it after his divorce, so you’re probably right on both counts.”

I moved closer to examine the brushstrokes. “Great. I’m developing art appreciation skills, though I still don’t understand why people pay thousands of dollars for something that makes them uncomfortable.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Art isn’t supposed to be easy.”

The comment stuck with me because it seemed to apply to more than just paintings. Nothing about Fenton is easy to understand, which should frustrate someone whose survival depends on reading people quickly and accurately. Instead, it makes me want to know more.

Now I’m sitting in my apartment, staring at the text he sent this morning asking if I want to grab lunch tomorrow, feeling like I’m in completely uncharted territory.

The problem is I like him. Not just his bank account or his potential as a provider, but him.

The way he thinks, the way he listens, and the way his eyes light up when we find common ground on something unexpected excite me.

It’s dangerous territory for someone whose survival has always depended on maintaining emotional distance.

My phone buzzes with another text, this one from Chloe: Coffee break in twenty? You’ve been weird lately.

I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I do look weird. My hair is disheveled from running my hands through it, and I’ve been stress-grooming without realizing it.

Copper strands litter my couch cushions, which is evidence of how much mental energy I’ve been spending on analyzing my situation with Fenton.

I text back what seems to be my usual response of late: Can’t. Broke.

Her response comes immediately: My treat. Something’s going on with you.

Chloe’s persistence is both endearing and problematic.

She’s an excellent friend, but I’m trying to keep my secrets.

I need to talk to someone about my confusion, but I can’t exactly explain I’m having an identity crisis because my latest mark is too decent to exploit properly.

After a hesitation, I text back: Fine, but somewhere cheap.

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in a dingy coffee shop three blocks from my apartment.

This place serves burned coffee in mismatched mugs but doesn’t judge customers who nurse a single drink for hours.

Chloe ordered us both pastries that smell like heaven and cost more than I should let her spend, but I’m too hungry to protest. I’m still on the ramen and peanut butter diet except for the nights I’ve been out with Fenton.

She settles into the wobbly chair across from me, already scanning my face for clues. “Okay, talk to me. You’ve been off the last week or so.”

I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, noting a chip in the rim. “It’s about Fenton.”

“The gorgeous tech consultant you’ve been dating?” Chloe breaks off a piece of her croissant. “Did he turn out to be a secret psychopath or something?”

“The opposite, actually. He’s...perfect.”

Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “And that’s a problem because…”

The question forces me to articulate feelings I’ve been avoiding.

“Because I don’t know how to handle perfect.

I know how to handle jerks who want to use me, or rich guys who think I’m a novelty, or men who are threatened by intelligence.

I don’t know what to do with someone who actually seems to like me for who I am. ”

Chloe sets down her pastry and leans forward. “You’re falling for him.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve known him for a week.”

“Time isn’t the issue.” She chews thoughtfully while studying my face. “You’re falling for him, and it scares you because you can’t control it.”

Her observation is uncomfortably right. Control has been my survival mechanism for years.

I choose my targets with precision, maintain emotional distance, and always have an exit strategy.

With Fenton, all my careful plans seem to be dissolving into something messier and more complicated.

“What if I’m reading this all wrong?” I voice the fear that’s been keeping me awake at night.

“What if he’s just being polite while deciding whether I’m worth the effort? ”

“Has he given you any reason to think that?”

“No, but...” I struggle to find words for the nagging worry that’s been growing stronger each day. “He’s still very composed. Sometimes, I catch glimpses of something deeper, but then it’s gone before I can figure out what I’m seeing.”

She takes another bite of her croissant. “Maybe he’s just as nervous as you are. Some people take longer to open up.”

“Or maybe he’s hiding something big.”

She pauses with a piece of pastry halfway to her mouth. “What kind of something?”

“I don’t know. That’s what makes it frustrating.

” I pour more sugar into my coffee, grateful for the slight buzz that’s making this conversation easier.

“My fox instincts are telling me there’s more to Fenton Nielsen than technology consulting and expensive taste in restaurants, but I can’t figure out what. ”

“Could be anything. Embarrassing hobbies, weird family, or bad credit.” Chloe shrugs. “Not everything mysterious is sinister.”

She’s probably right, but the feeling persists. Something about him doesn’t quite add up, and my inability to identify it makes me anxious. I think about the way he sometimes pauses before answering questions, as if he’s choosing his words more thoughtfully than the situation requires.

I set down my coffee mug harder than I intended. “You know what’s really bothering me? I’m not sure I want to know what he’s hiding. For the first time in my adult life, I’m enjoying a relationship without trying to figure out how to exploit it.”

Chloe reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “That’s called healthy emotional attachment. Most people consider it a good thing.”

“Most people don’t depend on reading situations accurately for survival.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop surviving and start living.”

The comment stays with me after she leaves to return to work.

Stop surviving and start living. Easy advice from someone who’s never had to choose between rent and groceries, but it highlights something I’ve been avoiding.

My entire adult life has been focused on securing the next meal, the next month’s rent, or the next level of safety.

I’ve never allowed myself to think beyond immediate needs.

What would it look like to want something more than financial security? To build a relationship based on a true link rather than advantage? The thought both terrifies and excites me.

I walk home after finishing my coffee and pastry.

Inside my apartment, I try to think rationally about the situation.

I’m no closer to figuring out what I’m doing when my phone rings, and Fenton’s name appears on the screen.

For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail until I have an idea of how to proceed, but the desire to see him wins. “Hello?”

“Jenna? It’s Fenton.” His voice is warm. “I know this is short notice, but would you like to have dinner tonight? I can’t stop thinking about last night, and I’d love to see you again.”

The directness in his voice makes my chest constrict. There are no games or pretense. He’s just showing honest interest that makes my pulse accelerate. “I’d love that.”

“Good.” I can hear the happiness in his voice. “Are you free around seven thirty?”

I don’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Where did you have in mind?”

“There’s a wine bar downtown called Vintner’s that I’ve been wanting to try. The reviews say it has small plates, a wide selection of wines, and a good atmosphere for conversation. Does that work for you?”

I’ve never heard of it, but I’m not going to admit my knowledge of upscale establishments comes mostly from our dates together. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Perfect. I can pick you up if you’d like, or we can meet there.”

The offer is tempting, but accepting would mean giving him my address and letting him see exactly how far apart our financial situations are. Not tonight. “I’ll meet you there. Text me the address?”

“Of course. I’ll see you at seven thirty.”