7. Fox
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOX
T here's something about the way Prue Griffin moves that makes it impossible to look away, even when she's just walking across her living room carrying two glasses of wine.
"You're staring again," she says, handing me the glass, her fingers brushing mine in a way that sends electricity up my arm.
"Hard not to." I take a sip, watching her over the rim as she settles beside me on her couch, tucking those dancer's legs underneath her. The Seattle skyline glitters through her apartment windows, but it's got nothing on the way her skin catches the lamplight.
We've barely been back from dinner an hour, and already I'm counting the minutes until I can touch her again. It's been like this since we left her sister's place this morning—this constant, humming awareness between us.
"I meant what I said earlier," she says, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "About taking things slow."
I nod, even as every muscle in my body tightens at the memory of her beneath me just hours ago. "I know."
"It's just—" She pauses, looking down at her wine. "I don't do this, Fox. Jump in headfirst."
"Could've fooled me." I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips, and she smacks my arm lightly.
"I'm serious."
"So am I." I set my glass down, turning to face her fully. "Look, Prue, I've got no complaints about where we are right now. But I want you to know I'm not going anywhere."
She studies me for a long moment, those blue eyes searching mine for something. Whatever she finds makes her set her glass down and lean toward me.
"Show me," she whispers.
This time, there's no rush––no desperate grabbing or frantic need to consume.
I take my time with her, mapping the curves of her body with my hands and my mouth.
The soft sounds she makes when I kiss the inside of her wrist, the hollow of her throat, and the curve of her hip are like a language I'm desperate to become fluent in.
We eventually make it to her bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing through behind us. Her sheets are cool against my back as she straddles me, taking control in a way that makes my breath catch.
"You're beautiful," I tell her because it's true, and the words make color bloom across her cheeks in a way I can't get enough of.
Hours later, as the city lights cast shadows across her bedroom walls, she traces the scar that runs along my ribs with gentle fingers.
"You should come to Cedar Bay," I say into the comfortable silence.
She props herself up on one elbow, her hair falling around her face in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it again. "Is that your not so subtle way of asking me to visit?"
"Nothing subtle about it. I want you there."
"Mmm." She smiles, pressing a kiss to my chest. "I could probably swing a weekend. The Henderson project is wrapping up in two weeks."
"So that's a yes?"
Instead of answering, she slides up my body until her face hovers above mine.
"That's a 'convince me some more,'" she says, and then she's kissing me again, and I'm lost in her—in the feel of her skin against mine, in the scent of her perfume mixed with something more primal, in the taste of wine on her tongue.
Taking it slow has never felt so good.
Morning filters through Prue's curtains, painting stripes across her bare shoulder. I've been awake for twenty minutes already, just watching her breathe. Seeing her like this feels like a privilege—guard down, face soft with sleep, no witty comebacks or carefully constructed walls.
"You're still staring," she murmurs without opening her eyes, her voice rough with sleep.
"Still hard not to." I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek.
She stretches like a cat, all long limbs and satisfied sighs, before finally looking at me. "What time is it?"
"Early. Not quite seven."
"Mmm." She rolls toward me, fitting herself against my side like she's been doing it for years instead of hours. "Do you always wake up at the crack of dawn?"
"Construction habits." I press my lips to her forehead. "Plus, there's this woman in my bed. Makes it hard to sleep."
She snorts, pinching my side playfully. "Technically, you're in my bed."
"Details."
We lie there, trading lazy kisses and lighter touches until my stomach growls loudly enough to make her laugh.
"Breakfast?" she asks.
"I make a mean omelet."
"Prove it." She slides out of bed, grabs my t-shirt from the floor, and pulls it over her head. It hangs to mid-thigh, and something primal stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothes.
In her kitchen, we move around each other like we've choreographed it—her reaching for coffee grounds while I find eggs in the refrigerator, me asking for a whisk while she's already pulling open the drawer where it's kept. It feels domestic. It feels dangerous.
"So," she says, hopping onto the counter beside where I'm chopping peppers, "Cedar Bay."
I glance up at her. "Cedar Bay."
"Tell me more about it. What would I see if I came to visit?"
"Besides my bedroom ceiling?" I deadpan, and she kicks at me gently.
"I'm serious, Fox. I didn’t see much of it the last time I was there."
I pause, knife hovering over the cutting board. "It's quiet. It's nothing like Seattle. We've got one main street with shops that close by eight, a harbor full of boats that have seen better days, and the best damn sunsets you'll ever see over the water."
"Sounds peaceful."
"It is." I resume chopping. "My family's bakery's been there since my great-grandfather built it. It has the same brick oven and the same recipes. On Saturdays, there's a line out the door for my mom's cinnamon rolls."
"And where do you fit in all this small-town charm?"
I shrug. "I fix things––houses, mostly. Some commercial renovations when the work comes in."
"A man of many talents," she muses, stealing a piece of bell pepper.
"You don't know the half of it." I wink, and she rolls her eyes, but the blush creeping up her neck tells me she's remembering exactly what talents I demonstrated last night.
After breakfast, we shower together, which leads to her pressed against the tile wall, legs wrapped around my waist, both of us gasping as the hot water beats down on us. When we make it out, we're pruny, satisfied, and running late.
"I really do have to get some work done today," she says as I help her zip up her dress—the same one I carefully unzipped last night. "Client meeting at one."
"I should call Rowan's anyway. Check on the renovation plans."
She turns, looping her arms around my neck. "When do you go back? To Cedar Bay."
"Tomorrow. Early." I rest my hands on her hips, already dreading the coming goodbye.
"So soon?"
"Got a job starting Monday. But—" I hesitate, not wanting to push too hard. "Two weeks, you said. For the Henderson project."
She nods slowly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I could probably drive up that Friday. Stay the weekend."
"I'd like that." It feels like an understatement. The thought of showing her my world makes something unfamiliar bloom in my chest.
"I'd like it too." She rises onto her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. "But let's still take it slow, okay?”
I think about how I now know the exact spot on her neck that makes her gasp, how she hums when she's content, how she takes her coffee (cream, no sugar), and the small scar on her knee from a childhood bike accident. It feels like I've known her much longer than a day.
"Slow," I agree, even as I pull her closer. "We can do slow."
Her laugh tells me she doesn't believe me more than I believe myself.