The Best Next Thing Read online

  His doctor would not be happy with him.

  Two hours later, when Miles ventured to the kitchen for breakfast, he found the banquette table set as it had been every day since he’d informed Mrs. Cole of his intention to eat in the kitchen. Stormy trotted to her plastic bowl filled with chicken and rice, also diligently set out each morning, and began to snuffle her way through her breakfast.

  Miles, meanwhile, sat and glared at what was on offer: one boiled egg, two slices of whole wheat toast, a cup of coffee, and a glass of orange juice.

  What the fuck? Was this punishment for the pool? For being turned on by her?

  Or…was she irked because he hadn’t taken her up on her unspoken offer? Because he had done the only sane thing and shifted her aside before either of them could act on what was simmering between them?

  “Mrs. Cole?” He didn’t raise his voice, he knew she was close. He could still smell the fresh floral fragrance of her soap. It lingered in the kitchen and wrapped around him like a seductive cloak.

  She didn’t magically materialize like an efficient wish-fulfilment fairy, and his frown deepened as irritation began to replace his initial confusion.

  “Mrs. Cole!” he inserted some volume into his voice. But the added effort garnered no reward. The only sounds in the kitchen were Stormy’s disgusting wet chewing noises and the irritating tick of the yellowwood’s branches against the kitchen window. The weather was miserable as usual, overcast, cold and blustery. But at least it wasn’t raining. Yet.

  “Mrs. Co—”

  “What, for God’s sake?” Her exasperated, agitated voice, more than her bad-tempered question, startled him. And he found himself gaping as the door to the garage was shoved open to reveal a less-than-pristine Charity Cole. She was glaring at him; her hair coming out of its bun, her usually white apron smudged with…Was that grease?

  “What’s going on?” he asked. He pushed to his feet and took a couple of steps toward her, but she hastily positioned herself behind the island. Clearly using it as a physical barrier between them.

  Miles chose not to be offended by that and instead focused on her agitation. He was rather alarmed at the state of her. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have thought twice about the slight disarray, but for his housekeeper this seemed entirely uncharacteristic. He braced his palms on the counter and watched her intently.

  “I was refueling the generator when a-a…” She clenched her fists, and he wondered if she was biting back a few choice curse words. He smothered a grin when she threw back her head dramatically and inhaled deeply before continuing in a fierce, controlled voice, “A spider crawled up my l-leg.”

  She shuddered, and Miles valiantly fought back a chuckle as he watched her swat at her skirt again.

  “Lucky spider.” He shouldn’t have said it. But the thought had popped into his head and out of his mouth without passing through his usual tact filter.

  Her head flew up, and she nailed him with a glare so venomous he was shocked he didn’t simply wither on the spot.

  “Why did you keep calling me? What was so damned urgent it couldn’t wait a few minutes?”

  Well then. It seemed that Mrs. Cole had gone on a short break—probably still cowering from the spider somewhere—and had left this ill-tempered, sarcastic, fascinating creature in her place.

  Charity, he presumed.

  She seemed to recognize the impropriety of her question, and her face shuttered almost immediately as she withdrew back into herself.

  Noooo. He wanted Charity to stick around a little longer.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollingsworth,” she murmured, patting at her hair again. He was starting to loathe that bloody gesture and all that it symbolized. “I’m a bit flustered. I’m not particularly fond of spiders.”

  “That’s fine, I’m sure it must have been a deeply unpleasant experience.”

  “Deeply,” she agreed with a nod, unable to prevent another full body shudder. “What can I do for you?”

  God, talk about a loaded question. He could think of so fucking many things he wanted her to do for him. With him. To him.

  “I was wondering about the egg.”

  She stared at him blankly. She was standing across from him, and the island between them felt like no real barrier at all.

  “The egg?”

  “The boiled egg?”

  “What about it?”

  “I thought I’d made my feelings clear.”

  “I thought you may have been exaggerating to get your point across. So, you really never want boiled eggs again? Ever?”

  “No. I mean, of course I do, but…” Well, this was a bloody absurd conversation. He could think of so many other things he wanted to say to her right now. But here they were, discussing fucking boiled eggs.

  But Miles hadn’t built an empire from scratch by pussyfooting around, and he decided to take the matter in hand, “Are you angry with me?”

  “What?” Her eyes grew as round as saucers.

  “Because of what happened at the pool this morning?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Are you angry because nothing happened then?”

  She looked appalled by that question. “Of course not. Look, Mr. Hollingsworth, I—”

  “Miles.”

  “No.”

  Damn it.

  “I’m sorry for not moving aside.” His apology was quietly sincere. “I fully intended to, and I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t. It wasn’t well done of me at all.”

  Her shoulders lifted and fell on a soft sigh.

  “I wasn’t myself last night,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The nightmare unsettled me and…well…I’m sorry too. You caught me in a moment of vulnerability.”

  “Well, that makes me feel like a bloody predator,” he said, doing nothing to disguise his grimace from her.

  “No, that wasn’t my intention at all. The thing…what happened, it was mutual. I knew you would move if I’d only stood my ground. But I wanted…I needed—”

  Her voice trailed off and looked down and fixed her stare at the counter between them.

  “Charity…” The sound of her name seemed to startle her, and her eyes shot up to meet his. He held her gaze, not wanting her to mistake the meaning of his next words, “I wanted and I needed too. And while I apologize profusely for the circumstances, I cannot apologize for that.”

  She shook her head, her eyes still entangled with his. He watched her slender throat move as she swallowed.

  “Your breakfast is probably cold by now, I’ll fix something else.” Her voice was brisk, her words impersonal, but her eyes were still dark, liquid pools of vulnerability.

  “That’s not necessary. Why don’t you get changed? I’ll have my egg and take Stormy out for a quick walk.”

  And give both of them some much needed breathing room.

  She hesitated—clearly not too happy to leave him eating a cold breakfast. Even though he deserved it for being such a picky bastard.

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Positive,” he reassured her, trying very hard not to look at her mouth when she sucked on the full lower lip uncertainly.

  She nodded and walked away before he could say another word.

  Miles sighed and looked at Stormy, who was waiting at the back door. Her tail wagged when he made eye contact. She was such a bloody good dog, so eager to please. She’d had some unfortunate bathroom accidents these last few days, but they were few and far between. He guessed that growing up on the “street”, so to speak, had toilet trained her to a certain extent.

  Still, he didn’t want to test the puppy’s bladder. He grabbed his egg, peeled it at the sink, and bit it in half as he opened the back door for the pup. He tried not to wince at the rubbery texture of the now cold egg and did his utmost not to gag when the cold, gelatinous yolk filled his mouth. The greasy slide of it down his throat was nearly his undoing, but he persevered with a queasy gulp. Yeah, he was pretty much done wi
th boiled eggs for the foreseeable future.

  He chased the disgusting thing down with a half slice of dry toast before Stormy had even clumsily squatted on the wet grass.

  “Morning!”

  The unexpected sound of the cheerful male voice coming from behind him, startled Miles. Stormy emitted an adorable purr of a sound that he reckoned was supposed to be a growl, but was cute as hell instead of remotely threatening.

  Miles swung around and grinned at the sight of the familiar face peering at him from the other side of the low hedge bordering the back garden.

  “Amos! Good morning, how are you?”

  Because of the inclement weather, he hadn’t seen the gardener since his arrival. The elderly man was clad in green workman’s overalls and was holding a rake in one hand and a pair of garden shears in the other.

  “Can’t complain,” Amos responded with a grin, his white teeth a dramatic contrast to his dark, wizened skin. But, seconds after his initial sanguine response, he proceeded to do exactly that, “This weather—ai ai ai—it’s so bad for my bones. Nothing but rain all day, every day. And the cold, I tell you, my knees don’t like this cold. But at least today my phone says there won’t be rain, just this wind. But I told myself —‘Amos, go trim the hedges while you can’. So here I am.”

  “Do you need any help with the hedges, Amos?” Miles asked, hoping the old man would say “yes”. He needed the exercise and an excuse not to go back into that house and seek out Mrs. Cole.

  Amos, however, looked quite offended by the question.

  “I complain about my old bones, Mr. H, but I never said I can’t do my work.”

  Shit.

  “I know that you can do the work, Amos…I just need something to keep myself busy.”

  “I only have this one pair of shears.”

  Miles wasn’t too certain of the veracity of that statement, but he let it slide. Amos, like the intractable woman inside, clearly did not want him underfoot. It was humbling how much of a nuisance his employees appeared to think he was.

  “Right. I’ll leave you to that then.”

  Amos nodded and threw him a friendly grin before ambling away toward the front of the house. Miles sighed and stared at the closed back door. He supposed he could always re-listen to one of his audiobooks. Or play fucking Candy Crush again. The app that Vicki had jokingly installed on his phone had remained untouched for nearly two years. But in only four days, he had already reached Level 275. He would probably be a lot farther along if not for the infernal in-app purchases, which required a Wi-Fi connection. At least he hadn’t yet succumbed to using his precious, if spotty data, to purchase gold bars for boosters.

  He hoped that by the time the Wi-Fi was restored, he wouldn’t have a bona fide addiction to the game. He didn’t want to wind up spending real money on a frivolous, time wasting app. The thought made him pause and he glowered before digging his phone out from his back pocket and swiping until he reached his sister’s number.

  She answered immediately. “Seriously, Miles, you’re the only person in the world who still makes phone calls. Well, you and Tyler. You’re like old men stuck in young bodies.”

  He chose to ignore that, “How much money have you spent on this Candy Crush game?”

  “What?” The question floated to him on a tiny, incredulous laugh.

  “You heard me.”

  “I did, but it was such a ridiculous question it bore repeating. And because of that, I’m thinking you either, A—really, really miss your beloved baby sister. Or B—you’re bored out of your ever loving mind over there. And judging by your very offensive snort at option A, I’m going to guess that it’s the latter.”

  His sister often portrayed herself as an annoying flake, but she was intelligent and perceptive. He sometimes wished Hugh had more of her smarts and she had more of Hugh’s ambition. Her flower shop was doing well, but with her business acumen she could do so much more. She had point blank refused to work for the family company. Preferring to do her own thing. And Miles respected her for that, even if he wished she were less content with just a tiny corner flower shop in Kensington. But his siblings were the way they were, and Miles loved them regardless.

  “The electricity has been out for four days. And the bridge into town was damaged, and the transformer can’t be fixed until that’s repaired. We’re running on generator power, and Mrs. Cole has banned all non-essential electrical equipment, like the Wi-Fi router and television.”

  “She thinks Wi-Fi is non-essential?” Vicki sounded gratifyingly aghast at that. “That’s positively medieval! You’re the boss, tell her you need Wi-Fi.”

  He felt like a fucking teenager snitching on Mrs. Cole and also a little guilty because he knew that her rules were in their best interests, but cabin fever—combined with tedium—had led to this new low.

  “She’s the boss around here,” he said, shocked by how sulky he sounded. There was a stunned silence on the other end, followed by a hastily stifled giggle.

  “Is big, bad Miles scared of mean, old Mrs. Cole?” she mocked him in an annoying sing-song voice.

  Hell. He was never going to live this down.

  He made a very bad situation about a thousand times worse when he unthinkingly corrected, “She’s not old.”

  This time the pause that followed was loaded and lengthy.

  “She’s not?” Vicki’s eventual question was much too damned nonchalant for his liking, and he made a noncommittal sound.

  He was starting to agree with her on the merits of text messaging. At least then, he’d have time to think before he responded. Ordinarily, he rarely voiced an impulsive word.

  But he hardly recognized himself anymore. Lusting after his employee, speaking out of turn, adopting puppies, changing his breakfast routine…playing bloody match three games on his phone. He didn’t know what was happening to him and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “Vicki, I have to go.”

  “Wait, so how old is Mrs. Cole?”

  “I’ll speak with you again soon.”

  “Miles, tell me…is she like forty? Thirty-five?”

  “Take care.”

  “No. Miles—”

  He disconnected the call with a huge sigh, feeling harassed. His phone beeped, and he gritted his teeth. He should have known she wouldn’t let it go. He lifted the device.

  Thirty? Younger? Seriously? Younger than thirty? She doesn’t look it. Or does she look it? Have you seen Mrs. Cole out of her Mrs. Cole suit? Send pics!!!!

  Her “Mrs. Cole” suit. It was an uncannily apt description. Because he was starting to understand that Charity wore that uniform, that persona, as some kind of disguise. And it made him desperate to know why.

  He tapped out a hasty message to Vicki: Tell Mum I’ll call her on the weekend XOXO

  Miles!!!

  He switched off his phone, ignoring the poop emoji that followed her many exclamation points.

  He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and watched Stormy chase leaves around the yard, while his mind was furiously occupied elsewhere. He glanced at the house and saw the kitchen curtain twitch, as if someone had quickly ducked out of sight when he lifted his head.

  He sighed deeply and was pleased when the inhalation didn’t result in an automatic cough. Despite the cold weather, he was getting stronger and healthier. The fresh air, exercise, and Mrs. Cole’s cooking were working their magic.

  Despite the inconvenience of having his housekeeper inexplicably transform into a goddess, his decision to come here hadn’t been too misguided. He looked at Stormy who mistimed a lunge for a leaf and went tumbling head over paws.

  “And who knows what would have happened to you if I hadn’t been here?” he told the dog, bending a knee to rub her lopsided ears.

  The backdoor opened as he was pushing to his feet.

  “Good news,” Charity called from the doorway. “George says they’re repairing the bridge tomorrow and Thursday. Once that’s done, they’ll send an emergency
team out to fix the transformer on Friday. Hopefully we’ll have power by the weekend.”

  Fantastic. Maybe if he were able to leave the house more often, he would stop fixating on her so much.

  He stared at her gentle, smiling face, his eyes on her full lips and even white teeth. He recalled the long legs hidden beneath that drab skirt and the perky breasts so effectively disguised by that boxy blouse.

  And then he considered the young woman who had hidden herself in the middle of nowhere for three long years. Three years of harsh winters filled with pillaging baboons, wildfires, power outages, floods and isolation. And summers catering to entitled, rich arseholes—yes, he included himself, and definitely Hugh and Vicki in that—not much older or younger than her. With nobody but two elderly men for company.

  He shook his head. Maybe he would stop fixating on this stunning, mysterious woman, once the power and the road were restored.

  But he very much doubted that.

  “Stormy, get back here!” Miles called in an urgent undertone as Stormy darted down the hall with a pair of his briefs in tow. With the road restored, he had managed to get her to the local vet. And since then—thanks to her vaccination shots, a deworming tablet, a healthier diet and regular walks—she had found a new lease on life. And a mischievous streak a mile wide. In fact, it was safe to say, she was hell on four legs.

  The huffing sound she made as she fled through the kitchen and made a beeline for the housekeeper’s quarters definitely sounded like mocking laughter to his ears.

  In the six days since their poolside encounter, Miles and Charity Cole had fallen into a rigid, formal routine. It was not conducive to a relaxing, healing atmosphere, and Miles tried his damnedest to steer clear of her.

  He couldn’t say that avoiding her helped. Not when his every waking moment, and most of his sleeping ones, were filled with recollections of her rising from that pool like a fucking fertility goddess.

  He hadn’t been so perpetually horny and frustrated since his early teens, and it was driving him insane. He had tried to distract himself with other things. Focused on getting fit, training Stormy and—despite Amos’s protestations—hard physical labor like trimming the yellowwood in the back yard and chopping wood for fire.