The Best Next Thing

by Natasha Anders

  “Mrs. Cole? What the fuck? Christ, you had me thinking the house was on fire!” She had never seen the usually unflappable Miles H. Hollingsworth look so completely pissed off before, and she couldn’t help taking a step back, preparing to flee if the need arose. Her breathing shallowed, and she tried to quell her instinctive fight or flight response, not sure if his reaction would worsen.

  He raked his hands through his hair, furrowing it into messy peaks, and after another deep breath, his anger visibly dissipated, leaving him looking even more exhausted. Charity allowed herself to relax and took a step forward again.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought you’d want me to wake you for the sandwich.” She gestured toward the tray, and his piercing gaze followed the vague movement of her hand.

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Cole. That will be all.”

  Resisting the usual urge to curtsy in the face of all that British reserve, Charity nodded before asking, “What time would you like breakfast served in the morning, sir?”

  “I doubt I’ll surface before noon. Prepare something light at one.”

  “Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.” She backed out of the room but kept her eyes deferentially downcast while remaining acutely aware of his penetrating, unflinching gaze as she retreated.

  She escaped the room with a relieved gasp and leaned back against the door for a moment as she gathered herself. She took a few, wobbly steps toward the kitchen but paused, swore beneath her breath, and nearly kicked herself as she remembered the bed. She couldn’t, in good conscience, leave him to sleep on an unmade bed.

  Five minutes later, she was knocking on his door, hating the fact that she was disturbing him again, but she took too much pride in her job not to.

  “Come.” There was no hesitation in the familiar command. Not for the first time, Charity shocked and amused herself by picturing him using the exact same word and intonation in bed with one of his lovers as he commanded her to climax.

  Somehow, she couldn’t picture Miles Hollingsworth as a passionate, hot-blooded lover who lost himself in the act of sex. Instead, she envisioned him as a cold automaton barking orders at the woman beneath him while he heaved away methodically inside of her. The thought sent a shudder of revulsion and fear down her spine, and her amusement faded almost instantly.

  She let herself into the room and blushed like a schoolgirl when she saw that he had divested himself of his shirt, shoes, and socks in the last five minutes. He was seated on the edge of his bed, with half a sandwich in one hand and the mug of hot chocolate in the other.

  Whoa! Mr. Hollingsworth might have lost too much weight since she’d seen him last, but he still had an impressive chest. Wide shoulders with well-defined pecs lightly dusted with downy looking dark hair that tapered down a pretty decent six-pack toward the waistband of his trousers…

  She jerked her eyes to his face, which was wearing one of his trademark frowns.

  “I brought fresh towels and clean bedding. I’ll just…”

  “Leave it.”

  “But…”

  “Leave it, Mrs. Cole,” he repeated, the words ripe with irritation. “I’m knackered, I don’t want to sit around waiting for you to get those military corners just right. All I need is the duvet and a pillowcase. You can take care of the rest tomorrow. Towels in the bathroom, if you please, and then leave me alone.”

  Butthole. Charity fought to keep her annoyance out of her expression. She nodded and carefully placed the linen at the foot of the bed, before making her way to the attached bathroom. She neatly placed the towels on their racks, replaced the toilet paper, and put his favorite soap, shampoo, and conditioner in the shower.

  When she returned to the bedroom, it was to witness him polishing off the last of the sandwich and washing it down with the hot chocolate.

  He noticed her hovering and jerked his head toward the tray. “You might as well remove this.”

  He had barely touched the salad, and she bit the inside of her cheek to refrain from commenting. He had clearly been ill but hadn’t eaten the healthiest thing on the tray. It wasn’t her place to say anything. Instead, she gathered up the tray and once again bade him goodnight.

  “Mrs. Cole.” His voice halted her retreat right at the door, and she lifted her eyes to meet his cool, gray gaze. “No more interruptions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After she left his room, she fled to the kitchen. It was her haven, and she felt safe and in control here. She picked up a pen and some paper and sat down to make a list of everything she needed to get done in order to take the house out of snooze mode and get it one-hundred-percent operational again.

  She always did the cooking, and while she had cleaning staff in once every fortnight when the Hollingsworth family wasn’t in residence—preferring to do most of the light cleaning herself—she would have to arrange for them to come in at least twice a week with Mr. Hollingsworth there.

  She made a mental note to text Amos later to let him know the boss was back. The elderly man usually joined her for breakfast a couple of times a week when the Hollingsworth family wasn’t in residence, and she wasn’t sure what the straitlaced Mr. Hollingsworth would think if the gardener showed up at the kitchen door in the morning expecting breakfast.

  She usually ordered massive amounts of food online when she knew the family was coming on holiday, and she liked to have their menus planned—first day to last—weeks ahead of time. But she would have to “wing it” this time. God, how she hated spontaneity when it came to her job. She liked to know exactly what she needed to do and by when it had to be done. This upheaval would probably require a physical shopping trip to Knysna—the closest big town—because delivery for online orders tended to take longer. The prospect of going to town had her stomach in knots. She hated leaving. Hated being out in public. She always felt at risk…

  And visible.

  She even did her clothing and cosmetic shopping online. Books, movies, music, all the things she needed were delivered right to her doorstep or straight to her tablet. She enjoyed the isolation—venturing out to the closest town once a week—and liked having only a few trusted people in her life. It kept things uncomplicated.

  Safe.

  Charity prided herself in anticipating what Mr. Hollingsworth and his family would need before they even realized it themselves, and she knew him well enough by now to predict what food he would want and what personal toiletries he would require—she even knew what brand of condom he favored. It was her job to make his stay pleasant and stress free and, as he had been ill, it was more imperative than ever to ensure this particular visit was smooth and problem free.

  She put down the pen and rolled her neck, trying to keep her growing headache at bay. No point in even attempting to get any more sleep tonight. There was way too much to do.

  The thundering rain woke him.

  Miles opened his eyes and was momentarily confused by his gloomy surroundings. His body clock told him it was later than it appeared and a glance at the bedside clock confirmed that it was nearly eleven in the morning. It felt earlier because of the miserable weather. He sat up and disentangled himself from the bunched-up duvet, a silent testament to his restless sleep.

  He made his way over to the glass doors that led into his private corner of the extensive garden. A glance out confirmed it was coming down in sheets. And an ominous roll of thunder in the distance told him that the weather would last for a while. The verdant garden was a dramatic counterpoint to the grim weather. But that was the beauty of the Garden Route; because of the rain it was usually lush and green in winter. Rain had been scarce over the last few years, but from what he had heard, this winter had seen welcome relief from the drought.

  He turned away from the view and went to the spacious walk-in closet. He was gratified to note that his closet was stocked with clothes from his last stay as he didn’t feel like rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear. Mrs. Cole would undoubtedly unpack everything for him later. He gr
abbed some stuff, tossed it onto the rumpled bed, and went to the bathroom. He needed a long, hot shower to clear the remaining cobwebs from his head.

  He was so tired, a bone-grinding weariness that made it hard for him to focus on anything for too long. It was that, in addition to his mother’s and sister’s insistence, which had made him agree to this enforced rest. He couldn’t do his job effectively without focus. He had nearly lost millions of pounds on a bad investment a couple of weeks ago. It had been an appalling error in judgment, something that would never have happened had he been his normal self.

  As he stood beneath the pulsating spray of the shower, he contemplated the sobering reality that—thanks to his bloody stupidity and stubbornness—his life had nearly been snuffed out by a microscopic bug. He inhaled deeply and coughed when he held the aromatic steam of the shower in his damaged lungs for a beat too long.

  Damn it.

  The doctors had warned him not to rush his recovery. They hadn’t been happy to hear he intended to leave the country and even less happy to learn that he was headed to a cold, damp climate.

  Not heeding their advice had landed him in this mess in the first place. He had been so obstinate, so sure he knew his limits better than his healthcare providers. He should probably have learned from his previous mistake and stayed home…or gone someplace warmer. But he liked this place, and because of Mrs. Cole, he knew that he’d be comfortable and allowed to recuperate in peace.

  Mrs. Cole with her shapely, mile long legs and that ridiculous length of hair. With her velvety looking skin and her—

  Fuck!

  He glanced wryly down at his eager—and entirely inappropriate—erection and grimaced. This was crazy. And definitely not what he had in mind for his stay here.

  He shook his head, impatient with himself for dwelling over a moment that he sincerely hoped would not recur. He was here to get healthy and strong in both body and mind. And that meant Mrs. Cole needed to remain the unobtrusive and efficient employee she had always been. Someone he knew he could rely on to always get the job done.

  By the time he made his way to the kitchen, Mrs. Cole—who always seemed to have an eerie precognitive awareness of his movements—already had his brunch waiting in the solarium. She was nowhere to be seen but his boiled egg, toast, and coffee were all warm. Which meant she must have laid it out moments before. He allowed himself a final—he hoped—moment of speculation about her unexpected youth and attractiveness, before pushing the errant thought aside. Mrs. Cole and her peculiarities were not his business. As long as she maintained her efficiency and tact, he would set last night’s revelations aside.

  He picked up the ironed newspaper and went straight to the business section, before thinking the better of it and putting the entire paper aside. He considered the egg for a few moments and, for the first time in more years than he cared to recall, he wanted something else for breakfast.

  A creature of habit, Miles had a soft-boiled egg with whole wheat toast, coffee, and orange juice for breakfast every day since he was twenty. It was a perfectly adequate meal, and he did not see the point of having anything different. But today it held no appeal. He frowned down at his plate and looked up, wondering if Mrs. Cole’s ESP would kick in, and she’d pop out of the woodwork with something more appetizing in hand.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  He shook his head, amused by his nonsensical flash of whimsy, and picked up his spoon. He held it poised above the shell, before swearing and pushing himself away from the table. He rarely entered the kitchen but—for the second time in less than twelve hours—he found himself back in Mrs. Cole’s domain. The large, expensively equipped, homey room was scrupulously tidy and disappointingly empty.

  “Mrs. Cole?” His voice was low and could barely be heard above the raging wind and lashing rain yet, despite that, she drifted into the kitchen by way of the pantry. Her hair was parted and pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. As usual she wore no makeup, but today Miles could appreciate the flawless, smooth skin of her face, which gave her such an ageless quality.

  She wore her usual uniform of a knee-length black circle skirt, combined with a black cardigan buttoned over a white blouse, with the sharp points of the prim lace collar folded over the top of the cardigan’s round neck. Thick, opaque black tights and sensible lace-up black brogues completed the horrendous ensemble.

  Clothes fit for a nun.

  But where before he had found it easy to ignore the disturbing, dark depths of those haunting eyes, the long, thick lashes, the lush fullness of her heart-shaped mouth, he was finding it difficult to dismiss that intriguing loveliness that morning. Despite the matronly outfit, her beauty was distinct and unmistakable. And he remained astounded that it had not truly registered with him before now. However, her obvious reserve was enough to keep anyone at bay.

  And he was grateful for that.

  His eyes drifted down to the wedding band on her left hand—he vaguely recalled Jim, his attorney, mentioning that she was divorced. Or was that widowed? He couldn’t recall, but for the first time Miles wondered what had happened to the ex/late Mr. Cole.

  “Did you need something, Mr. Hollingsworth?” Her tone was as frigid as the winter storm pummeling the house, and he fought back the unusual urge to grin. She clearly didn’t like having her territory invaded.

  “Yes. Pancakes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want pancakes. Not what you’ve given me.” Even to his own ears he sounded petulant but, goddamnit, if he never saw another boiled egg in his life it’d be too soon. He didn’t understand this sudden desire for change—maybe it had something to do with nearly dying. This was the kind of thing people usually experienced after a brush with death, wasn’t it?

  She gaped for a few seconds before she could disguise her reaction.

  “Of course, I’ll have that ready for you in a few minutes.” She started to turn away from him, but when he sat down on one of the bar stools beside the marble-topped central island, his action was enough to stop her in her tracks. She turned her head to pin him with her unnerving gaze, for a second, before angling her body back toward his.

  She folded her hands primly at waist level and pursed her lips.

  “I’ll bring your pancakes to the solarium,” she told him with pointed emphasis. “Would you like bacon with it?”

  “Bacon. Yes.” He nodded and very nearly complied with her implicit command before stopping himself. “I don’t mind waiting here. In fact, I think I’ll eat here in the mornings. Mealtimes needn’t be extravagant affairs. Not when I’m the only one here.”

  “But…” For a moment she looked set to argue, and he braced himself in anticipation. But she hesitated, and he could see her mind ticking over before she nodded curtly. “As you wish, sir.”

  Miles was disappointed that she had backed down. He had been looking forward to sparring with her. He eyed the straight line of her spine as she started on the batter for his pancakes and wondered at his sudden bizarre urge to pick an argument with her. He curbed the immediate impulse to goad her but it was still there…just a breath away.

  Fortunately, George chose that moment to interrupt. The man came stomping into the kitchen by way of the back door. He had a raincoat thrown over his upper body and brought the noise and cold of the storm in with him.

  “Cats and dogs out there, Mrs. Cole,” he said jovially, as he swung the coat from his shoulders. “Are you sure you want to head out in this mess?”

  “Head out to where?” Miles asked, and George’s head jerked at the sound of his voice.

  “Aah, good afternoon, sir. I didn’t see you.” The man looked confused to find him sitting there, and Miles was annoyed that everyone seemed so flustered by his presence in the kitchen. It was his house, wasn’t it?

  “Head out to where?” Miles disliked repeating himself, but since George was still gaping at him, he clearly needed the prompt.

  “To town. For
supplies,” Mrs. Cole replied for George, calmly stirring pancake batter.

  “Supplies?” Miles was momentarily confused by that statement. Why would she need supplies? He was the only one here. He didn’t need an army’s worth of food. “We don’t need supplies. I’ll eat what you eat.”

  Mrs. Cole coughed and deliberately diverted her eyes to the pancake batter. Miles felt his face go hot, and he frowned. He wasn’t used to being put in his place with a look. That was usually his go-to move.

  “After the, uh…pancakes,” he said, the words sounding lame and unconvincing even to his own ears.

  “My groceries are low, sir. I’m afraid they wouldn’t last a week if I were to feed you as well.” The emphasis on the possessive pronoun was clearly there to serve as a reminder that the food in the house had been bought with her own money, for her personal consumption, and his face went even hotter.

  He forced the chagrin aside and nodded coolly.

  “Yes, of course. It was a thoughtless suggestion.” It pained him to admit as much.

  “I usually have the pantry stocked in advance when I know you’re coming.” Another jab. Mrs. Cole disliked being surprised.

  Got it.

  “Fortunately for me, you’re adaptable,” he said, with a grim smile. “It comforts me to know that I can show up at any time of my choosing and depend on you to have this place up and running in no time at all.”

  Translation: My house. I can damned well come here whenever the hell I like.

  She injected a fair amount of frost into the smile she sent his way—message received—good to know they understood each other.

  “Of course, sir. As soon as I have the supplies, everything will be in order.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, George, then I won’t have to repeat myself.” Miles diverted his attention to the older man, who had been watching his frigid exchange with Mrs. Cole with interest. “My stay this time will be somewhat different. I have been…ill, and I’m here to recuperate. I won’t be leaving the house much, and as such I won’t be requiring your services too often. That said, I would prefer you remain accessible for the duration of my time here. Clear?”