The Best Next Thing

by Natasha Anders

  She wiped her hands on a tea towel and shifted her body so that she could keep an eye on the skillet and converse with him.

  “No,” she replied, giving the eggs a stir. “But considering the nature of my job, I thought it was appropriate to dress the part.”

  He supposed that made sense. He didn’t like it, but he knew saying as much would probably not be very well-received. He couldn’t dictate what she wore, it was up to her to decide when she wanted to relinquish her armor.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t give her his opinion on her choice in garb though. “Great. As long as I wasn’t the one who unconsciously approved some draconian rule that dictated you had to dress like a seventeenth century governess.”

  She made a choking sound, and her eyebrows shot to her hairline.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “No, it’s worse. More like a workhouse schoolmarm.”

  She couldn’t maintain her outrage, and a giggle escaped at those words.

  “What did you do before your marriage?” He didn’t know where the question came from, but he instantly regretted it when it wiped the smile from her face.

  “Not workhouse schoolmarming, that’s for sure,” she said, in a weak attempt at levity, and he forced a smile. She cleared her throat and removed the eggs from the stove and scraped them onto two plates. She set the plates aside and opened the oven to retrieve the bacon.

  Miles didn’t push her for an answer, instead, he got up and poured a couple of mugs of coffee. He was happily surprised when she transported both plates to the banquette and placed them on the table. This would be the first time since his arrival that she joined him for breakfast.

  She added a bowl of mushrooms and a plate of grilled tomatoes to the table and sat down.

  “How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

  “Black, one sugar.”

  He joined her at the table and grinned when he saw the spread she had laid out. “This looks amazing.”

  “I’ve been wondering what triggered your sudden aversion toward boiled eggs.”

  “I’ve had the same thing for breakfast for fourteen years,” he muttered, spearing his fork into the fluffy eggs. “I didn’t see the point in having anything different. I’m a creature of habit. Some would call me boring, I suppose.”

  “Some?” she repeated. “Like who?”

  “Vicki has called me stuffy a few times. Hugh has accused me of lacking imagination. One of my…uh, intimate acquaintances flat out told me the sex was great, but the conversation abysmal. Those are all fair comments.”

  “No, they’re not.” He quite enjoyed how affronted she appeared on his behalf. “They’re totally wrong. Well, in Vicki’s case, you’re her big brother, you raised her, I’m afraid being called stuffy comes with the territory. And why would Hugh accuse you of lacking imagination when you love fantasy novels so much? It seems like a complete contradiction.”

  “Well, nobody else actually knows about the fantasy novels. They all think I’m listening to economic podcasts. I’ve never seen fit to correct them.”

  “That’s a big chunk of yourself to withhold from your family, Miles.”

  “It’s personal,” he felt compelled to defend himself.

  “It’s your family.” Considering the huge secrets she was keeping from her family, she should be the last to criticize. She seemed to grasp the innate hypocrisy of her words at the same time he did and went bright red before continuing. “And as for that intimate acquaintance…wait, you mean lover, right? Why would you call her a mere acquaintance?”

  “The word lover implies more than just sex, it indicates a depth of feeling that has never been present in my interactions with my sexual partners.”

  She stared at him silently for a long, awkward moment, and he nearly gave in to the urge to tell her that she would be different. Not a mere acquaintance but so much more than that.

  Fortunately, she spoke before he could say something truly cringeworthy. “Well, this acquaintance sounds like a dumbass.”

  “She holds a doctorate in nuclear physics,” he said, keeping his voice grave, even though he felt like grinning like an idiot at her vehement defense of him.

  “Nuclear physics? Okay, a brainy dumbass then. I may not be a nuclear physicist or anything, so maybe it won’t mean much, but I don’t find your conversation abysmal at all. I think you’re a very interesting man.”

  He coughed to cover up a chuckle and stared hard at his plate, before nodding gravely. “It means a hell of a lot, thank you. Anyway, as I was saying…I’m a creature of habit. I don’t have a very adventurous palate. I know what I like, so I stick with it. No chance of disappointment that way. I take very few personal risks. And even less risks in business.

  “I think that’s why Hugh accused me of lacking imagination. He’s been pushing me to make riskier moves, gamble as it were. But I hate making reckless decisions with my business. Yes, taking a gamble can pay off in spades. But we don’t have to take stupid risks, we’re doing fine. I dislike the notion of failure, of losing money. That’s not how I’m made. My acquisitions may be boring and safe…but they keep my company in the black. If something works for me, I stick with it.”

  “If that’s the case, why the sudden change in diet?”

  He shoveled down another forkful of eggs and washed it down with coffee.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted ruefully. “I looked at my breakfast that day and decided that I wanted something different. I’ve considered the fact that it may be because of the near-death thing.”

  “Could all of this be because of the near-death thing?” The question disconcerted him and he stared at her troubled expression for a long moment as he tried to figure out exactly what she meant by it.

  “All of what?”

  “Stormy. Your sudden interest in me. It all seems uncharacteristic.”

  “Charity, you know as much about my character as I do about yours. Which is to say, not much.”

  Charity considered that gentle rebuke and assessed the unperturbed expression on that very attractive face.

  “I fell for Stormy the second I saw her standing in that doorway. Bedraggled, wet, shivering and so terrified.”

  Charity watched him slant an affectionate look at his napping dog. The question that popped out of her mouth next came from nowhere and shocked the ever-loving hell out of her. “And me?”

  But he didn’t miss a beat. He diverted that affectionate look to her, and his lips parted in a soft smile. “You? I haven’t fallen for you…yet.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to that. What the hell did one say to something like that anyway?

  He didn’t seem to expect a response, instead he continued, “But like I told you before, you intrigue the hell out of me, Charity. On so very many levels.”

  She chose not to respond to that and waved her fork at his plate. “Eat your food, it’s getting cold.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The rest of the meal passed without further awkwardness and afterward, Miles attempted to help her clean up.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing?” Charity snapped in exasperation when she walked into him a third time. He kept getting underfoot.

  “Trying to help,” he muttered, looking sheepish.

  “This again,” she muttered beneath her breath. Doing her utmost not to roll her eyes. “Are you getting paid to do this?” Her pointed question made him wince but he didn’t reply. “Well, I am. And I have a system. If you want to help, take your dog for a walk and leave me to do this.”

  “It’s pouring,” he pointed out sullenly, and she glanced out the window to confirm. It was a hard drizzle at best, but since the man was recovering from an illness, he probably shouldn’t be out in it.

  “Okay, fine. Sit over there and just…stay out of the way.” She pointed toward the banquette, and he slanted her a grin.

  “Oh no, not the naughty corner, Mrs. Cole! I promise to be a good boy from now on.”

&nbs
p; The words startled a laugh from her. “Okay, I suppose I sounded a little like that workhouse schoolmarm just then.”

  “A tad,” he agreed, pouring the dregs of coffee from the machine before doing as he was told and taking a seat at the banquette. He dug his phone out of his jeans pocket and started tapping away.

  Charity left him to it and continued with her work. It was surprisingly companionable, having him sit there while she went about her chores, and Charity found herself watching him often while she rinsed dishes for stacking in the dishwasher. His hair was a mess, he had once again neglected to shave, and his expensive polo shirt had a ketchup stain on the chest.

  He looked sexily mussed, and she found it so appealing.

  “Hey, George.” Her head whipped up at the sound of his voice, and for a second, she was confused, and glanced around the kitchen for George. But she soon realized that Miles was on the phone with the man. “I need a ride into town. Are you available? Yeah? Around three. Thank you, see you then.”

  He disconnected the call and went back to texting.

  Curious and frustrated when he didn’t seen fit to immediately tell her what the call was about, Charity couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Where are you off to?”

  “Hmm?” He looked up absently, and his eyes cleared when he registered the question. “Oh. I thought I’d look into that puppy socialization class Brand spoke of yesterday. The vet has an app that allows you to reserve a slot.”

  “Why call George? You’re capable of driving a short distance like that yourself.”

  He looked abashed, and when he spoke, the words were almost reluctantly conceded. “I pay George a retainer, but he earns something extra every time he has to drive us somewhere when we’re on vacation. And I figured with a grandchild on the way…”

  He shrugged, allowing her to fill in the rest herself.

  “Oh.” Her heart turned to mush. How incredibly sweet. “That’s so nice of you.”

  The tips of his ears turned pink, and he lifted his shoulders in a small awkward movement.

  “It’s a small thing. And George is a good guy.” His voice was gruff, and he refused to meet her eyes.

  “You’re the good guy,” she whispered, still astonished that she had she not recognized that fact before now. How had she always assumed that this gentle, considerate, kind man was cold and unlikable?

  She was once again struck by the differences between him and Blaine. Her dead husband had lauded his good deeds over the rest of the world. He had frequently managed to casually drop his latest act of charity into random conversation and then feigned humility when people sang his praises.

  Oh, it was nothing. I don’t seek acclaim for doing the Lord’s work.

  Ugh.

  Miles sought no such accolades, he was inherently kind. He cared about his family, those who worked for him or depended on him and he expected nothing in return. In fact, he seemed downright embarrassed that he had even mentioned it to her.

  “I think I’ll come to town with you, I haven’t been to my self-defense class in a while and they have a session this afternoon.”

  “Sounds good.” He graced her with a smile, and she went back to loading the dishwasher, wondering why the hell she felt so excited at the prospect of just being in the same vehicle with him. It wasn’t like they would be spending the afternoon together or anything.

  Charity was enjoying her sparring session with Greyson Chapman. When she had first started this class, the mere thought of allowing a man to lay hands on her with anything resembling violent intentions had been terrifying. But Sam Brand had been so professional and impersonal, and so obviously in control of his every action, that it hadn’t taken long for her to relax in his presence.

  It had soon become apparent that the handling and grabbing and pushing were very different from anything she had experienced with Blaine. Brand had no intention of hurting her, there was no extreme emotion attached to his movements. He felt no malice, or love, or hatred toward her. All he wanted to do was instruct her. And to instruct her, he had to touch her in ways that she had initially found uncomfortable.

  He was an observant man and she knew that he, and possibly Greyson, were probably more aware of her background than she was comfortable with. But neither man had ever said a thing about it to her. Instead, they continued to train her to the best of their abilities. They tailor-made each woman’s training exercises to her fitness level and what she hoped to achieve. Charity hadn’t been very forthcoming about her goals other than stating a need to “feel safe,” and Brand had focused a great deal of her instruction on deflecting punches and wrestling her way out from beneath an opponent. And once she had mastered those, he had started teaching her how to fight back. But they didn’t only concentrate on the physical in these sessions—they had helped rebuild her mental, as well as emotional strength and had boosted her self-confidence and self-belief. And somewhere along the line that fear of being around these big, muscular men had faded.

  She did not feel as comfortable around them as she now did with Miles, but she wasn’t afraid of them. They had helped her find an inner strength she had forgotten she possessed, and she valued these classes because of that.

  Greyson swung at her, and she deftly sidestepped his punch and used his own momentum against him, utilizing her speed and smaller size to duck beneath his arm and flip him over her shoulder. He wound up on his back, her knee on his chest, and his arm twisted in her grip.

  There was a smattering of cheers and applause at the move, and Greyson writhed for a moment before swearing. “Shit!”

  He thumped the mat with his free hand, and she grinned and released her grip on his arm, offering her hand in assistance instead. He gave her a rueful glower and took her hand, before leaping nimbly to his feet.

  “You had to toss me on my butt for my wife and daughter to see, didn’t you? Not cool, Cole!”

  She wrinkled her nose ruefully and tossed him a towel.

  “Sorry about that, but you taught me to exploit all weaknesses. It’s not my fault you were showing off because you knew Olivia was watching.” She glanced over at the mommy and baby yoga group on the community center stage, and sure enough, Greyson’s tall, stunning wife—baby in arms—appeared to be laughing at her husband’s ignominious defeat. The woman spotted Charity watching and waved at her.

  Charity didn’t know Olivia Chapman very well. She had seen her in passing a few times and had had an awkward introductory chat with her one Sunday afternoon when she had run into the couple on the Boulevard. Greyson’s wife was the head chef at the recently revamped eatery in town. This was the first time Charity had seen her at the Wednesday baby yoga class. She remembered Greyson mentioning that they usually came to the Monday morning sessions.

  She returned the woman’s smile uncertainly and went back to dabbing the perspiration off her brow and neck. Greyson excused himself and jogged lithely over to the stage to have a chat with his wife. Charity watched as the woman handed their daughter to him and gracefully dismounted the stage to give her husband a laughing hug and kiss. Greyson put the toddler down and kept an indulgent eye on her while she tottered from person to person for high fives.

  Feeling an unexpected pang of envy at their intimate family moment, Charity swept her gaze around the busy community center. Their training hour was nearly up, and Sam was wrapping up some basics with the beginners, a motley mix of teens and elderly ladies. The senior knitting group was gathered in a gossipy semi-circle, busily knitting squares for a quilt that would be raffled off at the upcoming winter cheese festival. It would be the very first time Riversend hosted the popular event and everybody was excited and determined to keep the lucrative annual festival in their town.

  Sam often joined the knitters for a gossip. He really loved those old girls, shamelessly flirting with them and teasing them. It was one of the first things that had made her relax around him, how kind he was to those sweet ladies.

  Her eyes continued her scan of the r
oom. Because the schools had just closed for their mid-winter break, the community center was more crowded than usual. A group of teens was gathered in the furthest corner of the large space. They didn’t appear to have any kind of adult supervision…and all they were currently doing was being rowdy and talking over one another.

  Charity watched as one of the girls, smaller than the rest, tried to get them organized. She knew the girl was related to the McGregors in some way, but because Charity kept herself separate from everyone else, she hadn’t gotten the specifics of that relationship. The girl was pretty and looked around seventeen, curly hair, golden brown skin, and very petite. She was waving her arms frantically but no one was paying any attention to her.

  Charity slung her towel around her neck and made her way to the group. Uncharacteristically curious to find out what was happening.

  “Hi, Mz. Cole,” one of the kids called as she got closer, and Charity nearly stumbled. Okay, so even the teens knew her name in this town. She couldn’t recall ever speaking to a single kid during her entire time here, so having an adolescent casually greet her as if he saw her every day was disconcerting to say the least.

  That greeting was followed by several others, and Charity nodded awkwardly in return. “Hey guys, what are you up to?”

  “We’re trying to choreograph a dance for the cheese festival,” the girl, who had so futilely been attempting to get them organized, stated. Small for her age, freckled, with that curly mop of hair and wearing oversized dungarees, she was pretty darned cute. She had green eyes that were a striking contrast against her dewy brown skin.

  “Only we don’t know what we’re doing,” one of the boys piped up.

  “I know what we’re doing, Jason,” the girl retorted. “You guys just won’t listen.”

  “I say we do hip hop,” one of the other young men said with a wicked grin, before grabbing his trousers at the crotch and wriggling his hips. Charity wasn’t sure if his intention was to be sexy or lewd, but she thought he looked like a little boy who desperately needed the restroom. The rest of the boys laughed and the girls looked completely grossed out. “Whaddya think, Charlie?”