The Best Next Thing ((Un)Professionally Yours 1)

She didn’t respond, merely kept her gaze level, and her face impassive. He raked his incredulous glance up and down her body, and she strove not to cringe beneath that scorching appraisal.

“Perhaps a sandwich, sir? I’m sorry, my refrigerator is on the fritz and the electrician hasn’t been in to fix it yet, and I’ve been keeping my groceries here for the time being. I’ll remove everything as soon as possible, of course.”

Miles was having a hard time reconciling the barefoot goddess in front of him with the prim, practical Mrs. Cole, whom—for some reason—he had always assumed was closer to fifty than thirty. Yet this woman standing in front of him in those tiny shorts didn’t look much older than thirty. But her slightly aloof demeanor, her voice, the absolute professionalism, despite the way she was dressed, were hallmark Mrs. Cole.

This was…bizarre.

Miles would move heaven and earth to secure an accomplished employee like Mrs. Cole, confident in the knowledge that once she was working for him, he wouldn’t have to do anything more than check in on her occasionally. That’s the beauty of hiring the best.

Mrs. Cole ran the house efficiently from behind the scenes, employing cleaning and catering services as needed, and communicating through texts and emails whenever she could. All while keeping herself determinedly invisible. She was like a phantom—the legendary Mrs. Cole who appeared only when needed and disappeared into the woodwork when her task was complete.

It was easy to understand how he had not noticed this striking woman before. And yet, the transformation was still mind-boggling. How could the difference in dress and hair be so profound that it felt like he was looking at a completely different woman? In fact, Miles doubted even Vicki or Hugh—both usually a hell of a lot more observant than Miles when it came to people—had any idea what she really looked like.

She was still talking about the refrigerator and he forced himself to focus on what she was saying.

“I don’t give a damn where you keep your groceries, Mrs. Cole,” he said, forcing the incredulity out of his voice. If she could maintain her professionalism under these awkward circumstances, then so could he. “Just make sure I’m fed on time, the house is clean, and I remain undisturbed. That’s all I require.”

“Will anybody be joining you, sir?”

“No.”

“And might I inquire as to how long you’ll be staying?”

“Six weeks at the very least.” He sensed her surprise even though her expression remained stuck in neutral. He had never stayed here for longer than a week or ten days. His siblings and their friends usually stayed longer but the siren song of work always called him back sooner rather than later.

“And yes, I’d like a sandwich.”

“Very well, sir.” So much aplomb in that crisp voice. “Would you like me to bring it up to your room?”

“I think that would be best.” He gave her another frowning once-over, before shaking his head, annoyed with her for being so disturbingly different. He trusted that she’d go back to her normal self by morning so that he could attempt to dismiss tonight as exhaustion playing tricks on his mind.

He left without a backward glance, and Charity heaved a relieved sigh. She dashed into her room to scrape her long hair back into a bun and drag on a skirt. She didn’t allow herself to speculate over what he must have thought about her sloppy appearance, and definitely didn’t allow herself to dwell over the heat she’d seen smoldering in his steel gray eyes while he had been dragging his gaze over her face and body.

He hadn’t recognized her, that much was clear and having him see her like that, without her usual protective shell in place, had left her feeling raw and defensive.

Just get through tonight, she urged herself, heading back to the kitchen to quickly assemble a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. She added a side salad and a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows—his favorite nighttime drink—and placed everything onto a breakfast tray. She took a moment to compose herself, allowing tranquility to blanket her shattered nerves. After another deep breath, she felt centered enough to calmly w

alk the long, dimly lit corridor to his suite of rooms.

There was no response to her initial knock on his bedroom door. After another perfunctory knock, she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was illuminated by the bedside lamp, which shed only enough light for her to see that Mr. Hollingsworth was sprawled out and fast asleep in the center of his luxurious king-sized bed. She tried not to wince at the sight of the stripped-down bed, reminding herself that nobody had notified her of his imminent arrival. Impossible to be effective if she wasn’t kept appraised of the family’s intentions.

She stared at her employer for a moment, wondering if it was best to let him sleep, but he was still wearing that hopelessly wrinkled gray pinstriped suit—and he had requested this sandwich. Charity had worked for him long enough to know that he would be displeased if she didn’t follow his instructions to the letter. He was an exacting, cold man who had no time for, or patience with, bad service.

She set the tray on the bedside table and cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Mr. Hollingsworth, I brought your sandwich,” she said. Nothing. Not even the flutter of an eyelid. Crap. She raised her voice, “Mr. Hollingsworth. Your sandwich.”

Still nothing. She closed her eyes and inhaled nervously. She was going to have to touch him. She wiped her suddenly clammy palms on her skirt and swallowed back the bile that had risen in her throat. This wasn’t ideal. She should leave. Maybe he’d wake up on his own.

“Mr. Hollingsworth!” She practically shouted in a last-ditch desperate attempt to avoid touching him. That did the trick. He leaped out of the bed like it was on fire and stood staring at her with wide eyes, his chest heaving as he assessed the situation, searching for the threat. When he realized that there was none and registered her presence, he stood upright and glared at her.

Charity tried her best to appear unfazed even though his violent reaction had nearly sent her rabbiting out of the room like the coward she was. She held her hands clasped in front of her in an effort to hide their trembling from him.

“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.