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

The citizens of Riversend were friendly and never seemed particularly perturbed by the “keep away” vibes Charity deliberately exuded. But they respected her desire for solitude, and Charity appreciated that about them.

Mr. Hollingsworth and George continued to chat amicably, while Charity watched the wet, green scenery slide by. She mentally reviewed her grocery list, eliminating things she knew the local store didn’t stock and considering possible alternatives.

The sound of her name in Mr. Hollingsworth’s mellifluous voice startled her from her thoughts, and she was jerked back to the disagreeable present.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” she said, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

“I asked if you come into town quite often,” he repeated.

“Not often. Once a week for uh...” Her voice petered out, as she considered a reasonably honest substitute to what she had been about to say. “Gym.”

“Gym? There’s a fully equipped gym at the house.”

“Yes. I use that regularly as well, but there are special classes I like to attend on Wednesdays.”

“Like Tae Bo, you mean?”

Tae Bo? Did people even do Tae Bo anymore?

“Something like that,” she murmured.

“My daughter, Nina, is a big fan of that Zumba thing,” George offered conversationally. “She’s tried to get me to go to a couple of classes with her. But I’ve seen it on the TV. Just a lot of jumping and bumping and gyrating, if you ask me.”

“Is that what you do, Mrs. Cole?” Mr. Hollingsworth asked, his deep voice utterly serious. “Jumping and bumping and gyrating?”

Charity pinched her lips between her teeth and refused to reply to the borderline inappropriate question.

Seeming to recognize the impropriety himself, Mr. Hollingsworth’s color heightened. He cleared his throat and diverted his attention to his driver. “How is Nina these days, George?”

Charity very much doubted that Mr. Hollingsworth had ever met Nina Clark, but George talked about his only child often enough that anyone who knew him would be at least loosely familiar with her antics.

A disgruntled frown settled on George’s face, and his jaw tightened.

“Pregnant.” The word was succinct and teeming with fatherly disapproval. “Thirty-two years old and she finds herself pregnant and single. Can you believe that? And she won’t tell me who the father is. But at least I’ll be a granddaddy. The rate she was going, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be one.”

Mr. Hollingsworth made a suitably sympathetic noise, and that was enough to set George off. He ranted about Nina and the mystery man who had gotten her “into trouble,” rhapsodized about his impending grandfatherhood, and updated their employer on the local gossip.

Thankfully that let Charity off the hook again and she relaxed somewhat and dragged out her tablet to adjust and recategorize her shopping list.

When they reached the tiny town, Miles found himself at loose ends. Mrs. Cole clearly didn’t want him to accompany her, that much was evident from the way she leaped from the SUV before George had even brought it to a complete standstill and—her shoulders hunched against the cold wind—proceeded to walk at a brisk pace toward the supermarket.

Miles was left to either jump out and run after her—a humiliating prospect since he wasn’t sure he would catch up with her in his current condition—or explore the town. An equally unappealing thought considering the weather. And since the place literally consisted of one main road lined with shops and a few streets branching off that led to the suburbs, he was pretty sure it would be a very short walk. Not that he had the energy for anything more than that. There was the beach boulevard that, George had informed him earlier, had undergone something of a facelift and rejuvenation thanks to a recent injection of local and foreign investment into the community. But Miles wasn’t certain many of the beachside stores would be open in weather like this.

He was still debating his next move, when George exited the vehicle and opened the sliding door for Miles. His choices were limited to staying in the van with George or wandering around aimlessly. After a brief consideration, he chose the latter and stepped down onto the wet curb.

Fortunately, it had stopped raining, but he nonetheless gratefully accepted the closed, black umbrella that George silently handed him.

“Text if you need me,” George instructed him, and climbed back

into the SUV. Miles watched as his driver lifted a tattered paperback and leaned back to read. Feeling thoroughly dismissed, he looked left and then right, wondering which direction would yield the most interesting results. Foot traffic was relatively light, but there were enough people on the streets giving him curious looks to let him know that this was the kind of small town where strangers were viewed with both interest and suspicion.

He coughed and decided to go in the same direction as Mrs. Cole. He wasn’t following her, but if he happened to see her, he could perhaps accompany her on her shopping excursion. He laughed bitterly at himself. How goddamn pathetic that he had been reduced to following around his housekeeper because he felt so lost and weak. He, a man who commanded his own empire, didn’t know what the fuck his next move was going to be, and he was hoping that finding Mrs. Cole would give him some direction at least.

As he walked, his chest drew tight in the frigid air, and he stopped frequently, both to catch his breath as well as to regain his strength. He was grateful for the umbrella, which he was unashamedly using as a walking stick. He doubted he would get very far without it.

What he had believed would be a short, unchallenging walk, was now becoming a nearly insurmountable distance, and he could hear the familiar, horrible wheeze forming in his chest as he battled to breathe. He staggered a little before righting himself, casting a humiliated look around to be sure no one had seen him. Thankfully, everybody seemed preoccupied with their own concerns and, while curious at first, most of the townspeople were now ignoring him.

He leaned on the umbrella and was about to admit defeat and reach for his phone to call George—who was parked just three hundred yards away—when he spotted an A-frame advertising chalkboard ahead. Parked beneath an awning to protect it from the rain, the board sported blue, green, and red chalk curlicued writing to advertise the day’s specials. He had been so focused on his colossal struggle to breathe and walk at the same time that he hadn’t noticed the restaurant at all.