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

He wasn’t hungry after that delicious brunch, but a cup of coffee while he caught his breath would be most welcome. It took more strength and willpower than he would ever admit to anyone, but he made it to the restaurant, which was open and teeming with customers

A smiling young man welcomed him, led him to a table right beside the window and handed him a menu and a wine list, before assuring him that his waitress would be with him shortly.

He sat down with an appreciative sigh, pretty certain his wobbly legs wouldn’t hold up much longer and glumly contemplated the menu as he considered his appalling weakness. He had possibly been precipitous in inviting himself along this morning. He had always been the kind of man to run instead of walk but this fucking illness had humbled him and—while he would never admit it to anyone—it had terrified him as well.

He inhaled deeply, grimacing at the twinge in his chest and let out the breath with a slight cough. Just a huff but it still irritated him. He was ready to get back to normal, but normal seemed a long way off.

He barely had time to register the contents of the menu, when a middle-aged waitress, with neatly pulled back red hair, approached the table. She placed a glass of water on the table in front of him and offered him a perky smile.

“Good afternoon, I’m Suzie, I’ll be your server today. Have you had a chance to look at our drinks menu?”

“Just a coffee.”

“Cappuccino or—”

“Coffee. Black.” He knew he sounded curt but didn’t much care. He was trying very hard to hold back what felt like an impending coughing fit and wanted her gone before that happened.

Suzie’s face fell and the smile dropped from her lips. Her eyes went cold and Miles could practically see her sticking him into the “difficult” category. That was fine. He was difficult. And demanding. And an arsehole who was used to getting his own way.

“Of course, sir. I’ll have that for you shortly.” She turned away, and he latched onto the water and sipped it slowly in an effort to hold back the coughing. After a few undignified splutters into the water, he managed to control the tickle in the back of his throat and put the glass down.

He perched an elbow on the table and dropped his forehead into his palm.

Seriously, fuck this! He was so damned over it.

He turned his head—transferring his chin into his palm—and stared out at the wet street. Dark rain clouds were hanging ominously low, promising more downpours to come.

He liked this place. He always had. He had never been here in winter, but he found himself appreciating the gloomy weather. In fact, even though the cold and damp were likely detrimental to his physical recovery, he did believe that the tranquility and the spotty Wi-Fi would bode well for his eventual recovery, along with his emotional and mental well-being.

He snorted at that notion. His emotional state wasn’t something he generally considered. He didn’t have time to sit around contemplating his feelings. He was a busy man, who had scraped his way up from nothing to unimaginable heights of wealth and prosperity.

So what if he didn’t get to enjoy said wealth and prosperity himself? That wasn’t why he had worked so hard to earn his first million pounds before the age of twenty-seven. It wasn’t why—seven years and countless millions later—he still wasn’t content to rest on his laurels. He never wanted to go back to having nothing and, more importantly, he wanted his siblings and his mother to continue enjoying the life he could now provide for them. And if that meant never enjoying it himself, the sacrifice was well worth it.

Suzie—a slightly less bright smile on her lips—interrupted his grim thoughts.

“Your coffee, sir. Are you ready to order?”

“Coffee’s fine for now,” he muttered, and she nodded and retreated with almost indecent haste. Miles checked out the place while he waited for the coffee to cool. It was quaint. Very country cottage with its floral mismatched crockery, spindle-legged cushioned chairs, and warm colors. It was also surprisingly busy for a week day. Most of the tables were occupied. Some people were clearly there to catch up on some work, laptops open and phones out. Others were socializing, chatting and laughing. It felt remarkably urbane for a sleepy town like Riversend, and Miles took a curious look at the menu.

Pretty standard breakfast fare. But the dinners and desserts appeared to be absurdly sophisticated. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and wondered if the food was up to par. It was one thing to promise “yuzu and rosé panna cotta” and quite another to deliver anything remotely as complex.

He flipped to the back of the leather-bound menu to read up on the chef, and his other eyebrow lifted to match the heights of the first when he read that she—Olivia Chapman—had trained in Michelin-star restaurants across Europe before settling down here.

Who knew?

He set the menu aside and took a sip of coffee. His eyes tracked back to the street outside. It was starting to drizzle. He watched as people scurried to get indoors or under cover before the inevitable downpour.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he eagerly reached for it, hoping it was Bryan with an update. Logic told him it wouldn’t be Bryan, who had promised Miles weekly reports during his six weeks of forced “vacation.” Miles had insisted on daily updates but Bryan—not one to be bullied—had point blank refused that demand.

It wouldn’t even be Hugh, who was so eager to prove himself to Bryan, that he would never contradict the man’s orders. Not even for Miles. The company would have to be verging on bankruptcy before either man called Miles for advice. Not a comforting thought…but Miles trusted Bryan implicitly. Even if he didn’t often show it.

He finally managed to fish out his phone and frowned when he saw Vicki’s face and name on the screen. She never called, preferring texts and every social media app on the face of the earth to actually picking up the phone and talking. The fact that she was calling immediately set off alarm bells.

“Vicki? What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something is wrong? Maybe I miss you. Maybe I’m worried about you.” His sister’s tart voice made him grin, and he relaxed. It didn’t sound like anything was drastically awry.

“Are you?”