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

The recollection was disorienting and for a second, she was back there. In that moment. With that man…helpless, terrified, and so alone.

The sound of the door slamming mercifully ripped her back to the present, and her eyes darted around the cab of the SUV in horror. She was grateful to note that George had exited the vehicle to open the door for Mr. Hollingsworth and that neither man had been present to notice her tiny lapse.

These moments of blind, helpless panic were becoming less frequent, but Charity knew it was past time to seek professional help. Staying here, isolated, and voluntarily cutting herself off from the people who loved her the most, had seemed like a solution before, but she knew it was nothing more than cowardice.

Lightning sparked in the sky ahead, streaking from one black cloud to the next like a mischievous sprite playing tag. It was closely followed by a massive, rumbling boom.

George slid the door open for Mr. Hollingsworth as the echoing rumble faded away.

“That was loud.” Miles Hollingsworth, connoisseur of the dry understatement.

“Storm’ll be on us very quickly,” George said, as he got into the driver’s seat and buckled up. He slanted a speaking glance to the back, and Mr. Hollingsworth fastened his seatbelt with a sigh.

George wasted no time getting them back on the road, and they were just exiting Riversend, when the sky opened up.

“Good thing we didn’t go to Knysna,” Mr. Hollingsworth pointed out, and Charity gritted her teeth, hating that he was right.

“Definitely,” George agreed. “Weather forecast says this is only going to get worse.”

“Best make haste back home then, George.”

George only stayed long enough to help Charity unload the groceries. He parked the SUV, asked if they needed anything more, and left in his own late model Toyota.

“I think I’ll retire to my room for a spell, Mrs. Cole,” Mr. Hollingsworth said, moments after George left. He looked wrecked, and Charity couldn’t help but feel concerned. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and he looked a thousand times worse than he had before they had left the house. The small amount of activity had clearly been too much, too soon.

“I’ll call you for dinner,” she told him, tempted to ask if he was okay, even though she knew he’d shrug off her concern. Or worse tell her—rightfully so—that it was none of her business.

“When might that be?” The words seemed dragged out of him—he was definitely flagging fast.

“What’s your preference?”

“Sixish?” Three hours away, that gave her time to swim a few laps before starting dinner.

“That’s fine, sir. Anything in particular you’d like me to prepare?”

“No soup or broth, of any kind. Nothing bland—not that your cooking is ever bland. But if I see anything steamed or boiled I think I may well expire from sheer boredom.”

She clasped her hands in front of her and nodded, “Noted, sir.”

“And dear God, if I’m to be here for six weeks, I’d much rather we relax the formalities. Call me Miles.”

That disconcerted her, and her hands tightened around each other so much she feared the whites of her knuckles had to be showing.

“I don’t think…I’m not sure that’s proper.”

“Who’s to know? And I’m not sure ‘Mrs. Cole’ suits the informality we’re striving for either. I’ll call you Chastity.”

She cleared her throat awkwardly. “That’s Charity, sir.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Charity.”

“Right. Okay. Sorry about that. Charity it is then.”

She shook her head, feeling panicked. “No. Wait…”

He sighed. A long-suffering expression on that arrogant, much-too-thin, face.