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

“Do we have anything to feed her?”

“I don’t keep a supply of dog food in the pantry, no.”

“No need for facetiousness, Mrs. Cole. I meant chicken or fish…something we can steam with some veggies. I remember reading somewhere that unsalted steamed chicken and rice would be the easiest on a sick pup’s little tummy.”

Tummy? Seriously?

“I’ll prepare enough chicken and rice for the next few days.”

“She’ll need to eat three to four times a day.”

“You seem to know a great deal about this, do you have a dog in London?”

“Stormy’s my first dog.”

“You’re keeping her?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I’ll get her shots up-to-date…make sure she’s healthy, and I’m certain she’ll be well enough to travel long before I’m cleared to work again.”

The dog—Stormy—gave Charity a haughty look. Oh, she knew she’d just landed in the lap of luxury. Skin and bones, a little mangy and probably still sporting more than her fair share of ticks, she was already carrying herself like a princess.

And Miles… damned if he didn’t look completely besotted with the mutt.

“I’ll take care of her food. I doubt she’s house-trained so we’re going to have to keep her confined to a bathroom or something.”

“I’ll sort something out. No need to concern yourself, Mrs. Cole.”

Hard not to worry. If he changed his mind about Stormy, Charity knew she’d be the one left as the dog’s primary caregiver. Miles seemed in love with the pup now, but who knew if that would last?

She ran her damp palms down the front of her skirt and nodded.

“Very well, sir.” He winced at the word. “Let me know what you’ll need for her and I’ll do my best to procure it.”

“I know that, Mrs. Cole. Now, what’s to eat? I’m starving.”

Stormy was a quiet, undemanding dog, and Miles worried that she may be sicker than she looked. But until he could get the hell out of this house, there was no way to know. Her appetite seemed fine, but she slept a lot and stuck close by his side. He was beginning to think he should have named her Velcro instead.

His impulsive decision to keep her had been out of character for him. Usually he would have handed the pup over to Mrs. Cole with the instruction that she took care of it and kept it out of sight until they could pass the responsibility on to the SPCA. But one look at the pathetic scrap of a dog, so clearly ill and malnourished, and he had felt an immediate affinity toward it.

And now here she was; lying on the couch next to him despite his housekeeper’s critical glares whenever she spotted the dog on the furniture. The pup was wearing one of Mrs. Cole’s socks—a much better fit for her—and her head was resting on her tiny front paws while she stared up at him in devotion. Her ears were lopsided, one up and one down, giving her a rakish appearance, and her limpid black eyes were ridiculously expressive, especially with their dark “eyebrows”.

According to the Internet research he had managed to do during his extremely limited allotted “Wi-Fi time”, puppies her age were balls of mischievous energy. But Stormy spent her days sleeping and shadowing his every move.

He decided to crate train her and found a small, wicker shopping basket that she couldn’t climb out of to use for that purpose. It worked well as a temporary crate, and she was content to be left in the basket for a couple of hours here and there. She seemed to consider it her space. He fashioned a ball out of a pair of his socks and hoped that it could work as both a pacifier—since it carried his scent—and as a toy.

He knew Mrs. Cole didn’t quite approve of the entire set up and couldn’t figure out why. But her reticence and his extreme awareness of their employer/employee status, prevented him from asking.

Mrs. Cole had been right about the blackout lasting for more than a few hours. They were still using the generator now—three days after the massive storm had blown the transformer box. Nobody could come out to fix the box because the bridge had washed out. And according to George, who was in daily contact with Miles, it was scheduled to be repaired “sometime before the weekend”, which was of no help at all, since it was currently Monday.

Miles could now see why Mrs. Cole was so damned precious over his use of electricity. She entered rooms, moments after he exited them, to turn off the lights, or the television, or whatever the hell else he had thoughtlessly left running. It was unnerving how rapidly she seemed to materialize to do those things, before fading right back into the woodwork as if she’d never been there.

It was like living with a disapproving ghost, and his curiosity about her grew every day. He had never again caught her with her hair down, or dressed in anything other than her regular, boring apparel of skirt and blouse, combined with those sensible, ugly black brogues. The shoes seemed too heavy and chunky for her slender legs.

Not that he’d noticed her legs…much. Well, his eyes were always drawn to the ugly shoes and just naturally followed the length of her shapely calves to the hemline of her skirt. He only sometimes allowed himself to recall how they looked even farther up, past the knees, to those firm, beautifully toned thighs and…

He shook his head and muttered a curse, drawing Stormy’s concerned gaze to his.

He was developing a serious case of cabin fever. His mind was restless and venturing into dangerous, no-go zones.