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

“Stormy,” he reminded her.

“I don’t think either of you are ready for a walk like that yet.”

“It’s not your concern.”

“On the contrary, it totally is my concern. If anything happens to you, Amos and I would have to find you and get you back to safety. In these conditions, emergency services are an hour away at best. Likely longer with the bridge out. Anything could go wrong. What if it rains harder? The water levels would rise before you could get back here in time and you could be washed away. And who knows how the cold will affect your chest? You may be—”

“Enough! Mrs. Cole, you are out of line,” he snapped, pissed off because she was also right. He couldn’t chance taking a solitary hike in his current condition. But he fucking hated having his housekeeper treat him like an errant, sickly schoolboy.

Who the hell was in charge here anyway?

He glared at her while she stared back, her face serene and inscrutable, not a hair out of place…

He sighed.

Without a bloody doubt, she was in charge. This tall, ageless, mysterious—barefoot, a tiny voice reminded him breathlessly—stern woman was one-hundred-percent running the show. That’s why he liked having her around. With Mrs. Cole in charge, their vacations had been stress free. But he wasn’t currently on vacation, and that appeared to be unsettling the equilibrium of their usually uneventful non-relationship

“Your concerns have been noted, Mrs. Cole, and if you find me collapsed in a heap five hundred yards from the house, feel free to tell me you told me so. Now, do you have anything I can use as a leash or not?”

Stubborn man!

Charity kneaded her bread dough more vigorously than usual, imagining that it was Miles Hollingsworth’s face. He had been gone for half an hour already. She had watched in concern as he and the puppy—who had pranced alongside him wearing another sock sweater and slapdash rope slip lead—painstakingly made their way to the jetty. He had turned right before the wooden dock in order to access the beach, and Charity had lost sight of him after that.

He wasn’t her responsibility, she was here to cook and clean and make his stay as comfortable as possible. She was not here to police his every move and make sure he took his fricking medicine. She lifted the dough and slapped it down on the granite counter with enough force to send flour exploding in all directions.

“Damn it,” she cursed, annoyed by the mess and blaming him for that too. The last three days had been so uncomfortable for her. She had done her best to remain out of sight, but he seemed to actively seek her out, which unnerved her. Especially since he never appeared to have any reason to do so, sometimes he just sat in the kitchen and watched her work. She hated that. She felt awkward and out of sorts having him in her space.

But she couldn’t prohibit him from coming into his own kitchen.

She could tell that he was bored and restless but—again—it wasn’t her job to keep him entertained. Happily, training the dog took up a lot of his attention. But the pup was a fast learner and slept often, which meant that he found himself at loose ends for large chunks of the day.

His walks around the garden had gotten longer each day, and she supposed it was inevitable for cabin fever and boredom to force him to venture farther afield.

But he still seemed so weak.

She shook herself and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist.

None of your business, Charity, she reminded herself. Absolutely none of your concern if the damned fool man wants to kill himself!

Still, she kept lifting her eyes and taking peeks out of the back window. Hoping to see him plod his way up the back garden path toward the kitchen door.

Instead, all she saw was Amos who caught her eye and waved at her with a happy grin. He had popped in earlier with a few cut proteas for decorating the house. She waved back, her thoughts still on her boss. She barely noticed when Amos drifted out of sight again.

She still had no real clue what was wrong with him, and

she wondered what manner of illness could have laid her previously infallible-seeming boss so very low.

She once again reminded herself that it was none of her business, but it was hard not to speculate. Part of her wanted to ask, reasoning that it would be better if she knew, in case of relapse. The other part didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to care or be concerned over what could possibly happen to him out here in the wild with no medical assistance close by.

Her phone chimed, and she wiped her hands on a tea towel and reached into her apron pocket. She didn’t often receive messages. Over the last six years, all but the most stubborn of her friends and family had given up on her. With good reason…she had retreated, kept them at bay. Been uncommunicative and emotionally, mentally and physically distant.

Only her sister, parents, and best friend had remained in contact. They were her tether to the “real world”, as she had started to think of it. This wasn’t her life. It was temporary. Yet temporary had somehow gone from “just a few months” to three years, and she still wasn’t sure how that had happened.

Life here was so…uncomplicated.

She checked her message. It was from her sister, Faith.

Cherry, we need to talk. I know you hate unannounced calls, so fair warning. I’m calling in 5, 4, 3…