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

They were her parents’ best friends. Of course, they would be at the party. Beloved Aunt Sandra and Uncle Paul.

Maybe if you’d stop making him so angry, Charity. Her mother-in-law’s gentle suggestion, offered in an oh-so-helpful tone of voice, drifted through her mind. This after a particularly bad beating. He had broken her ribs that time, and Sandra had taken her to the hospital, offering some explanation or excuse for the injury that the doctors hadn’t questioned.

“Faith, I have to go,” Charity said, knowing she sounded abrupt but unable to do anything about that. She hated having Miles here to witness any part of this call. It felt like an intrusion. “I love you. Hugs to Gracie.”

She disconnected the call before her sister had the opportunity to say anything more. She cleared her throat and took a moment to compose herself before turning to face her boss.

He wasn’t paying her any attention. Instead, he was guzzling down a bottle of mineral water while Stormy enthusiastically did the same at her water bowl. After finishing half of the bottle in one go, he lowered it to wipe his forearm across his lip. The move was so unlike the fastidious Miles Hollingsworth that Charity couldn’t help but stare.

He caught the stare and lifted his shoulders.

“I’ll have to remember to take some water along next time.”

“You look…” She paused and considered her words. Hot, sweaty, wrung out, and not at all like his usual self. In fact, she would go so far as to say he looked really, really good. Despite his thinness and his sick bed pallor. His black hair—so much longer than she was used to seeing it—was wild and damp. The thick, unkempt mane framed his face attractively.

He was tallish, five nine or ten, and sparely built. Some would probably be generous in their use of the word “average” when describing Miles Hollingsworth. Charity would be the first to admit that perhaps he was beautifully, boringly average at first glance. In fact, the only thing about him that wasn’t average was a hawkish nose that dominated his narrow face and would have most people struggling to call him even passably handsome.

But there was something about him…about those plain features. A sharpness to his cheekbones and an edge to his jawline. Something in the piercing and aloof chill of his striking steel gray eyes. That penetrating stare, combined with that overbearing nose, was what made him seem so unapproachable.

That reticence was the very reason Charity should stay as far away from the man as possible. Yet something about him appealed to her in ways that she found unsettling and tried to keep suppressed. And while it had always been there, this tiny tug of attraction, she had never truly admitted it to herself before this moment.

But that terrifying acknowledgment had her keen to slam the lid on this simmering attraction that could boil over if she didn’t maintain her vigilance and her distance.

“The Ice Man”, that’s what the media called him. Cold, calculated, and cutthroat. He was pretty much the antithesis of her late husband.

Blaine had been almost godlike in his beauty. Tall, with a perfect body, perfect face, pale green eyes, and perfectly coiffed sandy hair. He had been so warm and approachable. Everybody’s favorite guy.

Just perfect.

And rotten to the core.

“I look?” Miles prompted her softly, and she blinked. She hated that she had noticed how good he looked. She didn’t want to notice that about him, or about any man for that matter. She didn’t think she was ready for that. For sexual awareness. Especially not awareness of someone who had so much power over her life and immediate future.

“Uhm…cold. You look cold. And wet.”

“It started drizzling about five minutes ago. Light and annoying but pretty effective at soaking us through.”

“That can’t be good for you.”

“Probably not, but I feel fantastic. It was an invigorating walk. We both enjoyed it.”

He took another thirsty gulp from his bottle, this time keeping his perceptive, unsettling gaze on her face. “You have something on your cheek.”

He brushed his long, slender index finger over his own cheekbone.

Charity self-consciously lifted her hands and scrubbed them over her face. The corners of his lips lifted when he met her

inquiring gaze, and he shook his head.

“Despite just about rubbing your skin raw, you still missed it.”

“What is it?”

“White powder. You been snorting coke while I was gone?” The words were so deadpan, Charity’s jaw dropped in shock at the question. His lips kicked up even more at the edges, revealing the shallow dimple in his right cheek.

“No, of course not,” she gasped, and this time he snorted. The sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Relax, Mrs. Cole, I was joking. I can see that it’s flour.” He indicated toward the island behind her, where the overworked dough lay forgotten on the counter.