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

But the quiet squeak of rubber against the tiled floor was unexpected, unwelcome, and intimidatingly intrusive.

She froze.

Her instinct was to crouch, to make herself small and invisible…but she refused to do that. Not this time. And after that split-second of indecision and absolute terror, she lifted her chin to look and then exhaled the breath that had snagged in her throat.

The man silhouetted in the doorway did not frighten her.

She co

uld not see his face, the light coming from behind him was brighter than the dim illumination in the natatorium, but she recognized the breadth of those shoulders and the arrogant assurance in his stance.

Besides, no man could be frightening with a scrawny puppy sitting splay-legged at his feet.

He did not frighten her, but his intrusion did make her feel uncomfortable and exposed. Vulnerable in a different way.

She lifted her towel and held it up in front of her body, shielding herself from his view.

Her message was clear, but he didn’t turn away as she had hoped he would.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cole. I wasn’t expecting to find you here. Not at this hour.”

“I could say the same of you.” She winced as soon as she said it. He could go where he pleased at any hour of the day or night.

“I couldn’t sleep. It was swimming or hot milk. And this was the more appealing option. What brings you here at three in the morning?”

“I had a nightmare.” The words were out before she could think the better of it.

“About?”

“The boogeyman. The pool’s all yours.” She wrapped the large, sheet towel securely around her body, and tucked the ends in at her chest. When he didn’t move, she edged toward the door. Her wet feet slapped against the floor, echoing around the massive room.

As she drew closer to him, and her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that he was wearing swim trunks. The squeak that she had heard earlier had come from his rubber-soled sandals.

She swallowed dryly at the sight of his bare chest, trying hard not to notice too many details. She told herself that if she wanted him to respect her desire for privacy during this awkward moment, she should allow him the same privilege. She tore her eyes away from the subtle shading of dark hair on his well-defined—but not grossly exaggerated pectorals—and lifted her gaze to his face…to find him blatantly staring at her legs. The towel ended just below her crotch, leaving everything else bare to his, very interested, eyes.

Heat crept up her body, inching from the tips of her toes, turning her legs to mush, and pooling heavily in the neglected cleft between her thighs. The warmth moved upward, swirling pleasantly in her stomach, beading her nipples, and finally blooming on her face. She lifted her hands to her chest, holding the towel close, not wanting him to recognize her bewildering reaction for what it was. She barely recognized the sexual attraction—it had been so long since she’d felt anything similar to this.

She was confused and not sure how to feel about it. Part of her reveled in the awareness; it felt like the resurrection of something she had believed forever lost to her. A part of her that had been slowly and torturously murdered by Blaine. In the three years since his death she had stopped thinking of herself as a sexual being. And during their marriage…She flinched away from the recollection, not wanting to remember how he had hurt and punished her for having normal sexual urges.

But another part of her hated that it was Miles who stirred these feelings. She told herself that it was because she hadn’t been around any virile, single men in years. She shouldn’t have cut herself off from the world so completely. Perhaps if she’d been around men, these feelings would have reawakened sooner. Proximity and lack of other distractions could be the driving factors behind this sizzling awareness she suddenly had of him as a healthy, virile, and, extremely sexy man.

She even found his slimmer physique hot. It emphasized the hardness of his body and the cut of his muscles and spoke of how well he had taken care of himself before his illness.

Her breathing had shallowed, and she knew that it was evident to him. He didn’t move out the doorway when she took another step forward. She muttered an apology beneath her breath, and angled her body sideways to shuffle past him.

Don’t do it! Her inner voice screeched at her. But she unwisely ignored it and crept past him. The doorway wasn’t narrow, and neither of them were particularly broad but somehow, she got close enough to feel his body heat, smell his divine cologne, and—ever-so-lightly—brush against his chest as she sidled by.

The contact made her freeze. Made them both freeze and she stood there…in front of him, head bowed and eyes shut. Stood quivering like a nervous gazelle, not wanting to move away from his heat or the electrifying touch of his bare chest against the backs of her hands. She was hyperaware that if she dropped her hands, dropped the towel…a thin layer of spandex would be the only thing separating his bare skin from hers. And, God, she so badly wanted to drop her hands. Her nipples were hard, painful points and craving that contact.

He leaned toward her, and she felt his hot, uneven breath washing over her cheek and ear, stirring the damp strands of hair that had escaped her braid.

His hands lifted to grasp her upper arms, and she lamented the fact that she wore a long-sleeve swimsuit. She wanted to feel those hands on her naked skin.

Wanted it.

Needed it.

Burned. For. It.