“Mrs. Cole?” He didn’t raise his voice, he knew she was close. He could still smell the fresh floral fragrance of her soap. It lingered in the kitchen and wrapped around him like a seductive cloak.
She didn’t magically materialize like an efficient wish-fulfilment fairy, and his frown deepened as irritation began to replace his initial confusion.
“Mrs. Cole!” he inserted some volume into his voice. But the added effort garnered no reward. The only sounds in the kitchen were Stormy’s disgusting wet chewing noises and the irritating tick of the yellowwood’s branches against the kitchen window. The weather was miserable as usual, overcast, cold and blustery. But at least it wasn’t raining. Yet.
“Mrs. Co—”
“What, for God’s sake?” Her exasperated, agitated voice, more than her bad-tempered question, startled him. And he found himself gaping as the door to the garage was shoved open to reveal a less-than-pristine Charity Cole. She was glaring at him; her hair coming out of its bun, her usually white apron smudged with…Was that grease?
“What’s going on?” he asked. He pushed to his feet and took a couple of steps toward her, but she hastily positioned herself behind the island. Clearly using it as a physical barrier between them.
Miles chose not to be offended by that and instead focused on her agitation. He was rather alarmed at the state of her. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have thought twice about the slight disarray, but for his housekeeper this seemed entirely uncharacteristic. He braced his palms on the counter and watched her intently.
“I was refueling the generator when a-a…” She clenched her fists, and he wondered if she was biting back a few choice curse words. He smothered a grin when she threw back her head dramatically and inhaled deeply before continuing in a fierce, controlled voice, “A spider crawled up my l-leg.”
She shuddered, and Miles valiantly fought back a chuckle as he watched her swat at her skirt again.
“Lucky spider.” He shouldn’t have said it. But the thought had popped into his head and out of his mouth without passing through his usual tact filter.
Her head flew up, and she nailed him with a glare so venomous he was shocked he didn’t simply wither on the spot.
“Why did you keep calling me? What was so damned urgent it couldn’t wait a few minutes?”
Well then. It seemed that Mrs. Cole had gone on a short break—probably still cowering from the spider somewhere—and had left this ill-tempered, sarcastic, fascinating creature in her place.
Charity, he presumed.
She seemed to recognize the impropriety of her question, and her face shuttered almost immediately as she withdrew back into herself.
Noooo. He wanted Charity to stick around a little longer.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hollingsworth,” she murmured, patting at her hair again. He was starting to loathe that bloody gesture and all that it symbolized. “I’m a bit flustered. I’m not particularly fond of spiders.”
“That’s fine, I’m sure it must have been a deeply unpleasant experience.”
“Deeply,” she agreed with a nod, unable to prevent another full body shudder. “What can I do for you?”
God, talk about a loaded question. He could think of so fucking many things he wanted her to do for him. With him. To him.
“I was wondering about the egg.”
She stared at him blankly. She was standing across from him, and the island between them felt like no real barrier at all.
“The egg?”
“The boiled egg?”
“What about it?”
“I thought I’d made my feelings clear.”
“I thought you may have been exaggerating to get your point across. So, you really never want boiled eggs again? Ever?”
“No. I mean, of course I do, but…” Well, this was a bloody absurd conversation. He could think of so many other things he wanted to say to her right now. But here they were, discussing fucking boiled eggs.
But Miles hadn’t built an empire from scratch by pussyfooting around, and he decided to take the matter in hand, “Are you angry with me?”
“What?” Her eyes grew as round as saucers.