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

“Wait, so how old is Mrs. Cole?”

“I’ll speak with you again soon.”

“Miles, tell me…is she like forty? Thirty-five?”

“Take care.”

“No. Miles—”

He disconnected the call with a huge sigh, feeling harassed. His phone beeped, and he gritted his teeth. He should have known she wouldn’t let it go. He lifted the device.

Thirty? Younger? Seriously? Younger than thirty? She doesn’t look it. Or does she look it? Have you seen Mrs. Cole out of her Mrs. Cole suit? Send pics!!!!

Her “Mrs. Cole” suit. It was an uncannily apt description. Because he was starting to understand that Charity wore that uniform, that persona, as some kind of disguise. And it made him desperate to know why.

He tapped out a hasty message to Vicki: Tell Mum I’ll call her on the weekend XOXO

Miles!!!

He switched off his phone, ignoring the poop emoji that followed her many exclamation points.

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and watched Stormy chase leaves around the yard, while his mind was furiously occupied elsewhere. He glanced at the house and saw the kitchen curtain twitch, as if someone had quickly ducked out of sight when he lifted his head.

He sighed deeply and was pleased when the inhalation didn’t result in an automatic cough. Despite the cold weather, he was getting stronger and healthier. The fresh air, exercise, and Mrs. Cole’s cooking were working their magic.

Despite the inconvenience of having his housekeeper inexplicably transform into a goddess, his decision to come here hadn’t been too misguided. He looked at Stormy who mistimed a lunge for a leaf and went tumbling head over paws.

“And who knows what would have happened to you if I hadn’t been here?” he told the dog, bending a knee to rub her lopsided ears.

The backdoor opened as he was pushing to his feet.

“Good news,” Charity called from the doorway. “George says they’re repairing the bridge tomorrow and Thursday. Once that’s done, they’ll send an emergency

team out to fix the transformer on Friday. Hopefully we’ll have power by the weekend.”

Fantastic. Maybe if he were able to leave the house more often, he would stop fixating on her so much.

He stared at her gentle, smiling face, his eyes on her full lips and even white teeth. He recalled the long legs hidden beneath that drab skirt and the perky breasts so effectively disguised by that boxy blouse.

And then he considered the young woman who had hidden herself in the middle of nowhere for three long years. Three years of harsh winters filled with pillaging baboons, wildfires, power outages, floods and isolation. And summers catering to entitled, rich arseholes—yes, he included himself, and definitely Hugh and Vicki in that—not much older or younger than her. With nobody but two elderly men for company.

He shook his head. Maybe he would stop fixating on this stunning, mysterious woman, once the power and the road were restored.

But he very much doubted that.

“Stormy, get back here!” Miles called in an urgent undertone as Stormy darted down the hall with a pair of his briefs in tow. With the road restored, he had managed to get her to the local vet. And since then—thanks to her vaccination shots, a deworming tablet, a healthier diet and regular walks—she had found a new lease on life. And a mischievous streak a mile wide. In fact, it was safe to say, she was hell on four legs.

The huffing sound she made as she fled through the kitchen and made a beeline for the housekeeper’s quarters definitely sounded like mocking laughter to his ears.

In the six days since their poolside encounter, Miles and Charity Cole had fallen into a rigid, formal routine. It was not conducive to a relaxing, healing atmosphere, and Miles tried his damnedest to steer clear of her.

He couldn’t say that avoiding her helped. Not when his every waking moment, and most of his sleeping ones, were filled with recollections of her rising from that pool like a fucking fertility goddess.

He hadn’t been so perpetually horny and frustrated since his early teens, and it was driving him insane. He had tried to distract himself with other things. Focused on getting fit, training Stormy and—despite Amos’s protestations—hard physical labor like trimming the yellowwood in the back yard and chopping wood for fire.

Stormy darted through the ajar door leading to Charity’s rooms, and Miles’s pursuit came to an abrupt halt. It was after nine, she usually retired to her side of the house by eight-thirty. Miles had never, ever infringed on her privacy before. In fact, he had no idea what her rooms looked like.

He stared at the warm light spilling from the doorway into the dark hallway and cocked his head, listening for her inevitable reprimand of Stormy for the intrusion.