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

Her burgeoning arousal was immediately dampened.

She could never again trust anyone to have such absolute dominion over her mind, body, and soul.

Never again.

Stormy’s shrill barking wrenched her from her horrific recollections, and she looked up to see what had stirred the pup into such a frenzy. Charity recognized the huge scarred dog—a boxer—before she even registered the jogger who had stopped to shake hands with Miles.

Stormy, showing more wisdom than Charity would ever have given her credit for, dove behind Miles legs and barked at the man and dog from between his calves. The boxer, so much more well-behaved than the pup stared off into the distance, ignoring everyone around him, while his owner—Charity’s self-defense instructor—Sam Brand, shook Miles’s hand.

“Hey, I heard you were in town,” Sam said by way of greeting. Not even a hint of wind in his voice to indicate that he’d just been full on running over sand dunes.

“Yes, I arrived a couple of weeks ago. Stormy, sit!”

Shockingly the pup obeyed and stopped barking, but she continued to voice the occasional kittenish growl at Sam’s dog, Trevor. The larger dog tossed her a disdainful glance before looking away again.

“Sorry, Sam, she’s a former stray. Showed up in the middle of a storm. I’ve been attempting to train her. With limited success.”

“That’s okay, Trevor is used to little dogs with Napoleon complexes. He won’t hurt her. Training takes time and patience. The veterinary practice offers puppy training and socialization classes on Wednesdays if you’re interested.”

“I might look into that. Dr. McGregor, right?”

“That’s the one. He’s my future father-in-law.”

The familiarity between the two men surprised Charity. She hadn’t realized that they were this well acquainted. They were both English, maybe it was an expat thing?

“Sam, I take it you know Charity?” Miles asked, and Charity, who had been hovering about a yard away, nodded and smiled awkwardly when both men looked at her.

The two men were similar in height, both a couple of inches under six feet. But while Sam was blond and sported a healthy tan, Miles was dark and—even though he wasn’t nearly as pale as he had been two weeks ago—still had residual sickbed pallor. The winter sun had added some color to his face, and Charity was once again struck by how much healthier he looked.

“Of course, I know her. She’s my star pupil. How’re you doing, Charity? We missed you these last few sessions. You know how much everybody enjoys watching you kick Grey’s butt.”

Greyson Chapman—still quite new to town—was the other instructor.

“Pupil?” Miles asked, his brows beetling.

“Self-defense,” Sam said. “We do a combination of MMA, Muay Thai, boxing, and Krav Maga. Any rough and ready way to get a woman out of a nasty situation really. Charity has a real knack for it.”

“That’s what you meant by those special Wednesday classes?” Miles watched Charity closely, and she fought hard to keep a discomfited flush at bay. She preferred to keep her private business, private.

“Yes.”

“So not Tae Bo?”

“Tae Bo?” Sam laughed, sounding genuinely amused by Miles’s incorrect assumption. “She’s taken a real shine to MMA in particular and could probably kick your arse in about seventy-five different ways.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” The admiration in Miles’s voice flustered her. She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had sounded so proud of her. Not even her family. Lately all she got from her parents or sister was disappointment and confusion. Not that she could blame them. Blaine had ruined everything, even her relationships with her family.

Sam’s next question—aimed at Miles—jerked her right back into the present, “How are you doing after your brush with death?”

The dramatic turn of phrase startled Charity. She knew he had spent some time in the ICU but, despite that, it had never occurred to her that he could have died from his illness. She found the possibility more than a little distressing.

“Fuck off, it was hardly a brush with death, Brand.”

“Weeks in ICU, hooked up to machines? That sounds pretty dire to me.”

“Who the hell told you that?”

“In my line of work, information is power, my friend.”