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

She liked that he was confident enough in his masculinity to admit to that.

“You’re able to walk a lot farther now than when you first arrived. It’s pretty impressive how fast you’re recovering.”

“Glad you’re impressed. I feel like it’s taking fucking forever to get back to normal.”

“You have to be patient.”

“Patience has never been my strength. I’m an instant gratification kind of guy.”

Somehow, she doubted that. It took patience to build a business from scratch into a multimillion-pound organization. He had to be patient to be a father figure to his much younger siblings and still keep their love and respect. It took a boatload of perseverance to maintain his good humor and affection while dealing with a mischievous puppy. And he had shown admirable restraint earlier, when he had so clearly wanted to kiss her, but had waited for her to make the first move.

It seemed to her that the only person Miles Hollingsworth did not have patience with was himself.

She considered that fact while they retraced their steps back to the land rover.

“Should we stop for lunch somewhere?” Miles asked, after he had maneuvered the vehicle back onto the road.

“I can’t think of any pet friendly places in Riversend,” Charity said.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to venture farther afield,” he said carelessly.

“I don’t see why not,” Charity agreed, not wanting their day out to end just yet. “The cleaning service will be at the house for a few more hours.”

“Then let’s see where the road takes us.”

The road “took” them to a quaint farmhouse kitchen style restaurant off the N2 just outside of Knysna. They provided under cover seating for pet owners and their four-legged charges in their courtyard. Charity took an instant liking to the place, which was a working farm with a thriving cottage industry eatery. The menu—outlined on a chalkboard at the entrance—was small and consisted of wholesome country foods. Sunday roast served daily, chicken pie and veggies, as well as lamb chops with mashed potatoes, and “farm fresh”—as the menu boasted—peas. Their dessert options were limited to milk tart or dark chocolate cake.

As was to be expected on a random Tuesday afternoon, the restaurant wasn’t very busy. There were only a handful of patrons inside and none outside. A truculent young man led them to their table and provided a couple of glasses of water.

“Your server will be here soon,” he muttered, before skulking off. Charity raised her eyebrows at his surly attitude, but since he wasn’t their server, chose not to comment.

Miles didn’t seem to notice the guy, he was too busy making sure his dog was comfortable. He put Stormy’s “travel cushion”—as he called it—down on one of the chairs and after two turns, the pup flopped down and passed out.

“I’m always amazed by how fast she switches off,” Miles marveled, an undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “I found her comatose with her head in her food bowl the other night.”

“I nearly tripped over her in the den two days ago. She was fast asleep in the middle of the floor, stretched out in that superhero pose, you know the one?”

Miles chuckled and nodded. Stormy often lay with her front paws outstretched, head tucked between them, her tummy flat on the floor and her hind legs splayed like a frog’s. It looked comical but it was her favorite way to sleep.

Charity watched Miles’s face soften as he ran a gentle hand over the puppy’s head. The dog barely seemed to register the touch. Charity’s insides melted into a pool of comfortably warm goo. The pleasant shudder of excitement that accompanied the giddy sensation felt familiar. A long-ago echo of something that could only be described as romantic interest.

Every instinct she had screamed at her to distance herself from him. And from this unwanted and painful awakening of feelings that she had believed were dead and buried. She had known, of course, that she was sexually attracted to him. But the possibility of forming a romantic attachment was inconceivable.

But instead of skittering back into her shell or distancing herself the way she knew she should, she folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, keen to learn even more about this intriguing man. “I didn’t realize you knew Sam Brand so well.”

“I’ve known him for about six years. His company handles security for Hollingsworth Holdings. As well as personal security for my family.”

“And for you.”

“To a certain extent. I don’t have a security detail or anything like that.”

“Why not?” Surely a man as powerful and wealthy as Miles Hollingsworth, chairman of the board to one of the most successful holding companies in Europe, would need some form of personal protection?

“I’m reclusive.” He used air quotes to frame the word “reclusive” and his tone was light, but the tongue in cheek response didn’t satisfy her. It seemed negligent of a man in his position to allow himself to be so vulnerable. Charity knew how swiftly someone who meant to do violence could strike. From one second to the next, you could go from seemingly fine to prone, in pain and powerless.

“You shouldn’t be so flippant about your safety,” she heard herself berating him, and instantly wished the words back when he pinned her with a searching look. She had sounded too grim and her intensity didn’t match the tone of the conversation.

“Uh…I’m not,” he said, after a long pause. “When I know I’m heading into an unknown situation, or into a crowd, we always take extra precautions. I don’t take unnecessary risks. Not in business and not with my life.”