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

He glared at the table, and Charity leaned forward to shift his plate aside.

“Save some space for dessert,” she suggested gently, and he heaved a sigh and slanted her an unreadable glance from beneath those dark, furrowed brows. Her breath caught at the intensity of that look, and she found herself quite unable to do anything but stare helplessly back.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Stormy chose that moment to open her eyes. She immediately spotted the lamb and chickens and was on her paws and hysterically yapping in under ten seconds.

Miles shifted his penetrating gray stare to his dog, and Charity heaved a relieved sigh, before pushing her own nearly empty plate to the side.

The hens, startled by the onslaught of barking, squawked indignantly and waddled away fussily. The lamb toddled forward on stilt-like legs, seemingly curious about the noisy creature making all the fuss. Bleating plaintively, it ignored Stormy’s frantic barking and shoved its face toward the dog’s chair.

Miles grinned, and when he stroked the lamb’s velvety looking muzzle, Stormy calmed down almost immediately, clearly trusting her human to know best. She cautiously sniffed at the strange creature standing so close to her, but when the lamb baaed again, Stormy yelped and leaped into Miles’s arms.

He laughed, that same carefree laugh he had shared with Sam Brand earlier, and Charity swallowed painfully. She wasn’t at all happy with the way his laughter made her feel and didn’t know how to deal with it.

The lamb bounced away and disappeared around the corner. Stormy stopped barking and curled up on Miles’s lap with a contented sigh.

Miles chuckled quietly. “She seems a little smug now, doesn’t she?”

“She probably thinks she scared them off.”

He shook his head and fondled the dog’s ears.

“Crazy mutt,” he grumbled beneath his breath, his voice loaded with affection.

Charity didn’t respond to that. She aimlessly fiddled with her water glass; twirling it, running her index finger along the rim, tracing patterns in the condensation on the smooth, cold surface. Miles allowed the silence to grow, and for a long while there was nothing but the sounds of birds chirping, chickens clucking in the distance, a cow mooing, and the wind gently susurrating in the grass and the leaves of the massive wild fig trees dotted around the courtyard.

“Are you divorced or widowed?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere and, after allowing the soothing sounds of the farmyard to lull her into an unguarded and relaxed stated, it unnerved Charity. But it was just a question. Personal, sure…but no more so than any of the ones she had asked him today.

“What makes you think I’m either?” she replied with a nonchalance that surprised and impressed her. Her emotions were in complete upheaval, and she did not want to discuss her marital status.

Not with Miles.

Not with anyone really. But especially not with him. Not when she was starting to feel so many things around him. Physical things. Possibly even emotional things.

Bringing her marriage into this moment—this formerly tranquil, and happy, moment would ruin everything.

Her response seemed to flabbergast him, and his brow lowered.

“I’m sorry, I always assumed…I thought…wait, so you’re married?” He sounded so dismayed that Charity actually found herself tempted to smile, despite the uncomfortable subject matter.

“No. I’m not. I’m widowed…” She paused before honesty compelled her to add, “but I should have divorced him.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Arsehole, huh?” he sympathized.

She hesitated, so tempted to say yes. But years of pretense, of going along with the world’s belief that Blaine Davenport was a stand up, great guy had left her without a voice. And she stared at Miles helplessly.

“Did he cheat on you?” He immediately shook his head and made a self-conscious noise in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” She worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Right?”

“I don’t see why not. Especially if the dead guy was an arsehole. And it’s not like I knew him. So, speak your mind. Was he a cheating bastard?”

“He was a-a—” Another hesitation. She sucked in her breath and met his level, non-judgmental gaze. Nobody had ever had a bad word to say about Blaine. Not to her. Not to anyone. People always sang his praises, spoke about how committed he had been to his parishioners, to his community, to his faith, and to his wife.

And it had rendered her completely mute. Both during her marriage to that smiling, handsome monster, as well as after his death. When everybody had been so very devastated by his loss. When they had naturally assumed that she must be devastated too. She had been compelled to keep her relief and exhilaration at finally being free of him hidden behind a veil of insincere mourning.