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

Dull, curt, and stiff. Those three words pretty much described their relationship before now. They had spoken only when absolutely necessary.

The smile fell from her lips as she continued to stare at the screen. This was so confusing. She wasn’t sure how she felt about anything right now.

All she knew was that she wanted to spend time with him. Wanted to talk with him, laugh with him, play with him…love with him. If she could even remember how to do any of those things. It had been so long since she’d been just normal.

Well, like the saying went: Every journey begins with a single step…

She inhaled deeply, held the breath for a beat and then released it on a slow controlled sigh. And took that step.

Dress “comfortably”? Define “comfortably”.

Charity stared at the words she couldn’t quite believe she had typed.

And chuckled when the response drifted onto her screen a second later:

Adverb: comfortably - in a physically relaxed way that is free from constraint.

Wiseass. She laughed again and shook her head.

Fine. No bra then.

She sent the response before she could overthink it and regretted it an instant later. Especially when he took absolute ages to reply. She worried her lower lip with her teeth and watched the three dots appear and reappear endlessly as he formulated his response.

You’re driving me a little crazy, Mrs. Cole.

She grinned at that and instantly replied: As per your request, Mrs. Cole has taken the evening off, you’re stuck with Charity tonight.

Thank fuck for that. Get over here ASAP! The dinner I slaved over is getting cold.

Despite the playful tone of their text messages, or maybe because of it, Charity still hesitated outside the den ten minutes later. The door to the cozy room was shut, and she wip

ed her sweaty palms on the seat of her slouchy sweatpants before curling one of them into a fist and tentatively knocking on the door.

“Why are you knocking?” The impatience in that masculine voice was evident even through the thick wood. Charity rolled her head and shook her arms like a boxer before entering the ring, attempting to alleviate some of her nervousness.

She curled her hand around the doorknob only to have it unceremoniously yanked from her hand as the door swung inward.

“There’s no need for you to knock, Charity. This is more your home than mine.”

A polite fiction that she accepted with nothing but a tight smile. After the flirty texts, she was disappointed with the way this was starting. Disappointed in herself for not being more confident.

But then he smiled and all of her disappointment went flying out the window. He just looked so happy to see her.

He stepped aside and ushered her into the den with a bow, and she gasped when she saw what he had done. The entire room was glowing with soft candlelight. Lit candles of all shapes and sizes adorned just about every flat surface. He had scattered fat, fluffy pillows on the carpeted floor around the coffee table. A large silver cloche sat atop the table, accompanied by two empty, long-stemmed wineglasses, and a couple of delicate porcelain plates. A single protea, likely from the garden, shoved into a plastic water bottle took pride of place in the center of the table.

He even had a fire merrily crackling away in the massive hearth and some light jazz playing in the background

“Miles, this is…” She shook her head as words escaped her.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, and she laughed at the extravagant lie. She was wearing pink sweatpants, a hoodie, thick socks, and no shoes. She didn’t have on a lick of makeup, and her hair was tied back in a loose French braid. But her laughter died when his lingering gaze told her that the compliment was sincere.

She cleared her throat and smiled when she took in the way he was attired. They were practically matching, he was in gray sweatpants, a form fitting white T-shirt that emphasized his chest and biceps impressively and no shoes or socks. She loved the sight of his sexy bare feet.

“Where’s Stormy?” she asked, thinking it prudent to distract both of them. At this rate, they wouldn’t get through dinner without jumping each other’s bones.

“Napping,” he said, and nodded toward the crate in the corner. The crate was usually kept in his bedroom, and she frowned at the unfamiliar sight of it in the den. His next words cleared up her confusion and melted her heart, “I didn’t want her to feel left out or alone, so I thought she could snooze in here while we have our dinner.”

“That doesn’t help with separation anxiety, you know?” she felt obligated to point out, and he grimaced.