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

“I know. But she looked so sad when she knew I was going to leave the room and…”

“Miles,” Charity interrupted him and lay a tentative hand on his bare arm. “I think you’re the one with separation anxiety.”

Her words made him laugh as she had intended them to, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove her hand from his arm. Instead, her palm slid to his and, he entwined his fingers with hers.

“You’re right. It’s something I need to work on. Tomorrow. For tonight she’s fine. She’s had her dinner, her toilet break, and she’s snuggled up with her heated beanbag, fast asleep. I’d hate to disturb her.”

Charity angled her body toward his and cupped his jaw with her free hand.

“You’re such a softie,” she teased, and he lifted her captured hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

“Sit down,” he urged, tugging her toward the coffee table. They sank onto the heap of cushions.

Her eyes did another awed tour of the room, “You’ve done so much work.”

“I knew you’d appreciate my paltry attempts at power conservation,” he said, with a cheeky wink and she laughed.

“It would have been even more appreciated when we were running on a generator, but thank you nonetheless.”

He grinned unrepentantly and released her hand to gesture toward the cloche.

“You hungry?”

“A little.”

“Good, because I’ve prepared a feast.”

Charity tilted her head and stared at the cloche and then glanced around the room to see if he had any other containers stashed away. But nope…it was just this one, lonely cloche. She couldn’t imagine it containing anything remotely feast like.

“Okay, close your eyes,” he instructed her, and she blinked. Not certain she had heard him correctly.

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re making quite the production out of this, aren’t you?”

“This used to be Hughie and Vicki’s favorite meal when they were kids. I’m the only one who could make it exactly how they liked it.”

She sighed and covered her face with both hands.

“No peeking.”

“Oh my God, I had no idea you had such a flair for the dramatic.”

She heard the faint metal on metal ping as he lifted the lid.

“Don’t look until I tell you to,” he said. And she sighed in fake vexation. Truthfully, she was enjoying every moment of this. There was a slosh of liquid, and she assumed he was filling up the wineglasses.

“Okay, three, two…two and a ha—”

“Miles!” Her voice was shaking with suppressed laughter as she tried, but failed, to sound exasperated. She was delighted by this unexpectedly whimsical side of him.

“Spoilsport! Fine. Open your eyes.”

She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and then stared, uncomprehendingly, at the…feast(?) in front of her.

A precarious pyramid of sandwiches, each a neatly sliced triangle, stacked one on top of the other.