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

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Faith asked three hours later, after the last of Charity’s guests had left.

“I’m fine. You must be exhausted. You guys go and pick Gracie up and head back to your hotel. I’ll see you in the morning.” Charity could barely stifle a yawn as she spoke with her sister. Faith, Stuart, and Gracie, were staying at a quaint hotel outside of town. Charity’s house was simply too small to accommodate everyone. Her parents were currently occupying her shoebox-sized spare bedroom. The older couple had left the party an hour ago, pleading exhaustion.

Lia’s parents were watching Gracie this evening.

Faith looked reluctant to leave Charity by herself but also very tempted to take her at her word.

“George will be back soon,” Charity placated her concerned sister. “He’s just taking Nina and Amos home.”

George had been such a godsend these last few weeks. Charity hadn’t got around to buying a car yet, and George had happily volunteered his services. He had been unwilling to accept payment from Charity, until she had suggested treating his chronic lower lumbar strain as reimbursement for his chauffeuring services. Both parties felt like they were getting the better end of the deal.

“You’re sure?” Faith asked again, and Charity rolled her eyes and directed her gaze over her sister’s shoulder to where Stuart was waiting at the door.

“Get her out of here, will you? Before she fusses me to death.”

The tall, prematurely balding, good looking man grinned. “Getting that woman to stop fussing is an exercise in futility.”

“Hey, watch it, mister!” Faith warned, but her words carried little sting. Testimony to how exhausted she was. As was the yawn that she quickly smothered.

“You sure you’re safe alone for a bit?” Stuart asked. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“George will be here shortly. I’ll lock up after you leave, and nobody can gain access to the center without being buzzed in. And even if, despite the security measures, some bad guy still manages to get in here, rest assured I can kick his butt.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, we know what a badass you are.” He directed his next comment at his visibly drooping wife. “Come on, love. She’s fine. Let’s get our kid and go to bed.”

Faith didn’t protest. And after they exchanged a few hugs, with Faith exacting a promise from Charity to call after she got home, they left. Charity made a huge show of locking up behind them, and they waved at her through the glass door before wandering out of the center, hand in hand.

Finally, alone with her thoughts for the first time in hours, Charity slumped down onto the comfortable waiting room sofa and buried her face in her hands for a moment.

She was happy. She was. Sink or swim, this practice was everything she had ever dreamed of, and she was proud of getting this far.

Her evening, surrounded by friends and family, had shown her that she was not alone, that people loved her.

So why was she so damned melancholy?

Something was missing, and it didn’t take genius to figure out what.

She sighed despondently and dragged out her phone for the first time since her earlier conversation with Faith.

No new messages, no missed calls, not even any junk mail.

“Where are you?”

The door buzzer to the center’s front door sounded, the sound strident and unexpected in the eerie silence of the building, and Charity jumped nearly all the way out of her skin. Reception was equipped with an intercom but not a screen to display street view camera images. It was an additional security measure which she was scheduled to receive early on in the new year, when the installation company reopened for business.

She depressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

“It’s me.” George’s jolly voice drifted through the speaker. Charity smiled and buzzed him in. She hastily unlocked the front door before turning away to gather her purse and one of the three platters of leftover food. If the canapés remained unrefrigerated overnight, they would go bad. Frankly, she was shocked there was any food left, it was so good. But Libby had provided generous portions.

The door opened behind her.

“George, would you mind grabbing these two trays? I can’t believe Libby made so much food. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the rest of it. Feel free to take a tray home to snack on. I know you liked the—” She turned to face the driver, and the rest of what she had been about to say died in her throat.

“You’re not George,” she uttered blankly. Not sure if exhaustion was playing tricks on her eyes. Maybe she was hallucinating. Seeing what she so dearly wanted to see. Why else would Miles Henry Hollingsworth be standing in the middle of her reception area?

“I’m not George,” he confirmed gravely. He looked tired. No, more than that; bone weary. Pale, untidy, and a little haggard.

And so utterly gorgeous it hurt her to look at him.