The Best Next Thing

She stared at her employer for a moment, wondering if it was best to let him sleep, but he was still wearing that hopelessly wrinkled gray pinstriped suit—and he had requested this sandwich. Charity had worked for him long enough to know that he would be displeased if she didn’t follow his instructions to the letter. He was an exacting, cold man who had no time for, or patience with, bad service.

She set the tray on the bedside table and cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Mr. Hollingsworth, I brought your sandwich,” she said. Nothing. Not even the flutter of an eyelid. Crap. She raised her voice, “Mr. Hollingsworth. Your sandwich.”

Still nothing. She closed her eyes and inhaled nervously. She was going to have to touch him. She wiped her suddenly clammy palms on her skirt and swallowed back the bile that had risen in her throat. This wasn’t ideal. She should leave. Maybe he’d wake up on his own.

“Mr. Hollingsworth!” She practically shouted in a last-ditch desperate attempt to avoid touching him. That did the trick. He leaped out of the bed like it was on fire and stood staring at her with wide eyes, his chest heaving as he assessed the situation, searching for the threat. When he realized that there was none and registered her presence, he stood upright and glared at her.

Charity tried her best to appear unfazed even though his violent reaction had nearly sent her rabbiting out of the room like the coward she was. She held her hands clasped in front of her in an effort to hide their trembling from him.

“Mrs. Cole? What the fuck? Christ, you had me thinking the house was on fire!” She had never seen the usually unflappable Miles H. Hollingsworth look so completely pissed off before, and she couldn’t help taking a step back, preparing to flee if the need arose. Her breathing shallowed, and she tried to quell her instinctive fight or flight response, not sure if his reaction would worsen.

He raked his hands through his hair, furrowing it into messy peaks, and after another deep breath, his anger visibly dissipated, leaving him looking even more exhausted. Charity allowed herself to relax and took a step forward again.

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you’d want me to wake you for the sandwich.” She gestured toward the tray, and his piercing gaze followed the vague movement of her hand.

“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Cole. That will be all.”

Resisting the usual urge to curtsy in the face of all that British reserve, Charity nodded before asking, “What time would you like breakfast served in the morning, sir?”

“I doubt I’ll surface before noon. Prepare something light at one.”

“Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.” She backed out of the room but kept her eyes deferentially downcast while remaining acutely aware of his penetrating, unflinching gaze as she retreated.

She escaped the room with a relieved gasp and leaned back against the door for a moment as she gathered herself. She took a few, wobbly steps toward the kitchen but paused, swore beneath her breath, and nearly kicked herself as she remembered the bed. She couldn’t, in good conscience, leave him to sleep on an unmade bed.

Five minutes later, she was knocking on his door, hating the fact that she was disturbing him again, but she took too much pride in her job not to.

“Come.” There was no hesitation in the familiar command. Not for the first time, Charity shocked and amused herself by picturing him using the exact same word and intonation in bed with one of his lovers as he commanded her to climax.

Somehow, she couldn’t picture Miles Hollingsworth as a passionate, hot-blooded lover who lost himself in the act of sex. Instead, she envisioned him as a cold automaton barking orders at the woman beneath him while he heaved away methodically inside of her. The thought sent a shudder of revulsion and fear down her spine, and her amusement faded almost instantly.

She let herself into the room and blushed like a schoolgirl when she saw that he had divested himself of his shirt, shoes, and socks in the last five minutes. He was seated on the edge of his bed, with half a sandwich in one hand and the mug of hot chocolate in the other.

Whoa! Mr. Hollingsworth might have lost too much weight since she’d seen him last, but he still had an impressive chest. Wide shoulders with well-defined pecs lightly dusted with downy looking dark hair that tapered down a pretty decent six-pack toward the waistband of his trousers…

She jerked her eyes to his face, which was wearing one of his trademark frowns.

“I brought fresh towels and clean bedding. I’ll just…”

“Leave it.”

“But…”

“Leave it, Mrs. Cole,” he repeated, the words ripe with irritation. “I’m knackered, I don’t want to sit around waiting for you to get those military corners just right. All I need is the duvet and a pillowcase. You can take care of the rest tomorrow. Towels in the bathroom, if you please, and then leave me alone.”