The Best Next Thing

“Of course not, you’re touching base with your buddy. I’m fine. But my golf game is off. I lost to old man Fitzhugh on Sunday. Can you believe that? I think I need a new nine iron.”

Christ, Bryan knew that Miles hated it when he talked golf. It bored him to tears. He was happy to let Bryan schmooze potential investors on the golf course. In addition to

loathing the sport, Miles wasn’t too great with people. He left the socializing to his more personable COO.

Bryan was still droning on about golf, and trapped in a conversational noose of his own making, Miles sat back and listened. He knew that Bryan was doing this intentionally, but he wasn’t about to satisfy his arsehole friend by begging for mercy. His eyes kept drifting toward the decadent looking chocolate cake that took pride of place in the cake display. He may have to reward himself with a slice after this phone call.

George helped Charity load the groceries into the back of the SUV. She had serious doubts that what she had bought would last her and Mr. Hollingsworth more than a couple of weeks. But she would place a few online orders and hope that they managed delivery before any of the more severe storms predicted for the next week set in.

Carla, the assistant manager, had strolled through the store with her. The friendly woman had kept up a constant stream of one-sided conversation, shattering Charity’s concentration and forcing her to utter the occasional nicety in response. It had been trying and was one of the reasons Charity preferred not to shop in Riversend. Too many people trying too hard to be her friend. Her reticence seemed to bounce right off them, and they were all so earnest in their attempts to befriend her that it was impossible not to like them.

But a trip to Riversend always exhausted her, mentally and emotionally. It was draining to behave like a normal human being when she had all but forgotten how to be one.

She was relieved once the last grocery bag had been lifted into the SUV and she could climb into the front seat next to George. He always seemed to sense how desperate she was for solitude and silence after a trip into town and kept his comments down to a minimum.

He had the vehicle started and halfway down Main Road before Charity remembered her employer.

“Where’s Mr. Hollingsworth?”

“Saw him pop into MJ’s earlier. Wobbly as a newborn calf. I didn’t think he’d make it that far, truth be told. Never before seen a man fight so hard to keep himself upright. It was admirable.”

He slowed the vehicle down as it drew abreast of the restaurant but swore softly when he realized that there was nowhere to park.

“Circle the block, I’ll go in and get him,” Charity suggested, and George nodded, stopping long enough for her to hop out.

Charity spotted Mr. Hollingsworth at one of the window tables, but he didn’t see her, his attention focused on whatever he had in front of him. Sighing, because that meant she would have to go in, Charity threw back her shoulders and entered the warmth of the restaurant.

The maître d’, a familiar looking young man, smiled when he spotted her.

“Mrs. Cole. How lovely to see you. Will you be having lunch?”

Seriously, how did everybody know her name? And why were they always so warm and welcoming? It was sweet and unnerving and really uncomfortable.

“Uh. No…thank you. I’m just here to speak with my employer.”

“Your employer?” The maître d’, identified as Ricardo by his discreet name tag, looked blank for a second, but when his eyes drifted to Mr. Hollingsworth’s table, a troubled frown settled on his face. “That’s your boss?”

Clearly, Mr. Hollingsworth had not made a good impression during the short time he’d been here. Not if the look on Ricardo’s face was anything to go by.

“Yes.” She tossed him a fleeting smile before hurrying toward her boss’s table. She could now see what had him so wholly absorbed—a huge slice of dark, moist chocolate cake.

“Mr. Hollingsworth?” Her voice seemed to startle him, and his gaze snapped to her in an instant, rooting her to the spot.

“Mrs. Cole.” His voice was glacial. “Done with your shopping?”

“Yes. We’re ready to leave.”

“Join me for some coffee,” he said, ignoring her statement.

“George couldn’t find a parking spot, so he’s circling the block.”

“This cake is sinful. I can’t finish it by myself. Would you like to share?”

Share? Did he not recognize how out of bounds that suggestion was? Friends, intimates, lovers, shared slices of cake. And they were none of those things.

“You could take it home, sir.”

“What’s your rush, Mrs. Cole?”

“The weather, sir.”

His lips thinned. No arguing against nature.

He nodded and the curtness of the gesture was reflected in his voice, “Of course. I’ll settle my bill and meet you outside.”