The Best Next Thing

But that terrifying acknowledgment had her keen to slam the lid on this simmering attraction that could boil over if she didn’t maintain her vigilance and her distance.

“The Ice Man”, that’s what the media called him. Cold, calculated, and cutthroat. He was pretty much the antithesis of her late husband.

Blaine had been almost godlike in his beauty. Tall, with a perfect body, perfect face, pale green eyes, and perfectly coiffed sandy hair. He had been so warm and approachable. Everybody’s favorite guy.

Just perfect.

And rotten to the core.

“I look?” Miles prompted her softly, and she blinked. She hated that she had noticed how good he looked. She didn’t want to notice that about him, or about any man for that matter. She didn’t think she was ready for that. For sexual awareness. Especially not awareness of someone who had so much power over her life and immediate future.

“Uhm…cold. You look cold. And wet.”

“It started drizzling about five minutes ago. Light and annoying but pretty effective at soaking us through.”

“That can’t be good for you.”

“Probably not, but I feel fantastic. It was an invigorating walk. We both enjoyed it.”

He took another thirsty gulp from his bottle, this time keeping his perceptive, unsettling gaze on her face. “You have something on your cheek.”

He brushed his long, slender index finger over his own cheekbone.

Charity self-consciously lifted her hands and scrubbed them over her face. The corners of his lips lifted when he met her inquiring gaze, and he shook his head.

“Despite just about rubbing your skin raw, you still missed it.”

“What is it?”

“White powder. You been snorting coke while I was gone?” The words were so deadpan, Charity’s jaw dropped in shock at the question. His lips kicked up even more at the edges, revealing the shallow dimple in his right cheek.

“No, of course not,” she gasped, and this time he snorted. The sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Relax, Mrs. Cole, I was joking. I can see that it’s flour.” He indicated toward the island behind her, where the overworked dough lay forgotten on the counter.

“Oh,” she said, feeling like a complete idiot. He stepped toward her and lifted his hand. She froze and then flinched when his thumb touched her skin for a millisecond.

“There,” he said, not seeming to notice her reaction. “It’s gone.”

He took a deliberate step back, his movement telling her that he had most certainly noticed her reaction.

“I’m sorry.” The apology stunned her. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was uncalled for.”

Fuck!

He shouldn’t have touched her. He wasn’t sure why he had. It had been improper behavior. But the gesture had been unconscious and not intended to do anything more than remove the smudge of flour from her cheek.

But it had shocked and…frightened her. And the very last thing he wanted was for her to feel unsafe around him.

She had looked so fucking sad when he had first walked into the kitchen, and Miles had teased her to get that tragic look out of her eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen the usually stalwart Mrs. Cole so vulnerable, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. The depth of sadness and despair he had glimpsed on her face had made her seem young and completely defenseless.

He hated it, and he wanted to know what had caused it.

“Was that your family? On the phone?” he asked, and then could have kicked himself for opening his damned mouth. It was none of his business.

She didn’t say anything, merely patted her hair—checking for errant strands that were never there—and turned back to her work station at the island.

“Do they live close by?”

Fucking hell, shut up, Hollingsworth!

He was about to change the subject by asking about dinner, when she replied, “No. They don’t.”

“Where do they live?” Now that she’d responded, the topic was fair game as far as he was concerned.

“Nowhere near here.”

“Do you see them often?”

“No.” Her response was cold and delivered with an air of finality that encouraged no further questions.

Miles watched her closely for a second, her smooth, clinical mask of indifference was back in place, but there were fine cracks forming. He could tell from the slight tremble of her long, elegant fingers as she cleaned sticky dough off the marble counter. And from the white line forming around the tight press of her full lips. If he pushed her, she would break…

But he found that—despite his curiosity—he didn’t want her to break. He wanted to know more. But only if she was willing to tell him.

And why should she ever want to confide in him? He was nothing but a paycheck to her. And his current curiosity and boredom, and frustration did not entitle him to know her secrets.

He cleared his throat, not sure what to say next. He should leave her to her privacy. But what if she cried again? He didn’t like the thought of leaving her alone to cry.