The Best Next Thing

“You do.”

He thought she would leave it at that, but instead of diverting her eyes, she continued to stare at him. He waited. Wanting her to ask, even though he wasn’t sure he would answer.

“What happened to you?”

“Ignored my doctor when he told me to take it easy. Thought I could work through a cold, only it wasn’t a cold and I was a stubborn fool who found himself lounging in the ICU for few interminable weeks.”

“ICU?”

“Yes.”

If she wanted more, she would have to ask. Her mouth opened, the lips rounded as she formed the start of a word. Her forehead furrowed as she considered what she was about to say…a soft breath escaped those full lips, before she pursed them shut and bobbed her head slightly.

“You can prepare the salad.”

“Right.” He was disappointed by her lack of follow through. But Miles, more than most people, understood the desire to keep one’s nose out of others’ business.

He didn’t like talking about himself, and he wasn’t sure why he wanted her to ask…perhaps because he recognized the soul deep loneliness in her. He often considered himself equally isolated. But he was a loner by nature. A loner who had never been as completely cut off from the world as Mrs. Cole appeared to be.

And while he wasn’t an overly affectionate or demonstrative man, he didn’t lack love in his life. Not with a sister who forced her hugs on him, a brother who unashamedly hero-worshipped him, and a mother who always meddled in his private life.

But this woman, despite the phone call he had inadvertently walked in on a few hours ago, seemed wholly alone. And that bothered him. He was honest enough with himself to admit that he would not have given her mental and emotional well-being a moment’s consideration under normal circumstances. In fact, he had given her very little thought during the three years she had been employed by him. But right now—with little else to occupy his mind and his time—Mrs. Cole was an enigma. And Miles fucking loved solving mysteries.

One more lap!

Her lungs were burning, her legs and arms felt like they were about to fall off, but experience told Charity that half a mile was the magic number to help her fall asleep again after one of her nightmares.

And, thanks to her sister’s phone call earlier, her brain had dredged up the worst of them tonight.

She woke up covered in blood. So much blood! Was she bleeding? He didn’t usually make her bleed…well not this much.

No! Charity focused on the burn. Physical pain of her making. That horrific moment was three years in the past. It had no bearing on her current reality. Blaine was nothing to her but a bad memory now.

Such a bad memory.

Half a lap to go.

Focus…focus…focus!

Her hands slammed into the wall, bringing her body to an abrupt halt. Water fountained violently up around her and crashed onto the coping tiles. For a split-second, she was tempted to flip and do another lap, but she knew her physical limitations. That was it for her tonight. A hot shower and, hopefully, she’d manage another two hours of sleep before getting up to fix breakfast.

She levered herself out of the pool. Thankfully her arms, wobbly after the relentless workout, supported her weight. Her hair, too long to be contained by a swim cap, had been plaited and wound into a large bun. But the long, thick rope of her braid had lost its anchor and tumbled to her waist.

She should cut it but…

I want your hair jaw length, Cherry. It’s classy.

She shuddered and grabbed up the thick fluffy towel she had left on the bench beside the half Olympic size indoor pool. There was an outdoor pool as well. Purely recreational. But this one was for swimming laps. And Charity made full use of it whenever her employee and his family were not in residence.

Her breathing was heavy and echoed around the large room. The water, only now starting to settle after her exit, was slapping against the pool wall. Those sounds, combined with the rhythmic drip of moisture from the end of her braid to the floor, and the sighing rustle of the towel against her skin and the fabric of her swimming costume, were comforting and familiar.

But the quiet squeak of rubber against the tiled floor was unexpected, unwelcome, and intimidatingly intrusive.

She froze.

Her instinct was to crouch, to make herself small and invisible…but she refused to do that. Not this time. And after that split-second of indecision and absolute terror, she lifted her chin to look and then exhaled the breath that had snagged in her throat.

The man silhouetted in the doorway did not frighten her.

She could not see his face, the light coming from behind him was brighter than the dim illumination in the natatorium, but she recognized the breadth of those shoulders and the arrogant assurance in his stance.