The Best Next Thing

As was to be expected on a random Tuesday afternoon, the restaurant wasn’t very busy. There were only a handful of patrons inside and none outside. A truculent young man led them to their table and provided a couple of glasses of water.

“Your server will be here soon,” he muttered, before skulking off. Charity raised her eyebrows at his surly attitude, but since he wasn’t their server, chose not to comment.

Miles didn’t seem to notice the guy, he was too busy making sure his dog was comfortable. He put Stormy’s “travel cushion”—as he called it—down on one of the chairs and after two turns, the pup flopped down and passed out.

“I’m always amazed by how fast she switches off,” Miles marveled, an undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “I found her comatose with her head in her food bowl the other night.”

“I nearly tripped over her in the den two days ago. She was fast asleep in the middle of the floor, stretched out in that superhero pose, you know the one?”

Miles chuckled and nodded. Stormy often lay with her front paws outstretched, head tucked between them, her tummy flat on the floor and her hind legs splayed like a frog’s. It looked comical but it was her favorite way to sleep.

Charity watched Miles’s face soften as he ran a gentle hand over the puppy’s head. The dog barely seemed to register the touch. Charity’s insides melted into a pool of comfortably warm goo. The pleasant shudder of excitement that accompanied the giddy sensation felt familiar. A long-ago echo of something that could only be described as romantic interest.

Every instinct she had screamed at her to distance herself from him. And from this unwanted and painful awakening of feelings that she had believed were dead and buried. She had known, of course, that she was sexually attracted to him. But the possibility of forming a romantic attachment was inconceivable.

But instead of skittering back into her shell or distancing herself the way she knew she should, she folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, keen to learn even more about this intriguing man. “I didn’t realize you knew Sam Brand so well.”

“I’ve known him for about six years. His company handles security for Hollingsworth Holdings. As well as personal security for my family.”

“And for you.”

“To a certain extent. I don’t have a security detail or anything like that.”

“Why not?” Surely a man as powerful and wealthy as Miles Hollingsworth, chairman of the board to one of the most successful holding companies in Europe, would need some form of personal protection?

“I’m reclusive.” He used air quotes to frame the word “reclusive” and his tone was light, but the tongue in cheek response didn’t satisfy her. It seemed negligent of a man in his position to allow himself to be so vulnerable. Charity knew how swiftly someone who meant to do violence could strike. From one second to the next, you could go from seemingly fine to prone, in pain and powerless.

“You shouldn’t be so flippant about your safety,” she heard herself berating him, and instantly wished the words back when he pinned her with a searching look. She had sounded too grim and her intensity didn’t match the tone of the conversation.

“Uh…I’m not,” he said, after a long pause. “When I know I’m heading into an unknown situation, or into a crowd, we always take extra precautions. I don’t take unnecessary risks. Not in business and not with my life.”

“You did with your health.” She pointed out.

He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You got me there. It was stupid. It felt like a cold and I ignored it but it kept getting worse. I saw a doctor when my concentration became impaired. He suggested I take time off and I—foolishly, I admit—disregarded him. I took the medication he prescribed and kept pushing myself. It was a fucking bug, I thought I had it under control. Right up until the point I found myself waking up in the hospital with my mother and sister crying at my bedside like I’d already died.”

“What did you have?”

“I had the flu…” He waved his hand when she started to say something in response to that. “Seriously. That’s how it started. Influenza Type B. Sore throat, runny nose, chills, the works. It all felt manageable, and I worked from home because I didn’t want to spread it and debilitate my entire company. But when I work from home, I tend to overdo it. I schedule international conference calls at all hours, work on contracts till late into the night, research new acquisitions…I wasn’t joking earlier when I said I’m reclusive. That’s pretty much my life. And it was easier to ignore my symptoms without anyone around to nag me about them.”

“But your sister and brother must have checked up on you. Your mother?”