The Best Next Thing

Miles disagreed with that. Mrs. Cole was a disguise plain and simple. But he didn’t argue. Choosing instead to say, “But you were here in your personal capacity tonight, Charity. As my friend. Not my employee.”

“It’s just a few plates, Miles,” she said, her voice softening.

“I know, which is why I’m perfectly capable of cleaning them up myself.”

She sighed, and the starch went out of her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I…goodnight, Miles.”

She left before he had a chance to return the greeting. Miles heaved a deep sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face.

He was still hard and wanting and dreaded the prospect of yet another cold shower before bed tonight. It had been a kiss. A tame kiss with a little grinding thrown into the mix. He had done more risqué things when he had been a fumbling adolescent with his first girlfriend. His over-the-top reaction to a bit of light petting was rather embarrassing.

He shook his head and moved to open Stormy’s crate. This was going to be a lot more difficult than he had first imagined.

“You’re up early,” Charity observed when Miles and Stormy joined her in the kitchen the following morning.

“I was hoping to get to the kitchen before you and start breakfast.” He was a little peeved that she had beaten him to it. He had waited for her to go jogging as usual, figuring he could get breakfast started while she was out. But of course, today of all days, she broke routine and didn’t go running.

“You’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to beat me to the kitchen, sir,” she said archly, and he glared at her.

“I did. And yet here you are.”

She smiled. A wicked grin that set off a naughty twinkle in her eyes. “Then it clearly wasn’t early enough.”

He gave her an aggrieved look, not because he felt aggrieved, but because she seemed to be enjoying his feigned disgruntlement so much.

“Well, can I make myself useful in any way?”

“Feed Stormy,” she instructed him, looking at the dog who was dancing around their feet.

He immediately moved to obey, grabbing the Stormy’s bowl and measuring out a portion of kibble for her. Task done, he was back at the island in under two minutes to watch her whisk eggs.

“What else can I do? Should I get the coffee on?”

“Done. In fact, why don’t you grab a cup and have a seat? Breakfast will be served in a few minutes.”

“I could put some bread in the toaster.”

“Toasting as we speak.”

“Should I fry up some bacon?”

“Use your nose,” she said, with a soft laugh, and he inhaled deeply, absently noting that there was barely a twinge in his chest anymore. The smell of bacon permeated the air, making his mouth water and his stomach growl. A quick glance confirmed that it was grilling in the eye level oven.

“Well, what can I do?” he asked, now feeling genuinely aggrieved. And more than a little useless.

She stopped whisking and scrunched her nose, before leaning toward him across the island.

“You can…” she began, and he edged closer, keen to hear how he could help. “Kiss me good morning?”

His breath caught, and his eyes dropped to her lush lips. His throat went dry, and he swallowed in an attempt to moisten it.

“Mrs. Cole,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with unabashed lust. “You do shock me.”

“Good. As long as I don’t bore you.”

“Never that,” he denied. They were so close his nose nuzzled against hers. He canted his head to the side, never taking his eyes from hers, and captured her lips with his.

Another soft kiss, but he put all the yearning and desire he felt for her in the tender caress. When he released her mouth after one last, decadent nip of her lower lip, and lifted his head, her eyes were screwed shut, and her mouth still pursed as if she were waiting for more.

“Good morning.” His voice was filled with gravel, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him. A sweet smile. One that lacked any artifice or reservation whatsoever.

“Morning.”

She was wearing her Mrs. Cole disguise, but her hair was different. Still up in a bun, it looked softer, less severe than usual. With wispy tendrils framing her face. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she had on some eyeliner and lip gloss as well.

He sat on one of the high bar stools at the island, rested his elbows on the marble surface and his chin in his palms. Settling in to watch her work.

“Tell me,” he invited, while she poured the whisked eggs into a skillet. “Is there some kind of uniform clause in your contract that I’m unaware of?”

She wiped her hands on a tea towel and shifted her body so that she could keep an eye on the skillet and converse with him.