The Best Next Thing ((Un)Professionally Yours 1)
“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.
In the end, she was the one who broke the silence. “How was your walk?”
He latched on to the question gratefully.
“We didn’t get very far. It took us fifteen minutes to get to the bushwillow tree”—a feat that usually took him under ten minutes—“and because we were both already flagging at that point, I thought it best to turn around. Didn’t want to give you the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have…”
“I was joking, Mrs. Cole.” Again—as with his off-color comment about the flour earlier—she looked so confounded at the notion of him having a sense of humor, that Miles found his amusement fizzling.
Jesus, he knew he could be a crabby bastard at times, but he wasn’t that bad, was he?
She had removed the raw dough from the counter and was meticulously wiping the surface with a damp cloth.
“You’re not going to finish the bread?” he asked. A topic change seemed prudent, and it might as well be about something mundane.