The Best Next Thing

“She loves the lake and I’m keen to see how she takes to the ocean,” he told Charity, his gorgeous smile remaining firmly in place.

“I’m sure she’s going to love this too,” Charity said her voice faint, as she tried to find the breath he had stolen from her with that gorgeous grin.

A deep, purring, oh-so-sexy sound of approval rumbled from his chest, and he opened the door and leaped from the Land Rover. She was still unbuckling her seatbelt by the time he had rounded the front of the vehicle and opened the door for her. A little flustered by the consideration, she didn’t give herself time to think before taking the hand he offered, and stepping to the ground on wobbly legs. His hands weren’t as soft as she would have imagined. The last week or so of wood chopping and garden work had formed a few callouses on those capable, broad palms, and she loved the feel of the rough texture of his skin on her own.

She shuddered as she imagined them exploring other, more sensitive, parts of her body and helplessly clenched her thighs at the thought. Thank God, he seemed to remain oblivious her reaction. Instead, he released her hand almost immediately and turned back to the vehicle for Stormy. The pup’s excited whining was turning into yelps of approval, and he chuckled.

“Cool your jets, Stormy girl,” he said, as he lifted her from the booster seat and snapped a leash to her harness. He clipped a bag of treats to one of the belt loops of his well-fitted, low-riding jeans, donned his backpack, and beamed at Charity. “Ready?”

It was breezy this close to the ocean, and Charity’s hair was starting to lift and play around her face. She regretted not bringing a hair tie and swept the length over her left shoulder and tried to anchor it in place with her scarf.

She grabbed up her own backpack and shrugged into it before nodding.

“Ready.”

Stormy was tugging at the leash, while Miles waited for Charity to join them.

His eyes ran over her face. “You cold?”

“It’s nippy but not too bad.”

A long strand of her hair escaped the imprisoning hold of the scarf and danced on the wind. He leaned forward and very slowly—clearly projecting his intention and giving her ample opportunity to back away if she chose—reached out and tucked the hair behind her ear.

She stood her ground and allowed it. Happy that he had—by the excruciating slowness of his movements and the question in his eyes—requested permission to touch.

“Let’s go.”

Miles appreciated Stormy’s clear enjoyment of the exciting new sights and sounds around her. They were walking downstream along the slow-moving river, toward the beach. There were a few random anglers scattered about, all of them utterly focused on their lines. Several of the men looked up and nodded as Miles and Charity passed.

Stormy, after initially pulling at her lead, finally settled into a cheerful trot alongside Miles’s heel, happily obeying his unspoken commands to speed up or slow down. Charity didn’t speak much, she seemed content to take in the scenery, occasionally pointing out water fowl with descriptive names like “black-winged stilt”, or “white-faced whistling duck”, and his favorite, the “maccoa duck”. It was his favorite mainly because of Charity’s reaction when she spotted it.

She grabbed his arm to halt his movements and leaned toward him with such urgency that for a split-second Miles thought she must have injured herself. An instant later, she pushed the length of her body against his side to get closer to his face. For a breathless, exciting moment he was utterly convinced she was going to kiss him.

Instead, disappointingly, she placed her mouth close to his ear to whisper, “Look! Over there. Maccoa ducks.”

His eyes followed the straight line of her arm and extended index finger to spot a family of happily bobbing ducks. Weird looking, squat things with brown bodies, black heads, white markings on their faces, and magnificent blue bills.

“We’re lucky to see them, especially at this time of year. There are no females in this group. They’re probably nesting already. I’m really surprised they’re here. They’re rarely found on rivers, I assume because of the recent rains, and because this part of the river is fairly sluggish, it offers some good eating. They’re on the near endangered list and are quite shy.”

“You know a lot about this stuff,” he murmured.

“Not really. I’m just interested in my surroundings and do a lot of reading in my downtime.”

“You probably have a lot of that. Downtime, I mean.”

She was still staring at the ducks—a dreamy, faraway look on her face. He wondered what was behind that reflective gaze.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he offered, his voice hushed. He did not want to spook her or the contentedly bobbing ducks.

A smile crooked the corner of her lips, but she kept her eyes on the birds.