The Best Next Thing

And he was grateful for that.

His eyes drifted down to the wedding band on her left hand—he vaguely recalled Jim, his attorney, mentioning that she was divorced. Or was that widowed? He couldn’t recall, but for the first time Miles wondered what had happened to the ex/late Mr. Cole.

“Did you need something, Mr. Hollingsworth?” Her tone was as frigid as the winter storm pummeling the house, and he fought back the unusual urge to grin. She clearly didn’t like having her territory invaded.

“Yes. Pancakes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want pancakes. Not what you’ve given me.” Even to his own ears he sounded petulant but, goddamnit, if he never saw another boiled egg in his life it’d be too soon. He didn’t understand this sudden desire for change—maybe it had something to do with nearly dying. This was the kind of thing people usually experienced after a brush with death, wasn’t it?

She gaped for a few seconds before she could disguise her reaction.

“Of course, I’ll have that ready for you in a few minutes.” She started to turn away from him, but when he sat down on one of the bar stools beside the marble-topped central island, his action was enough to stop her in her tracks. She turned her head to pin him with her unnerving gaze, for a second, before angling her body back toward his.

She folded her hands primly at waist level and pursed her lips.

“I’ll bring your pancakes to the solarium,” she told him with pointed emphasis. “Would you like bacon with it?”

“Bacon. Yes.” He nodded and very nearly complied with her implicit command before stopping himself. “I don’t mind waiting here. In fact, I think I’ll eat here in the mornings. Mealtimes needn’t be extravagant affairs. Not when I’m the only one here.”

“But…” For a moment she looked set to argue, and he braced himself in anticipation. But she hesitated, and he could see her mind ticking over before she nodded curtly. “As you wish, sir.”

Miles was disappointed that she had backed down. He had been looking forward to sparring with her. He eyed the straight line of her spine as she started on the batter for his pancakes and wondered at his sudden bizarre urge to pick an argument with her. He curbed the immediate impulse to goad her but it was still there…just a breath away.

Fortunately, George chose that moment to interrupt. The man came stomping into the kitchen by way of the back door. He had a raincoat thrown over his upper body and brought the noise and cold of the storm in with him.

“Cats and dogs out there, Mrs. Cole,” he said jovially, as he swung the coat from his shoulders. “Are you sure you want to head out in this mess?”

“Head out to where?” Miles asked, and George’s head jerked at the sound of his voice.

“Aah, good afternoon, sir. I didn’t see you.” The man looked confused to find him sitting there, and Miles was annoyed that everyone seemed so flustered by his presence in the kitchen. It was his house, wasn’t it?

“Head out to where?” Miles disliked repeating himself, but since George was still gaping at him, he clearly needed the prompt.

“To town. For supplies,” Mrs. Cole replied for George, calmly stirring pancake batter.

“Supplies?” Miles was momentarily confused by that statement. Why would she need supplies? He was the only one here. He didn’t need an army’s worth of food. “We don’t need supplies. I’ll eat what you eat.”

Mrs. Cole coughed and deliberately diverted her eyes to the pancake batter. Miles felt his face go hot, and he frowned. He wasn’t used to being put in his place with a look. That was usually his go-to move.

“After the, uh…pancakes,” he said, the words sounding lame and unconvincing even to his own ears.

“My groceries are low, sir. I’m afraid they wouldn’t last a week if I were to feed you as well.” The emphasis on the possessive pronoun was clearly there to serve as a reminder that the food in the house had been bought with her own money, for her personal consumption, and his face went even hotter.

He forced the chagrin aside and nodded coolly.

“Yes, of course. It was a thoughtless suggestion.” It pained him to admit as much.

“I usually have the pantry stocked in advance when I know you’re coming.” Another jab. Mrs. Cole disliked being surprised.

Got it.

“Fortunately for me, you’re adaptable,” he said, with a grim smile. “It comforts me to know that I can show up at any time of my choosing and depend on you to have this place up and running in no time at all.”

Translation: My house. I can damned well come here whenever the hell I like.

She injected a fair amount of frost into the smile she sent his way—message received—good to know they understood each other.