He wasn’t hungry after that delicious brunch, but a cup of coffee while he caught his breath would be most welcome. It took more strength and willpower than he would ever admit to anyone, but he made it to the restaurant, which was open and teeming with customers
A smiling young man welcomed him, led him to a table right beside the window and handed him a menu and a wine list, before assuring him that his waitress would be with him shortly.
He sat down with an appreciative sigh, pretty certain his wobbly legs wouldn’t hold up much longer and glumly contemplated the menu as he considered his appalling weakness. He had possibly been precipitous in inviting himself along this morning. He had always been the kind of man to run instead of walk but this fucking illness had humbled him and—while he would never admit it to anyone—it had terrified him as well.
He inhaled deeply, grimacing at the twinge in his chest and let out the breath with a slight cough. Just a huff but it still irritated him. He was ready to get back to normal, but normal seemed a long way off.
He barely had time to register the contents of the menu, when a middle-aged waitress, with neatly pulled back red hair, approached the table. She placed a glass of water on the table in front of him and offered him a perky smile.
“Good afternoon, I’m Suzie, I’ll be your server today. Have you had a chance to look at our drinks menu?”
“Just a coffee.”
“Cappuccino or—”
“Coffee. Black.” He knew he sounded curt but didn’t much care. He was trying very hard to hold back what felt like an impending coughing fit and wanted her gone before that happened.
Suzie’s face fell and the smile dropped from her lips. Her eyes went cold and Miles could practically see her sticking him into the “difficult” category. That was fine. He was difficult. And demanding. And an arsehole who was used to getting his own way.
“Of course, sir. I’ll have that for you shortly.” She turned away, and he latched onto the water and sipped it slowly in an effort to hold back the coughing. After a few undignified splutters into the water, he managed to control the tickle in the back of his throat and put the glass down.
He perched an elbow on the table and dropped his forehead into his palm.
Seriously, fuck this! He was so damned over it.
He turned his head—transferring his chin into his palm—and stared out at the wet street. Dark rain clouds were hanging ominously low, promising more downpours to come.
He liked this place. He always had. He had never been here in winter, but he found himself appreciating the gloomy weather. In fact, even though the cold and damp were likely detrimental to his physical recovery, he did believe that the tranquility and the spotty Wi-Fi would bode well for his eventual recovery, along with his emotional and mental well-being.
He snorted at that notion. His emotional state wasn’t something he generally considered. He didn’t have time to sit around contemplating his feelings. He was a busy man, who had scraped his way up from nothing to unimaginable heights of wealth and prosperity.
So what if he didn’t get to enjoy said wealth and prosperity himself? That wasn’t why he had worked so hard to earn his first million pounds before the age of twenty-seven. It wasn’t why—seven years and countless millions later—he still wasn’t content to rest on his laurels. He never wanted to go back to having nothing and, more importantly, he wanted his siblings and his mother to continue enjoying the life he could now provide for them. And if that meant never enjoying it himself, the sacrifice was well worth it.
Suzie—a slightly less bright smile on her lips—interrupted his grim thoughts.
“Your coffee, sir. Are you ready to order?”
“Coffee’s fine for now,” he muttered, and she nodded and retreated with almost indecent haste. Miles checked out the place while he waited for the coffee to cool. It was quaint. Very country cottage with its floral mismatched crockery, spindle-legged cushioned chairs, and warm colors. It was also surprisingly busy for a week day. Most of the tables were occupied. Some people were clearly there to catch up on some work, laptops open and phones out. Others were socializing, chatting and laughing. It felt remarkably urbane for a sleepy town like Riversend, and Miles took a curious look at the menu.
Pretty standard breakfast fare. But the dinners and desserts appeared to be absurdly sophisticated. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and wondered if the food was up to par. It was one thing to promise “yuzu and rosé panna cotta” and quite another to deliver anything remotely as complex.
He flipped to the back of the leather-bound menu to read up on the chef, and his other eyebrow lifted to match the heights of the first when he read that she—Olivia Chapman—had trained in Michelin-star restaurants across Europe before settling down here.
Who knew?
He set the menu aside and took a sip of coffee. His eyes tracked back to the street outside. It was starting to drizzle. He watched as people scurried to get indoors or under cover before the inevitable downpour.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he eagerly reached for it, hoping it was Bryan with an update. Logic told him it wouldn’t be Bryan, who had promised Miles weekly reports during his six weeks of forced “vacation.” Miles had insisted on daily updates but Bryan—not one to be bullied—had point blank refused that demand.
It wouldn’t even be Hugh, who was so eager to prove himself to Bryan, that he would never contradict the man’s orders. Not even for Miles. The company would have to be verging on bankruptcy before either man called Miles for advice. Not a comforting thought…but Miles trusted Bryan implicitly. Even if he didn’t often show it.
He finally managed to fish out his phone and frowned when he saw Vicki’s face and name on the screen. She never called, preferring texts and every social media app on the face of the earth to actually picking up the phone and talking. The fact that she was calling immediately set off alarm bells.
“Vicki? What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something is wrong? Maybe I miss you. Maybe I’m worried about you.” His sister’s tart voice made him grin, and he relaxed. It didn’t sound like anything was drastically awry.
“Are you?”
“A little…but mostly I want you to call off your goon. He’s driving me insane.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This musclebound oaf”—Miles heard an offended masculine “Hey, now!” in the background and his grin widened—“you hired to follow me around. I swear to God, he barely lets me go to the bathroom alone.”
“Then he’s doing his job.”
Vicki was a florist, specializing in cutesy, kitschy, animal arrangements, and her shop had been robbed just before Miles had been hospitalized. Ill, and barely thinking straight, he had asked his security team to assign someone to watch his little sister. His mother and brother both had low key security details. But he wanted someone massive and intimidating to be Vicki’s shadow at all times. His sister was sweet and fragile and a little naïve, and he had blamed himself for not following his gut and pushing the security issue harder with her before the incident. She had flashed him her gentle smile and told him she didn’t feel comfortable with people following her around, and he had melted like butter and been more relaxed with her security. And then some bastard with a gun had roughed her up, vandalized her store, and robbed her.
Miles wasn’t allowing that to happen ever again.
“Miles, he went into the ladies’ room at Harrods to check if it was empty before allowing me to go to the loo.”
“Was it empty?”
“No. He then demanded the women there leave.” Miles heard the male voice say something in the background, and Vicki blasted an impatient breath directly into the phone. Her next words were evidently aimed at her bodyguard. “I don’t care how polite you think you were, Tyler! It was still rude.”
“Vicki, let me talk to him.”
“Tell him he was way out of bounds, Miles,” Vicki said, her vo
ice edged with frustration. There were muffled noises as she handed the phone over.
“Sir?” The deep voice on the other end had a Texan twang to it.
“It’s Chambers, right?” Miles asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. I want her safe.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good man. Now let me speak with her again.”
“Did you tell him, Miles?” Vicki asked.
“I told him to keep up the good work.”
“Miles, come on, this is ridiculous. The store was robbed. It happens. If you want to help, stick this guy on shop security or something. I’m just a regular woman. I can’t have this…this person following me around like I’m some pop star or…or heiress or something.”
“You are an heiress,” Miles corrected her, striving for patience while he took a sip from his coffee. “You’re my heiress.”
“Ugh! That’s just… it’s just…”
“Vic, just bear with me, okay? When I’m feeling better, I’ll ask the security company to be less obvious with your detail. But while I’m here and not able to keep an eye on things myself, it would really ease my mind, and probably aid in my recovery, if you’d humor me for now.”
Pulling the sick card was a low blow, but he knew she would feel obliged to acquiesce to his request. Especially when he never usually asked her for anything.
“Okay,” she muttered begrudgingly. “But I’m not happy about it.”
“Noted.”
“So how are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Miles.” The impatience in her voice told him she was probably rolling her eyes as well.
“A little tired after the flight,” he admitted. “But you know how peaceful this place is. It’s even quieter at this time of year. I think this will do me the world of good.”
“You should have gone someplace warmer and drier.”
“It’s not damp here, just cold and rainy.”
“Cold and rainy is the definition of damp.”
“The house has central heating,” he muttered, aware of how defensive he sounded. “And it’s not like I’m going to be wandering around in the rain.”
“You sure about that? I know how much you enjoy your long, meandering hikes.”
“I’m here to rest.”
“Make sure that you do.”
Miles couldn’t help but smile at the words. His sister was seven years younger than he was, but she sometimes fussed over him like she was the older one.
“How are Hugh and Mum?”
“If this is your sneaky way of trying to find out if Hugh’s pulling his weight at the company, I’m totally not telling.”
“If I wanted to know that I’d ask Bry—”
“He wouldn’t tell you either.” She sounded so smug.
“Probably not, but he’s more likely to have an actual answer to my question. You wouldn’t know.”
“I know stuff.” Her voice was breezy and unconcerned, and Miles could imagine the careless wave of her hand as she said the words. “I just have more interesting things to obsess over.”
“How is Sullivan doing?”
“We broke up. Your henchman made him nervous.”
Good. Miles knew better than to say the word out loud, but his sister’s last boyfriend was an arsehole who lounged around doing nothing much of anything as far as Miles could tell. Vicki had called him “creative” and “sensitive,” which Miles had translated to “lazy” and “useless.” The guy hadn’t worked in the entire time that Vicki had dated him, always banging on about his muse not speaking to him. Miles still wasn’t sure if the guy was a painter, a writer, or a musician…his “art” had been an amorphous thing that never quite solidified into anything identifiable.
But while Miles had opinions, he never interfered in his siblings’ love lives. Unless they came to him for advice, he trusted them to figure it out. That didn’t mean he hadn’t taken the time to have a long, extremely one-sided, conversation with each of Vicki’s boyfriends, warning them of what would befall them if they hurt her in any way.
He did the same with Hugh’s boyfriends. Nobody was hurting his baby brother and sister. Not on his watch.
If Vicki having a bodyguard meant a break from the endless stream of arty, unemployed hipster types, then Miles was all for it.
“Tell me,” Miles began, as another thought struck him. “How old would you say Mrs. Cole is?”
“I don’t know…” Vicki sounded distracted, and her next words, once again meant for Chambers, confirmed that. “Don’t touch that! Why do you have to fiddle with everything? Aren’t you guys supposed to be strong and silent and stationary or something? Ugh. Miles. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad and if it keeps you safe, then that’s just the way it’s going to be for now. Now, about Mrs. Cole.”
“What? I don’t know…forty-five? Fifty? She sort of fades into the background, and you don’t notice too many details about her. It’s weird, right? Now that I think about it, she could be in a room with us and we wouldn’t notice her unless she spoke. That’s some serious ninja skills. But I always thought it was just part of her job. To be invisible or something. I don’t think I could even tell you what color her hair is. Gray, right?”
“Black,” Miles supplied without thinking, then winced. Luckily Vicki didn’t seem to notice, she was still musing about Mrs. Cole.
“Or does she wear a cap? I can’t really picture her. The harder I try the fuzzier the image. So weird. It’s like I’ve been huffing ‘shrooms and—”
“What do you know about huffing ‘shrooms?” Miles interrupted, and she coughed delicately.
“Like how I imagine it would be if I’d been huffing ‘shrooms,” she amended, before prudently changing the subject. “Why are you asking about Mrs. Cole? You’re not thinking about firing her or anything, I hope. She’s brilliant.”
“Of course not.”
“Then why ask?”
“No reason.”
“You always have a reason…”
“What’s that? Vicki? Vicki? You’re breaking up…I…you…hear me?” Miles got a childish kick out of faking the bad connection. He had always wanted to do that, especially since he knew his siblings did it to him all the time.
“You’re so full of crap.” Vicki sounded unconvinced but, Miles chuckled and disconnected the call before she could say anything more.
The phone pinged a second later, and he lifted it to read the text from his sister:
I heard you laughing before you hung up. You didn’t fool me at all.
Don’t know what you’re talking about, he responded.
She replied by sending him an eyerolling emoji.
Love you, big bro. Stay healthy.
Don’t give Chambers too much shit. He’s just doing his job.
Not making any promises. XOXO
He was about to put his phone away when, purely on impulse, he called up Bryan’s number. His friend would surely want to know how he was feeling after his long flight. And if talk happened to drift to business? That would be par for the course for them.
The phone rang once before it was picked up.
“No!”
“Bry—”
“No, Miles. We agreed, I’d give you weekly updates. It’s barely been thirty-six hours since we last spoke.”
“Can’t I call to touch base with my buddy?”
“Are you calling to touch base with your buddy?” Bryan asked, and Miles grinned.
“Maybe I want to know how Hugh is doing? Has he fucked anything up yet?”
“No more than expected. Your brother is fine. He’ll do well. And don’t think you can call him to find out about the Lambert contract either. He’s under strict instruction to say nothing to you.”
“I wasn’t calling about the Lambert contract,” Miles lied. He had hoped Bryan would drop a breadcrumb or two.
; “Of course not, you’re touching base with your buddy. I’m fine. But my golf game is off. I lost to old man Fitzhugh on Sunday. Can you believe that? I think I need a new nine iron.”
Christ, Bryan knew that Miles hated it when he talked golf. It bored him to tears. He was happy to let Bryan schmooze potential investors on the golf course. In addition to
loathing the sport, Miles wasn’t too great with people. He left the socializing to his more personable COO.
Bryan was still droning on about golf, and trapped in a conversational noose of his own making, Miles sat back and listened. He knew that Bryan was doing this intentionally, but he wasn’t about to satisfy his arsehole friend by begging for mercy. His eyes kept drifting toward the decadent looking chocolate cake that took pride of place in the cake display. He may have to reward himself with a slice after this phone call.
George helped Charity load the groceries into the back of the SUV. She had serious doubts that what she had bought would last her and Mr. Hollingsworth more than a couple of weeks. But she would place a few online orders and hope that they managed delivery before any of the more severe storms predicted for the next week set in.
Carla, the assistant manager, had strolled through the store with her. The friendly woman had kept up a constant stream of one-sided conversation, shattering Charity’s concentration and forcing her to utter the occasional nicety in response. It had been trying and was one of the reasons Charity preferred not to shop in Riversend. Too many people trying too hard to be her friend. Her reticence seemed to bounce right off them, and they were all so earnest in their attempts to befriend her that it was impossible not to like them.
But a trip to Riversend always exhausted her, mentally and emotionally. It was draining to behave like a normal human being when she had all but forgotten how to be one.
She was relieved once the last grocery bag had been lifted into the SUV and she could climb into the front seat next to George. He always seemed to sense how desperate she was for solitude and silence after a trip into town and kept his comments down to a minimum.
The Best Next Thing Page 4