The puppy wouldn’t be bringing home any beauty prizes. The bath hadn’t improved the nondescript brown of her partly wiry, partly fluffy coat…But she was adorable in the way all dogs were, with the earnest pleading eyes and the sweet expression and the hopeful wag of her fluffy tail. She appeared to have some Yorkie, Chihuahua, and Maltese poodle in her, and Charity doubted she’d get much bigger. Considering her tiny size right now, it was a miracle she had survived out in this weather for so long.
“I wonder if her mother and siblings are out there,” Charity mused. She hoped that if they were out there, they had found some decent shelter to weather this storm.
Miles—damn it! She was just going to consider him as such in the privacy of her thoughts—looked horrified at the notion and took a step toward the back door. Recognizing his intention, she stepped in front of him and shook her head.
“If they were out there, we would have heard them by now. More than likely, this little one—”
“Stormy,” he interrupted her, and she blinked, not sure why he was stating the obvious.
“Yes. Because of the stormy weather, they’ve probably found shelter and she got separated from—”
“No…her name is Stormy.”
“You named her?” She couldn’t disguise the dismay in her voice. He was going to find it incredibly hard parting with the dog if he’d named her already.
“She needs a name and I wasn’t going to call her ‘Dog’ or ‘Hey You’…I thought Stormy was apt.”
“But—”
“Do we have anything to feed her?”
“I don’t keep a supply of dog food in the pantry, no.”
“No need for facetiousness, Mrs. Cole. I meant chicken or fish…something we can steam with some veggies. I remember reading somewhere that unsalted steamed chicken and rice would be the easiest on a sick pup’s little tummy.”
Tummy? Seriously?
“I’ll prepare enough chicken and rice for the next few days.”
“She’ll need to eat three to four times a day.”
“You seem to know a great deal about this, do you have a dog in London?”
“Stormy’s my first dog.”
“You’re keeping her?”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I’ll get her shots up-to-date…make sure she’s healthy, and I’m certain she’ll be well enough to travel long before I’m cleared to work again.”
The dog—Stormy—gave Charity a haughty look. Oh, she knew she’d just landed in the lap of luxury. Skin and bones, a little mangy and probably still sporting more than her fair share of ticks, she was already carrying herself like a princess.
And Miles… damned if he didn’t look completely besotted with the mutt.
“I’ll take care of her food. I doubt she’s house-trained so we’re going to have to keep her confined to a bathroom or something.”
“I’ll sort something out. No need to concern yourself, Mrs. Cole.”
Hard not to worry. If he changed his mind about Stormy, Charity knew she’d be the one left as the dog’s primary caregiver. Miles seemed in love with the pup now, but who knew if that would last?
She ran her damp palms down the front of her skirt and nodded.
“Very well, sir.” He winced at the word. “Let me know what you’ll need for her and I’ll do my best to procure it.”
“I know that, Mrs. Cole. Now, what’s to eat? I’m starving.”
Stormy was a quiet, undemanding dog, and Miles worried that she may be sicker than she looked. But until he could get the hell out of this house, there was no way to know. Her appetite seemed fine, but she slept a lot and stuck close by his side. He was beginning to think he should have named her Velcro instead.
His impulsive decision to keep her had been out of character for him. Usually he would have handed the pup over to Mrs. Cole with the instruction that she took care of it and kept it out of sight until they could pass the responsibility on to the SPCA. But one look at the pathetic scrap of a dog, so clearly ill and malnourished, and he had felt an immediate affinity toward it.
And now here she was; lying on the couch next to him despite his housekeeper’s critical glares whenever she spotted the dog on the furniture. The pup was wearing one of Mrs. Cole’s socks—a much better fit for her—and her head was resting on her tiny front paws while she stared up at him in devotion. Her ears were lopsided, one up and one down, giving her a rakish appearance, and her limpid black eyes were ridiculously expressive, especially with their dark “eyebrows”.
According to the Internet research he had managed to do during his extremely limited allotted “Wi-Fi time”, puppies her age were balls of mischievous energy. But Stormy spent her days sleeping and shadowing his every move.
He decided to crate train her and found a small, wicker shopping basket that she couldn’t climb out of to use for that purpose. It worked well as a temporary crate, and she was content to be left in the basket for a couple of hours here and there. She seemed to consider it her space. He fashioned a ball out of a pair of his socks and hoped that it could work as both a pacifier—since it carried his scent—and as a toy.
He knew Mrs. Cole didn’t quite approve of the entire set up and couldn’t figure out why. But her reticence and his extreme awareness of their employer/employee status, prevented him from asking.
Mrs. Cole had been right about the blackout lasting for more than a few hours. They were still using the generator now—three days after the massive storm had blown the transformer box. Nobody could come out to fix the box because the bridge had washed out. And according to George, who was in daily contact with Miles, it was scheduled to be repaired “sometime before the weekend”, which was of no help at all, since it was currently Monday.
Miles could now see why Mrs. Cole was so damned precious over his use of electricity. She entered rooms, moments after he exited them, to turn off the lights, or the television, or whatever the hell else he had thoughtlessly left running. It was unnerving how rapidly she seemed to materialize to do those things, before fading right back into the woodwork as if she’d never been there.
It was like living with a disapproving ghost, and his curiosity about her grew every day. He had never again caught her with her hair down, or dressed in anything other than her regular, boring apparel of skirt and blouse, combined with those sensible, ugly black brogues. The shoes seemed too heavy and chunky for her slender legs.
Not that he’d noticed her legs…much. Well, his eyes were always drawn to the ugly shoes and just naturally followed the length of her shapely calves to the hemline of her skirt. He only sometimes allowed himself to recall how they looked even farther up, past the knees, to those firm, beautifully toned thighs and…
He shook his head and muttered a curse, drawing Stormy’s concerned gaze to his.
He was developing a serious case of cabin fever. His mind was restless and venturing into dangerous, no-go zones.
“Let’s go for a walk, girl. See if we can find your mum.”
It was the best thing to do. He wasn’t a huge reader and had pretty much blasted through his audiobooks already. Television was out of the question as Mrs. Cole had allocated precisely three hours for television watching in a bid to conserve electricity. He was saving those hours for later. When he had asked her how many hours she had, she had told him that she rarely watched TV. Which he found hard to believe. What the hell else was there to do out here?
Stormy was a sharp little girl, and they’d been on enough limited outings in the short time that he’d had her for her to recognize the word “walk”. He took her out every four hours for toilet breaks, relishing the opportunity to stretch his legs. It was cold and rained intermittently, and it probably wasn’t good for either of them, but both he and the pup enjoyed their forays out into the vast garden.
Today, wasn’t as blustery as the last few days had been, and Miles wanted to walk along the lakeshore and take the opportunity to search for Stormy’s mother.
; The house had a private beach about a mile long. During summer, his siblings and their friends made good use of both the beach as well as Miles’s forty-five-foot sloop that remained moored year-round at their private jetty. He figured he could easily walk up and down the flat, sandy stretch of beach without getting too winded.
“Mrs. Cole?” he called, before entering the kitchen. She didn’t like being startled— he had picked up on that pretty quickly. As a result, he had taken to announcing his presence before intruding upon any areas he deemed her domain. And the kitchen was very much Mrs. Cole’s territory.
She looked flushed and flustered when he walked into the room a moment later, and his eyes narrowed. She was standing by the sink, patting her pristine hair, a dull red flush darkening her cheeks, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
Something was up with her.
Miles assessed her appearance, wondering what could have caused such an uncharacteristic reaction in his usually unruffled housekeeper. A quick scan around the spacious, bright room solved the mystery almost immediately.
A pot of tea, next to a half full cup, sat on the round table at the cozy banquette in the corner of the kitchen. She must be on a break. A gossip magazine, the likes of which he would never have imagined Mrs. Cole reading, lay open beside the dainty porcelain cup.
The bright red headline screeched:
“Mermaid Pregnant with Chris Hemsworth’s Love Child.”
He fought back a grin but was immediately distracted when his gaze dropped and he caught sight of her ugly, unwieldy shoes. They were tucked beneath the table, with her thick, white socks stuffed into them. His eyes tracked back to Mrs. Cole and trailed down her slim body, lingering over those beautifully shaped calves again, before finding themselves helplessly drawn to her small, delicate feet.
Ten perfect toes, topped with frosted blue tips. The shade was a surprisingly whimsical choice for the monochromatic, buttoned-down, stern woman standing in front of him.
Miles swallowed in a bid to moisten his abruptly dry throat. He had never found feet particularly erotic before…but right now, these elegantly arched soft looking beauties were seriously revving his engine.
He was staring, he knew he was staring…he should stop fucking staring before his dick went from half-mast to a full, proud salute.
He cleared his throat and jerked his gaze back to her deer-trapped-in-the-headlights stare and said the first nonsensical thing that popped into his head, “How does one copulate with a mermaid, do you suppose?”
Her jaw dropped and he felt his own face heat at the inanity of that question. But before he knew it, even more stupid words spilled from his lips, “I mean, which parts go where? It’s not like there are corresponding bits. No inserting Tab A into Slot B as it were.”
He sounded like a bloody fool.
“Well, you’re overlooking the most common mermaid trope,” she said, after a long, measured pause. “They can take on human form for limited amounts of time. I would assume that’s when the…uh…copulation takes place.”
The word “copulation” wasn’t sexy, but hearing it spill from her lush lips was like a spark to tinder. He was embarrassingly erect in seconds.
Fortunately, he was wearing a baggy sweatpants, and his errant hard-on wasn’t noticeable. Still, it was damned awkward standing in front of his stalwart housekeeper sporting wood with her name on it.
So inappropriate.
“I uh…we…” He dropped his gaze to Stormy who was curled up in the crook of his elbow. “We’re going for a walk. On the beach. I was looking for something to fashion into a lead and collar for Stormy. Any suggestions?”
A small frown settled on that smooth brow.
“I don’t think you should do that. It’s slippery and perilous out there. You could fall.”
Did he look so fucking frail to her?
“I assure you, I’ll be fine, Mrs. Cole.”
“It’s also freezing and raining. I don’t think you or the dog…”
“Stormy,” he reminded her.
“I don’t think either of you are ready for a walk like that yet.”
“It’s not your concern.”
“On the contrary, it totally is my concern. If anything happens to you, Amos and I would have to find you and get you back to safety. In these conditions, emergency services are an hour away at best. Likely longer with the bridge out. Anything could go wrong. What if it rains harder? The water levels would rise before you could get back here in time and you could be washed away. And who knows how the cold will affect your chest? You may be—”
“Enough! Mrs. Cole, you are out of line,” he snapped, pissed off because she was also right. He couldn’t chance taking a solitary hike in his current condition. But he fucking hated having his housekeeper treat him like an errant, sickly schoolboy.
Who the hell was in charge here anyway?
He glared at her while she stared back, her face serene and inscrutable, not a hair out of place…
He sighed.
Without a bloody doubt, she was in charge. This tall, ageless, mysterious—barefoot, a tiny voice reminded him breathlessly—stern woman was one-hundred-percent running the show. That’s why he liked having her around. With Mrs. Cole in charge, their vacations had been stress free. But he wasn’t currently on vacation, and that appeared to be unsettling the equilibrium of their usually uneventful non-relationship
“Your concerns have been noted, Mrs. Cole, and if you find me collapsed in a heap five hundred yards from the house, feel free to tell me you told me so. Now, do you have anything I can use as a leash or not?”
Stubborn man!
Charity kneaded her bread dough more vigorously than usual, imagining that it was Miles Hollingsworth’s face. He had been gone for half an hour already. She had watched in concern as he and the puppy—who had pranced alongside him wearing another sock sweater and slapdash rope slip lead—painstakingly made their way to the jetty. He had turned right before the wooden dock in order to access the beach, and Charity had lost sight of him after that.
He wasn’t her responsibility, she was here to cook and clean and make his stay as comfortable as possible. She was not here to police his every move and make sure he took his fricking medicine. She lifted the dough and slapped it down on the granite counter with enough force to send flour exploding in all directions.
“Damn it,” she cursed, annoyed by the mess and blaming him for that too. The last three days had been so uncomfortable for her. She had done her best to remain out of sight, but he seemed to actively seek her out, which unnerved her. Especially since he never appeared to have any reason to do so, sometimes he just sat in the kitchen and watched her work. She hated that. She felt awkward and out of sorts having him in her space.
But she couldn’t prohibit him from coming into his own kitchen.
She could tell that he was bored and restless but—again—it wasn’t her job to keep him entertained. Happily, training the dog took up a lot of his attention. But the pup was a fast learner and slept often, which meant that he found himself at loose ends for large chunks of the day.
His walks around the garden had gotten longer each day, and she supposed it was inevitable for cabin fever and boredom to force him to venture farther afield.
But he still seemed so weak.
She shook herself and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist.
None of your business, Charity, she reminded herself. Absolutely none of your concern if the damned fool man wants to kill himself!
Still, she kept lifting her eyes and taking peeks out of the back window. Hoping to see him plod his way up the back garden path toward the kitchen door.
Instead, all she saw was Amos who caught her eye and waved at her with a happy grin. He had popped in earlier with a few cut proteas for decorating the house. She waved back, her thoughts still on her boss. She barely noticed when Amos drifted out of sight again.
She still had no real clue what was wrong with him, and
she wondered what manner of illness could have laid her previously infallible-seeming boss so very low.
She once again reminded herself that it was none of her business, but it was hard not to speculate. Part of her wanted to ask, reasoning that it would be better if she knew, in case of relapse. The other part didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to care or be concerned over what could possibly happen to him out here in the wild with no medical assistance close by.
Her phone chimed, and she wiped her hands on a tea towel and reached into her apron pocket. She didn’t often receive messages. Over the last six years, all but the most stubborn of her friends and family had given up on her. With good reason…she had retreated, kept them at bay. Been uncommunicative and emotionally, mentally and physically distant.
Only her sister, parents, and best friend had remained in contact. They were her tether to the “real world”, as she had started to think of it. This wasn’t her life. It was temporary. Yet temporary had somehow gone from “just a few months” to three years, and she still wasn’t sure how that had happened.
Life here was so…uncomplicated.
She checked her message. It was from her sister, Faith.
Cherry, we need to talk. I know you hate unannounced calls, so fair warning. I’m calling in 5, 4, 3…
Her phone rang.
Charity swallowed past the lump in her throat as she stared at the device. She hadn’t spoken with her sister in months.
“Hello?”
“Cherry, you okay? You sound sick?” Charity fought back both a smile at the sound of her sister’s voice and a swell of revulsion at the nickname.
He had used it often. Sweetly at first, then more and more mockingly until—by the end—she had cringed every time he said it in that sickeningly tender, taunting way of his.
Cherry baby, you’re mine. All mine. My cherry little Cherry.
“Uh…I’m fine,” Charity said, beating back the memory of that voice. Of how he would call her…playfully stretching the nickname out over several syllables while he hunted for her. He had taken a sweet—somewhat silly—nickname, bestowed upon her by her loving family and he had weaponized it. Turned it into something ugly and repulsive.
The Best Next Thing Page 7