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“I have to get breakfast started,” she said, hoping the change in subject would bring everything back into perspective. But the man was ever unpredictable, and she stared at him in astonishment, when he lifted her spare frilly pinafore apron from a hook next to the back door and tied it around his waist. He looked ridiculously adorable. “Whoa…what are you doing?”
“I said we would be fixing breakfast, and I meant it. You no longer work for me. But if you insist on doing things like cooking and cleaning during your last few days here, I’m for damned sure going to help you with everything.”
“You’re the strangest millionaire I know.” She huffed, infuriated and—damn him—hopelessly charmed by his insistence on helping her.
“Know a lot of millionaires, do you?” he asked, with a sardonic twist of his lips. He didn’t wait for her reply, instead he rubbed his palms together and gave her a manic grin. “Let’s get cracking, Mrs. Cole…you know how my sister gets when she’s hangry.”
Relieved that he seemed in better spirts, Charity tentatively returned the smile. “By the way, I think your mother and George are totally crushing on each other.”
He shuddered and shook his head. “There’s a thought I do not want to entertain right now. My Mum always had a soft spot for the scoundrels.”
“Scoundrels?” she repeated gleefully. This man constantly gave her reason to smile. Even with their situation so irredeemably tragic. “Have you shifted your focus from fantasy novels to historical romances?”
“The description is apropos, and you know it.”
“And are you going to warn said scoundrel away from your mummy?” she asked, on a teasing note.
He snorted. “Far be it from me to dictate my mother’s love life. She can take care of herself. If she likes George, and he likes her, I’m guessing there’ll be a holiday romance blooming in no time, and I’m just going to have to deal with it. Besides, George may be a scoundrel, but he’s also a gentleman. He won’t hurt her.”
“You’re a great guy, you know that?”
He looked pained by her words and shadows drifted back into his eyes. “Sometimes I wish I weren’t. Sometimes I wish I were an arsehole who made unreasonable demands and selfishly took what he wanted. Being a great guy doesn’t always work out so well.” The bitterness in his voice was palpable, it tainted the air, and she could practically taste it on her tongue.
“Being that guy would make you miserable, Miles. It’s not in your DNA to make others unhappy.”
“Stop making me sound like a fucking saint, Charity. I’m not. I don’t know how to deal with any of this. I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to be graceful about losing you and I…” He shook his head. “I fucking hate it! I hate every moment of this. It’s like a painful, lingering death.”
He ran a shaky hand through his already disheveled hair and inhaled deeply. Once. Twice…a third time.
It reminded her of her counting.
A coping mechanism she hadn’t needed in weeks thanks to Miles. He centered her. Grounded her. Made her feel safe.
And all she had done in return was turn him into this wreck of a man standing before her.
And if that wasn’t definitive proof that she was doing the right thing in leaving, then she didn’t know what was. She wasn’t good for him. He had to constantly monitor his words, his reactions, in case it brought out the crazy in her. How was that fair?
“I’m sorry.” His words were quiet, and she sucked in a painful breath.
“You haven’t done a single thing to apologize for, Miles. We found each other at the wrong time. That’s all. And I so wish it could have been different for us.”
“Where’s your shadow?” Miles asked Vicki that evening after dinner. Their mother had joined them for supper but had excused herself soon afterwards to go dancing with George.
“He bummed a lift into town with Mum and George. Said he was going to hang out with his boss, Sam Brand. He’s such a slacker. You should fire him.”
Miles grinned and shook his head.
“You keep on flogging that dead horse, sis.”
Charity had joined them for dinner but had retreated to her rooms soon afterward. In fact, their mother had insisted that her “children” would clean the kitchen, and Charity should get some packing done.
She had appeared grateful for the excuse to leave.
Which left Miles and Vicki in the kitchen, companionably rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher, with Stormy snoozing in her basket next to the banquette.
“Sooo…what’s the deal with you and Mrs. Cole?”
His sister’s question was so unexpected, Miles almost dropped the plate he was rinsing.
“Uh…what?”
Smooth. But in his defense, she had completely wrong-footed him.
“You and Mrs. Cole.”
“Charity,” he corrected automatically, his mind racing.
“Okay. Charity. There’s something going on between you. She’s smoking hot, by the way, so congratulations on your conquest.”
