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God, talk about a loaded question. He could think of so fucking many things he wanted her to do for him. With him. To him.
“I was wondering about the egg.”
She stared at him blankly. She was standing across from him, and the island between them felt like no real barrier at all.
“The egg?”
“The boiled egg?”
“What about it?”
“I thought I’d made my feelings clear.”
“I thought you may have been exaggerating to get your point across. So, you really never want boiled eggs again? Ever?”
“No. I mean, of course I do, but…” Well, this was a bloody absurd conversation. He could think of so many other things he wanted to say to her right now. But here they were, discussing fucking boiled eggs.
But Miles hadn’t built an empire from scratch by pussyfooting around, and he decided to take the matter in hand, “Are you angry with me?”
“What?” Her eyes grew as round as saucers.
“Because of what happened at the pool this morning?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Are you angry because nothing happened then?”
She looked appalled by that question. “Of course not. Look, Mr. Hollingsworth, I—”
“Miles.”
“No.”
Damn it.
“I’m sorry for not moving aside.” His apology was quietly sincere. “I fully intended to, and I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t. It wasn’t well done of me at all.”
Her shoulders lifted and fell on a soft sigh.
“I wasn’t myself last night,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The nightmare unsettled me and…well…I’m sorry too. You caught me in a moment of vulnerability.”
“Well, that makes me feel like a bloody predator,” he said, doing nothing to disguise his grimace from her.
“No, that wasn’t my intention at all. The thing…what happened, it was mutual. I knew you would move if I’d only stood my ground. But I wanted…I needed—”
Her voice trailed off and looked down and fixed her stare at the counter between them.
“Charity…” The sound of her name seemed to startle her, and her eyes shot up to meet his. He held her gaze, not wanting her to mistake the meaning of his next words, “I wanted and I needed too. And while I apologize profusely for the circumstances, I cannot apologize for that.”
She shook her head, her eyes still entangled with his. He watched her slender throat move as she swallowed.
“Your breakfast is probably cold by now, I’ll fix something else.” Her voice was brisk, her words impersonal, but her eyes were still dark, liquid pools of vulnerability.
“That’s not necessary. Why don’t you get changed? I’ll have my egg and take Stormy out for a quick walk.”
And give both of them some much needed breathing room.
She hesitated—clearly not too happy to leave him eating a cold breakfast. Even though he deserved it for being such a picky bastard.
“If you’re sure?”
“Positive,” he reassured her, trying very hard not to look at her mouth when she sucked on the full lower lip uncertainly.
She nodded and walked away before he could say another word.
Miles sighed and looked at Stormy, who was waiting at the back door. Her tail wagged when he made eye contact. She was such a bloody good dog, so eager to please. She’d had some unfortunate bathroom accidents these last few days, but they were few and far between. He guessed that growing up on the “street”, so to speak, had toilet trained her to a certain extent.
Still, he didn’t want to test the puppy’s bladder. He grabbed his egg, peeled it at the sink, and bit it in half as he opened the back door for the pup. He tried not to wince at the rubbery texture of the now cold egg and did his utmost not to gag when the cold, gelatinous yolk filled his mouth. The greasy slide of it down his throat was nearly his undoing, but he persevered with a queasy gulp. Yeah, he was pretty much done with boiled eggs for the foreseeable future.
He chased the disgusting thing down with a half slice of dry toast before Stormy had even clumsily squatted on the wet grass.
“Morning!”
The unexpected sound of the cheerful male voice coming from behind him, startled Miles. Stormy emitted an adorable purr of a sound that he reckoned was supposed to be a growl, but was cute as hell instead of remotely threatening.
Miles swung around and grinned at the sight of the familiar face peering at him from the other side of the low hedge bordering the back garden.
“Amos! Good morning, how are you?”
Because of the inclement weather, he hadn’t seen the gardener since his arrival. The elderly man was clad in green workman’s overalls and was holding a rake in one hand and a pair of garden shears in the other.
“Can’t complain,” Amos responded with a grin, his white teeth a dramatic contrast to his dark, wizened skin. But, seconds after his initial sanguine response, he proceeded to do exactly that, “This weather—ai ai ai—it’s so bad for my bones. Nothing but rain all day, every day. And the cold, I tell you, my knees don’t like this cold. But at least today my phone says there won’t be rain, just this wind. But I told myself —‘Amos, go trim the hedges while you can’. So here I am.”
