left sleeping, exercise—not the ideal option after his walk—or staying here. With a woman who clearly preferred her own company to his.
Nothing else to it, he might as well complete the question, “Do you need a hand?”
She looked confused, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what he had asked.
“I know I’d probably be as useful as tits on a bull, but I’ve always wanted to try my hand at baking bread.”
Her gaze shifted from confused to assessing, as if she were trying to gauge his level of sincerity.
“Have you really?”
The complete lack of anything resembling credulity in the question made him wince, and he shook his head, “Okay, not really. But it would be interesting to try.”
Another long stare, and Miles was proud of himself for not squirming beneath her intense scrutiny.
“You’re bored, aren’t you?”
Her astute question nearly made him smile, but he kept a poker face and maintained unflinching eye contact. “Out. Of. My. Fucking. Mind.”
It wasn’t a good idea. It would be best if he stayed out of her way, and the lines between them as employer and employee remained clearly defined. But the power had been out for three days. The weather had kept him confined mostly indoors. And she could tell that the restrictions were starting to chafe at him. Miles Hollingsworth was a workaholic, she knew that, she had seen it whenever he had come on “vacation” with his family. His siblings always had a blast, but Miles tended to remain glued to his phone, or his laptop, earphones practically a permanent fixture on his head, studying headlines and staying abreast of stock market trends.
His idea of relaxing appeared to involve sipping the occasional brandy while listening to what she assumed were financial podcasts. He was a workhorse whose only apparent passion was finding and fixing broken things. And then selling them at immense profit.
Sure, that was a gross oversimplification but how else did one explain what he did?
And now he was the broken thing in need of fixing. And he didn’t seem to have the first notion of how to go about that. Then again, neither did Charity. She had been broken for so long, it was hard to remember being whole and undamaged.
Her teeth raked over her lower lip as she considered his request. This was his house, his kitchen, and she was his employee. He would have been well within his rights to demand instead of ask.
But he hadn’t. He had offered her a choice.
She exhaled softly and nodded. “Fine, get cleaned up, and we’ll get started on the bread.”
His eyes smiled at her. And it was remarkable. His expression didn’t change at all, but his steel gray eyes lit up and crinkled at the corners. She had never seen him do that before and she found it disturbingly appealing. Flustered, she shifted her attention to the puppy standing at their feet. Stormy was patiently waiting to take her cues from Miles.
His gaze followed hers and this time, the smile traveled to his lips. They quirked, showing off that dimple, and the dog’s tail thumped slowly at the change in his expression.
“But first I have to feed and crate this one, she’s bound to be exhausted after our walk.”
“You can bring her basket here and leave it there”—she pointed to the doorway separating the kitchen from the hallway— “that way she won’t get anxious.”
“I will, thank you.”
He turned away and left the kitchen, Stormy close behind him, and Charity released the breath that she had been holding.
She didn’t like the idea of him being underfoot, but she could imagine how frustrating the entire experience had to be for him and part of her job was to ensure that he was content and enjoying his stay here.
That was the only reason she had agreed to his absurd request. Part of the job, really.
Nothing at all to do with the gentle look in his eyes when he had caught her crying. Even less to do with the appealing cant of his head and the almost puppy dog pleading in his eyes when he had asked her if he could help.
This was Miles Henry Hollingsworth. Modern age marauder. Present day pirate. He didn’t do puppy dog eyes. She must have imagined it.
Miles loved the squidgy feeling of the raw dough between his fingers. Kneading bread wasn’t something he had ever imagined himself doing, or even liking, but this was ridiculously enjoyable. He had followed Mrs. Cole’s careful instructions to the letter. She hadn’t touched anything