Page 15 of My Not So Wicked Boss (My Not So Wicked 3)

The smile he wore so easily faded. “The better question is why?”

I found myself clasping my hands and resting them on the table as I leaned toward him, wanting to know exactly why. Miles moved in closer, his hands gliding across the overly shellacked wooden table, landing a fingertip away from mine. My hands retreated a few inches back, while his remained steady as did his eyes fixed on me. Locked in his gaze, for a moment I felt as if we were playing out my daydreams. Something familiar crackled between us. In his eyes, I could see he felt it too.

I rubbed my lips together, nervous. His gaze went right through me. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, “Are you going to tell me why?” came falling out of my mouth in whispered tones like I was flirting with him. I wanted to kick myself. This wasn’t one of my daydreams.

He nodded slow and deliberate. “First, though, I will tell you how Henry—” Miles threw his nephew, who was continuing his crayon assault on the coloring page, a thoughtful glance that carried with it a touch of loss “—came into my care. As I previously mentioned, Sophie was not made aware of my existence until we were adults.”

“But you knew about her?”

“Yes . . . and more.” He began to absentmindedly tap his index finger against the table. “I do believe I came as a nasty shock to her and my two other half-siblings—Amelia, the youngest, and our older brother, Charles, the Greaves heir. But Sophie, who was three years my junior, was gentle and loving in nature and sought me out while we both attended Oxford. At first, our relationship was merely superficial and probably mostly based on curiosity, but then she forced me,” he grinned to himself, “to meet her once a week at a local pub for drinks. From there, brotherly and sisterly affection began to grow. We became the best of mates.” He cleared his throat to cover the emotion that accompanied his words.

I felt his pain so deeply I found my hand reaching toward his to give it a comforting squeeze. Before my hand fell upon his, I came to my senses, and it awkwardly froze right above his. Unfortunately, none of this went unnoticed. Miles’s thoughtful expression waited patiently to see what I would do. His hand stayed still as if he welcomed the gesture, but his eyes said he wasn’t sure about it. I agreed with his eyes; it was inappropriate behavior for a “job” interview. If one could call this that. I felt more like I was interviewing him. I think if it were up to him, I would already be signing an employment contract.

I withdrew the affection I had carelessly tried to offer, with cheeks burning brightly. He did the kind thing and didn’t draw attention to it. He chose instead to pretend to be interested in the sights and sounds around us in the crowded café until my hands were safely gripping my ice water the server had brought when he’d taken our order. I let the cold from the glass seep through me, begging it to put out the fire that had spread across my face.

Miles went right back to his story as if nothing awkward had passed between us. “As the years passed, we both ended up in London. At one point, for a short period of time, we shared a flat while I was a struggling writer, driving a taxi to make ends meet. She, on the other hand, was well on her way to becoming one of the most sought-after interior designers in the city. I had refused her offer at first,” he said fondly, “taking it as pity since she always felt guilty that she had the advantages of the Greaves name and wealth. But once again, she got her way. For as demure as she was, she knew how to bowl me over.”

My almost numb hands fell away from my glass. “But if your family knew you existed by that time, why didn’t they help you too?”

He took a long drink of his water while he thought about how to answer me. “We are coming to the crux of the story. I promise I will enlighten you.”

Henry started getting wiggly and began to whine about how long it was taking for his food to arrive. To keep him entertained, I took my doodle notebook, as my mom called it, out of my bag. She’d said I’d had one since I was two. “Do you want to help me draw a picture of George?” His bear and faithful companion was seated next to him in the corner.

Henry nodded vigorously and armed himself with the brown crayon.

I used a pencil from my bag and began to outline George’s body. Henry, who like any three-year-old I had ever met, was impatient and started coloring the picture of his friend before I was even halfway finished.

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