Page 26 of Savior

Apple cinnamon. The way to a girl’s heart.

“You’re welcome. I wish I could make more, but I’m not that great in the kitchen. I had some leftover muffins from the bake sale a few days ago, so I thought they’d be perfect with some coffee. Though I didn’t know if you drank coffee.”

I grin at his spiraling.

He’s coming unglued at having me here, and it’s warranted.

I only hope I don’t ruin him like I do everything else.

He seems good. He seems happy.

However, there’s a sad glint in his eyes that I’ve spotted twice now when he thinks no one can read him. Like he’s looking over the cliff at a daunting leap he can’t fathom taking, but he wants to.

“It’s perfect. It’s my favorite flavor.” I mumble over a mouthful of muffin.

He smiles again, and I don’t know how many more of them I can handle.

“Oh, Ardesia brought you bags of clothing. I had him get you some dresses,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “for if you wanted to attend Mass. You don’t have to. I only thought if you wanted to get out of the rectory, that’s about the only place you’ll be able to go. Being that you should blend into the crowd.”

Again, his nervousness makes my stomach flutter, and I tell myself to shut it down.

I can’t want him.

I can’t be this great man’s downfall.

Even if I really want to be.

I know I’m just deflecting from everything that just happened to me that I’m not ready to deal with, and I need to find another distraction from it because he can’t be it.

Just because he saved me doesn’t mean he’s volunteering as a tribute to be my diversion.

“Alright. Thank him for me. I’m sure you were the one who told him to get me clothes, so thank you, too.” I sip my coffee, letting its warmth feed the warmth already building in my body as Luca bends to pick up the bags near the back door, and his sinuous muscles ripple and then pull taut.

He drops them next to me on the bar, and one of them topples over.

“Shoot, sorry,” he says, fighting with the bag to get the clothes back in.

Before I think twice about it, I lay my hand on his arm to calm his nerves, but I don’t think my touch has the desired effect.

His eyes flick down to where I’m touching him, and then mine follow his line of sight.

We both stare at my hand on his arm for an eternity.

“Anything you don’t want, we can return,” he whispers, and the gravelly angst in his tone rakes through my stomach like a sharp wind.

“Thank you.” It’s all I get out. All I can manage.

He tugs his arm away and turns his back to me.

Picking up the few items that fell from the bags onto the counter, I put them back inside and then took them to my room before returning.

When I get back to the kitchen, Father Russo is gone.

His bedroom door is shut, and I’m left with my muffin and cooling coffee to keep me company.

Which, after the moment we just had, I’m okay with.

I need to be smarter. I need to draw a line in the sand between the good Father and me.

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