Page 5 of Preacher Man
And honestly, so was I.
I gave Ethan the rest of the tour, even though it was more “abandoned building vibes” than a house of the Lord.Preacher Man stayed polite the whole time, like he was on a real estate tour of a haunted Airbnb.I liked that about him.How he didn’t flinch at the grime or the faded wallpaper curling at the edges.
“This here’s the adult Sunday schoolroom,” I said, pushing open a door to a windowless little box with a warped whiteboard and mismatched folding chairs.“Used mostly by Sister Janice and her Bible study group, which I think is code for passive-aggressively judging the neighbors.”
Ethan chuckled, the tiniest crack in the polished surface.“How many attend?”
“Depends on the gossip that week.”
He said nothing, but I saw the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth again.
I motioned across the hall.“Kids’ room’s over here.Don’t worry, I checked last month for rats.Only found one.Dead.”
That finally got a laugh.Soft, a little breathy.I liked the sound of it way more than I should have.
I led him through a short hallway, toward the back of the church.
“This is the fellowship hall,” I said, pushing open double doors.The room smelled like every church potluck I attended as a kid.Lukewarm baked beans, macaroni casseroles, and generational trauma.
A long row of folding tables lined the center of the room.Plastic chairs leaned against the walls like they were tired of standing.The linoleum under our boots cracked and popped with every step.The kitchenette sat in the far corner, all yellowing cabinets and a sink that hadn’t seen a proper scrub since Bush was president.
Ethan made a beeline for it.
He crouched and opened the cabinet beneath the sink, squinting into the shadows.A second later, he pulled out a half-used bottle of bleach, Lysol, a dusty roll of paper towels, and what might have been a sponge in the early 2000s.
“Is there a bag or a box I can put these in?”he asked, standing with his arms full of the sad supplies.
That’s when it hit me.
He’d seen the trailer.
Poor bastard.
“Lemme guess,” I said, leaning against the counter.“You walked into that deathtrap they call a parsonage and realized the congregation here loves a wonderful sermon, but not enough to keep the preacher in a decent home.”
His jaw twitched, just barely.He didn’t need to answer me.
I sighed and opened the top cabinet.Found an old paper grocery bag crammed behind a box of communion wafers.I shook it out and started dropping his finds inside.
“You don’t have to do that,” he mumbled, reaching for the sponge at the same time I did.
Our hands touched.
Nothing dramatic.Just skin on skin.But something about it made me freeze.My fingers curled slightly, like they wanted more.Like they remembered something I hadn’t had in a long damn time.
Warmth.Contact.The silent buzz of interest.
I looked up.Ethan’s eyes were already on me, wide and unreadable.
I cleared my throat, tried to play it cool.“Not a problem.Consider it my good deed for the decade.”
I dropped the last bottle of Lysol in the bag and stepped back like distance would help.Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
“This way,” I said, walking toward the last door on the tour.“Let me show you your...luxurious office space.”
He followed, bag in hand.
I opened the narrow door and motioned him inside.The room was barely big enough to fit the desk.It was one of those heavy, ancient things with brass handles and scratch marks from someone’s long-dead cat, probably.A single bulb hung from the ceiling.Old water damage and decades of bad sermons stained the walls.
