Page 15 of Priest (Priest 1)
“Not long,” she said. “I just closed on the house two weeks ago, actually. Once the owner of the club I worked at found out I had an MBA and a lot of experience, he asked me to come on board as a marketing and financial consultant, which I could do remotely and which pays—well, it pays a lot. And then last month, when he found me…”
Her voice broke and she squinted at the sidewalk, as if examining something. I wasn’t sure exactly what had upset her, but I gave her a moment to collect herself.
We walked several feet before she continued. “So now I make good money, working for a nice guy, and I have the freedom of starting over in a sweet little town. It’s what I had wanted before Sterling came to the club.”
Sterling. I recognized that name from our conversation about her past, and damn it all if it didn’t trigger a ridiculous spike of jealousy, as if there were any universe in which I’d be allowed to feel possessive of Poppy Danforth.
We reached the church.
“It was nice to run into you, Father,” she said with another one of those small smiles, making as if to keep walking.
“Which one is your house?” I was stalling. I knew I was, but I couldn’t help it. I needed just one more glimpse of those red lips, one more word in that breathy voice.
“That one.” She pointed to a house across the park, a snug bungalow with a large tree in the front yard and an overgrown garden in back. I would be able to see it from the rectory. I would be able to see if her lights were on, if her car was in the driveway, if she was moving through her kitchen early in the morning making her coffee.
That didn’t seem like it would be a very healthy opportunity for me to have.
“Well, if you need any help moving furniture around or anything…”
Shit. Why did I offer that? As if being alone with her, in her house, was a great thing for me to do.
But then her face lit up and my stomach constricted at the sight. Because she was beautiful all the time, but happy? Happy, she was fucking radiant.
“That would be amazing,” she said. “I don’t know anybody here and my friends in the city are all so far away…yes, I will definitely let you know if I need help.”
“Okay,” I said, still captivated by her smile and her suddenly lively eyes. “Any time.”
She leaned forward, pushing up on her toes, and I had no idea what she was doing until I felt her soft lips press against my cheek. I froze, every detail, every sensation etching itself into my soul, imprinting itself while she imprinted my skin with her crimson lipstick.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her words and her breath near my ear, and then she bit her lip and turned away, walking towards her house.
And I went inside the rectory for another twenty-minute cold shower.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t both dreading and looking forward to Monday’s confession hours with equal measure. I’d spent Mass on Sunday searching the pews for Poppy, and when I didn’t see her, a brief balloon of hope and despair had risen in my mind. Maybe she was gone, maybe her brief flirtation with religion had flamed out, and maybe this un-winnable test of my self-control was over.
Maybe she was done with me, I would think, and the balloon would fill with relief.
Maybe she was done with me, I would think again, and this time the balloon held only pain.
And so when Rowan finally left the booth that Monday and someone else slipped inside, the balloon burst with a vengeance, and my pulse began to race (with trepidation or arousal, I didn’t know.)
“Father Bell?” a low voice asked.
“Hello, Poppy,” I said, trying to pretend that her voice didn’t go straight to my dick.
She let out a laugh, small and relieved, and the sound conjured up her smile from Friday, the way she’d beamed at me when I’d offered to help her settle into her house.
“I don’t know what I expected. It’s just—it feels too good to be true sometimes. I left Kansas City looking for a new start, some meaning in my pointless life, and then here’s this unbelievably handsome priest, practically in my backyard, willing to listen to all of my problems.”
“It’s my job,” I said gruffly, trying to ignore the boyish jolt of happiness that came when she called me handsome. “I’m here for everyone.”
“Yes, I know. But right now, ‘everyone’ includes me and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.”
Tell her you can’t do it, my conscience demanded, thinking of the other day in my office. Help her find someone else—anyone else—to confess to.
Yes. I should do that. Because she was making it clear that she trusted me, all while I was betraying that trust over and over again in my mind. (In lots of different positions. On every surface in my house.)
But just as I’d resolved to bite the proverbial bullet and tell her how it had to be, she said, “Are you ready?” and then no other words came to mind except:
