Ifaltered, not expecting her sarcasm. “If that’s what you need—”
“My coat is soaked through—my landlord evicted me yesterday and I tried to sleep in my car but—”
“You slept in your car last night?” I halted her.
“I tried. I couldn’t do it, the shelters were full so I went to the all-night arcade that used to be around the corner but it turns out that it’s not an arcade anymore—”
“I’m sorry—forgive my forwardness, but do you need a place to stay? That’s actually something I can help you with.” I stood without thinking and stepped out of the confessional, prepared to sweep the curtain back on hers before thinking better of it. “If you come here I can show you what I mean.”
Quiet filled all of the corners of my church, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear my heart slamming in anxious beats behind my chest.
And then the curtain parted, dainty fingertips splitting the soft fabric seams before a cascade of dark hair peaked out, followed by the most startling shade of black-brown eyes I’d ever seen. Her cheekbones were high, angled up to warm waves of chocolate hair that kinked and curled in different arrangements. Her skin was a creamy shade of light cocoa that left the tips of my fingers screaming for just a brief caress. And her lips, slightly parted and flushed a honeyed plum that looked alarming against the shade of her skin.
She was startling in her beauty.
God I wanted to touch her. I hadn’t wanted a woman like this ever, my life of celibacy established long before my official entry into the priesthood. I’d only just laid eyes on her alarming face—the angles highlighted and inviting in the soft morning light. I didn’t even know her name and I was riveted and hanging on tender-hooks for her first words.
“I should go, thank you though—”
“Don’t.” I caught her wrist, then pulled away as if her skin had seared my fingers.
“Why?”
“Well,” I cleared my throat, thrusting out a hand once before her eyes darted down and she slid my palm in hers. I shook her hand warmly, encouraging her to follow me with a nod as I turned to my sacristy. “The church actually keeps a few cottages for visitors or anyone in need of assistance.” I chanced a glance behind me, pleased to find her following. “I’m afraid they’re pretty dated and can be cold in the winter, but they’ve been sitting empty since I’ve been here.”
“I couldn’t possibly be an imposition, honestly—I didn’t come here to ask anything of you—”
“You’re not asking,” I opened the door into my private residence and paused, “I’m insisting. The people of St. Mike’s take care of their own, if you don’t agree to use it for what it’s for I would be disappointed in my ability to tend God’s people.”
She assessed me with an interested half-smile, eyes narrowing as she took me in. “That’s very holy of you.”
My grin cracked, and her full lips spilled into a chorus of laughter that warmed every nerve in my body. “Well, let me show you your new home then. I’ll even get you a new set of keys made—right now the ones that unlock your cottage and mine and the church doors are one in the same—everything could use an update around here.”
Her large round eyes darted around my tiny kitchen. Humble and retro were kind descriptors of my space—but I didn’t have time for things beyond cleanliness and orderly things. “St. Mike’s hasn’t changed since I was a kid, it looks exactly the same.” I watched her, eyes clinging to my personal items, worn prayer missals and holy crosses on the faded vanilla walls. Her eyes finally caught mine, long measured beats passing between us before she breathed, “Well, almost exactly.”
I nodded, breaking her gaze as I felt riots of energy bubbling up in unfamiliar places. I shook my head, trying to shake the vision of how sweet she looked in my space from my mind, before turning back to the back door and thrusting it open, thankful for the crisp air on my skin to take my mind off of her.
“You can call me Father Bastien, and if you’d like, I can put you to work with our volunteer daycare program, if you don’t mind working with kids—”
“I love kids.”
“Well, that’s settled then.” I paused when we reached the worn cottage steps. Her form was small and diminutive in the snow, winter jacket swallowing her as she looked up at me through snowflake-laced eyelashes.
“And what can I call you?” I dared to ask.
She grinned broadly and I felt the physical warmth of her smile inside my chest cavity. “Tressa Torrado.”
“Well, Tressa,” I broke her gaze and slipped the key into the lock and twisted, “welcome home.”
TWO
Tressa
The door crashed open, a burst of arctic air filling the room the very next day as a fine dusting of Philadelphia snow shimmering in Father Bastien’s dark hair. His eyes glinted in the dim light of his home as he ducked under the archway into the rectory and dumped an armful of wood next to the stove.
“Weatherman says tonight will be colder.” Father Bastien shrugged off his coat, his shoulder brushing mine when he did. I’d been lucky to get this job when I’d landed on his doorstep—pathetically and pretty much literally. I hadn’t stepped inside a church in over a decade, but when life pulled the rug out, St. Michael’s was where I’d found myself. I went from sleeping in my car two nights ago to taking care of a little three-year-old boy named Hugo in the church daycare and working alongside a man of God.
Call it divine intervention, or maybe just luck, but when I’d shown up on Father Bastien’s doorstep homeless and seeking shelter—he’d saved me.
