“Would it be a stretch for me to assume it was you that fixed some of the items on my repair list?” Cantrell asked, interrupting Illias’ train of thought.
“Huh?” He blinked. “Oh! Yeah! Uh.” He cleared his throat, internally wincing at how quickly he jumped to take credit for such miniscule tasks. “Yeah, Charity told me that there were some minor repairs that I could do around the shelter, so I’ve been chipping away at a list she gave me.”
“Your thoughtfulness doesn’t go unnoticed, thank you.”
“It’s no big deal.” Illias rubbed the back of his neck. “Just something to keep my hands busy.”
“It’s still greatly appreciated. And might I add, your patch work in the counseling room is quite impressive.”
He met Cantrell’s eyes. “What can I say? Guess I’m just good with my hands.”
Cantrell blushed. “I’m sure. You said you came with Charity. How do you two know each other?”
“We grew up together. She sat next to me in kindergarten and we’ve been stuck at the hip ever since.”
“Seems like you two have quite the history then.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Illias laughed a little, looking down and knocking the heel of his shoe against his ankle.
“When did you two start—”
“We’re not dating.” Illias looked up so quickly his hair flew out of his face. “She’s like a sister to me.”
“Oh.” Cantrell’s expression relaxed, eyebrows raising over the rim of his glasses. “My apologies, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No need to apologize, Father, you’re not the first, but she’s, uh…” Illias dragged his eyes down Cantrell’s body and back up. “Not exactly my type. My interests are elsewhere, you could say.”
Cantrell shifted his weight but his eyes never left Illias’. “And where might that be?”
Illias leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “I think you remember my first confession, Father.”
“Perhaps it’s time for another one,” he replied promptly, the slightest falter in his level tone. “Confession is available all day on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“Assuming you’re not tending to Saint Anthony’s on a whim?” He meant for it to be a playful taunt, but Cantrell stiffened and gave a curt nod.
“Yes, usually I am at the church by this point. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must get going.”
Cantrell walked past him, brushing his shoulder on his way out of the closet. Illias watched him walk down the hallway, admiring the way Cantrell’s slacks hugged his body. A pity God gave an ass like that to a priest. What Illias wouldn’t give to sink his teeth into a peach that ripe. His face burned. Perhaps it was time for another confession.
Chapter Seven
Cantrell
“Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.”
- Ephesians 4:29 KJV
Worn ragged from an early morning at Saint Anthony’s, along with his run in with Illias, Cantrell sat in one of the pews bathed in the sunlight pouring in from the windows. Eyes closed, he tilted his head back to bask in the warmth that encouraged the drowsy feeling that encompassed his body. Had someone not cleared their throat loud enough that it ricocheted off the walls—scaring Cantrell half to death and jolting him up straight—he would have fallen asleep. Cantrell turned to his left and his heart, already thudding against his ribs, turned into a hummingbird.
“Illias,” he breathed out, unsure if it was relief or dread that washed over him when he saw Illias instead of Rier. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “My apologies, I must have dozed off. How may I help you?”
There it was. That cocky, self-assured smirk that drove Cantrell mad. “Figured I’d take you up on your suggestion from this morning,” Illias said as though it was the most casual thing in existence.
And it should have been. A member of the congregation seeking confession shouldn’t have lit a flame beneath Cantrell’s skin, yet his body was set ablaze beneath Illias’ hungry gaze.
Perverse desire threatened to snuff out rational thought. Cantrell’s Adam’s apple pressed against the Roman collar around his neck; a reminder to keep himself in check. He was a priest, Illias’ priest, the one he trusted with the most vulnerable parts of himself, and Cantrell didn’t want to ruin that. “I’m happy to know I’ve encouraged you to seek salvation,” he forced the words out, praying they came out kind rather than panicked. “Please, after you.”
Illias turned on his heel, leaving Cantrell behind. He rose from the pew slower than he should have, eyes trained on Illias’ plump backside. The dark jeans Illias wore hugged him in all the right places. Cantrell’s body warmed at the thought of peeling those too-tight jeans down until Illias was on full display. Cantrell twitched beneath his cassock.God forgive me.Cantrell brought his rosary to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the prayer beads, then hurried across the nave to the confessional booth. He paused in front of the door, whispered a quick prayer, then stepped inside.
