June
By the timewe called it a day, we were both sweat-soaked and bone-tired, central AC be damned.
I sank down on one of the less-crooked pews, chest rising and falling from exertion after moving more than a few of said pews and hauling the rest out to the dumpster. My bun had come unraveled and was half-tumbling down in a ponytail, sticky on my neck, skin warm and pink from scrubbing years of dust out of sunlit corners. I peeled my gloves off and dropped them beside me, flexing my fingers.
And Silas?
He looked like he was made for this kind of work.
It wasn’t just his body—though yes, his body was borderline criminal. It was hisintensity, his focus, the way sweat made him look like he was sparkling rather than…well, gross.
He stood a few feet away, one boot braced on the edge of the altar step, forearm across his forehead as he wiped it dry. His shirt clung to him in places I had no business looking—shoulders, chest, the dip of his back—and his veins ran thick and dark under his tan skin. He was beautiful in that devastating, elemental way some men are—like firelightor thunderstorms. Nothing soft about him, but certainly sacred.
Or at least sacred enough to make me sit up and pay attention.
And I was paying attention.Waytoo much attention.
Silas glanced over and caught me watching, eyebrows raising. “You dead, Reverend?”
“Just contemplating how sore I’m gonna be tomorrow,” I lied, clearing my throat.
He snorted. “I did offer to handle the heavy lifting.”
“And I told you I’m not fragile.”
“I’m learnin’ that,” he said. “You’re not fragile at all.”
The way he said it carried a hint of suggestion…like maybe he was thinking of all the other ways I might not be fragile.
Or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.
Probably.
He crossed the space between us and sat on the pew across the aisle, forearms braced on his knees. For a minute, neither of us said anything. The air buzzed—not with heat, but with something deeply, agonizingly hungry. If I still believed desire was a sin, I might think the devil was here with us.
But as it was, I knew it was far simpler than that.
Yes, I was a minister and he was the caretaker of this church…but he was also a man, and I was a woman.
A woman who hadn’t bothered getting laid in well over five years.
“Feels like we got a hell of a start,” Silas said, nodding toward the now-swept sanctuary. “Still needs some touch-ups, new paint. I’ll build a new altar since the old one seems pretty much done for.”
I nodded, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. “And curtains. Maybe fresh fabric on the kneelers—something soft, not that sandpaper burlap.”
“Noted,” he said. “For your delicate knees, I presume?”
I snorted. “You ever knelt on rough fabric in a sundress?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing softly. “And some greenery too,” I went on. “Real plants, not the dusty fake ficus that’s probably been here since the ‘90s. People feel more at peace with living things around them.”
Silas glanced toward the stained glass window in the steeple, now dark; it faced east, and the setting sun gave it a slightly creepy glimmer.
“You really think folks are gonna come?” he asked.
“Willow Grove may be strange, but it’s a small town in the south,” I said. “I think if we open the doors and give ‘em a place to worship, they’ll find their way.
