My fingers fly over the ivories of our church’s new parlor grand piano, and I can’t stop the carefree smile that takes over my face as the choir finishes singing alongside me. After weeks of practicing our arrangement of Lauren Daigle’s “You Say,” we did it. Overwhelming satisfaction hits me as pride warms my chest, and I take a moment to bask in this moment.
Opening my eyes, I stand from the piano to take my seat in the first pew where I’ve sat every Sunday for as long as my father’s been the pastor of our church. Only my steps falter when mygaze lands on the new family that joined our church last month, or rather on their son, who sits between his mother and his sister in the pew behind mine. His broad shoulders and chest fill out his navy suit unlike any other boy my age attending our church or my school. When my eyes travel up the expanse of his chest, past where a tie hugs his corded neck, over his beautifully chiseled jaw, I’m shocked to find his sage green gaze fixed on me.
My stomach dips and my chest tightens involuntarily as a lopsided, boyish grin appears on his face; the sight has me fighting to regain my composure. Relief floods me as I turn my back to him and take my seat, though it’s a fleeting reprieve because the hairs on the back of my neck rise when I feel his stare still on me.
I’m thankful I chose to wear my hair down today, my long black locks covering the flush creeping up my neck and heating the tips of my ears. His gaze feels like a warm caress burning my skin, which is a foreign feeling to me. It feels wrong—forbidden—the way my body has reacted each time I’ve seen him these past four Sundays.
His name, according to my father, is Jackson Wilson. I have yet to speak a word to him; I was too shy to introduce myself when he and his family thanked my father after the first service they attended.
But today, it seems I have no choice as we go around to express peace to those in the congregation surrounding us. Jackson doesn’t give me the option to avoid him, as I had successfully done the past month. No, today his towering frame approaches me with an outstretched hand and that lopsided grin that has butterflies swirling to life inside my stomach.
“Peace be with you, Miss Gray,” he rasps in a smooth baritone as I place my hand in his.
I gasp as our hands connect and chills erupt up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Forget butterflies, there is afull flock of songbirds flapping their wings and threatening to take flight. Bracing a hand on my abdomen, I faintly echo his words, “And may peace be with you.”
With him so close, I realize he has to be nearly a foot taller than my five feet three inches. His light chestnut hair curls over his ears and at the nape of his neck.
Without taking his calloused hand from mine, he bends his neck so I don’t have to look up as much and murmurs, “Tell me your name.”
Only now, as I stare up into his captivating light green eyes, do I realize they’re less sage and more like a dreamy sea glass—not simply green, nor blue, but a beautiful, calming combination of the two.
Before I get the chance to answer him, my father comes up to wish us peace, while quirking a stern brow at Jackson’s hand still in mine. When he finally lets go, I quickly wipe my hand on the side of my sweater dress as if doing so will erase the feelings still twisting inside me.
We recite the Lord’s Prayer before Holy Communion commences, and I retake my position at the piano, where I decide to remain for the rest of the service. But it doesn’t seem to matter where I’m sitting, I can still feel his piercing gaze on me and it’s causing a swirling in my stomach I’m not used to. I’m not quite sure I like it, but I don’t necessarily dislike it either.
After the service, I make my way to the back of the church, where my father is shaking hands with the last of the members to leave. I tell him I’m going home to make some lunch before zipping up my jacket and starting the walk through the small flurries left over on the sidewalk.
It’s pretty pathetic that at eighteen years old, I still don’t have my license, but my father managed to guilt-trip me into waiting until the summer after high school to take my driver’s test.
Once I get it, I’m gone.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when the smooth baritone voice from earlier says, “I think you forgot something, Miss Gray.”
Staggering to a stop, I spin on my heels to find Jackson making his way toward me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat. With sunlight reflecting off his hair, it looks as if he has caramel highlights, and as he gets closer, I’m once again captivated by the puzzling shade of his eyes.
God, he’s beautiful.
No. I shake my head and scold myself for thinking that way. I know boys as beautiful as him are no good for inexperienced wallflowers like me.
My thoughts are further solidified when he stands before me and smirks as if he’s proud of himself for finding me again, because I swear, when he smiles, it’s like I momentarily forget how to breathe.
“I don’t believe I did,” I tell him.
He rocks back on his heels, and his face seems to light up at the sound of my voice. But that can’t be right.
“Oh, but you did. I didn’t get your name,” he clarifies.
Standing on my tiptoes, I try to look over his shoulder, but quickly realize he’s too tall, so I look around him instead and find my father’s watchful gaze on us.
“Look, Jackson,” I start, and take a deep breath. “You seem like a nice enough guy, but I think it’s best if we keep to ourselves when we’re at church.”
“So you can know my first name, but I can’t know yours?” he questions.
Biting my lip, I fumble over my response. “It’s—”
“Jackson! We’re leaving. Now.” Jackson’s shoulders stiffen from the rough command.
He briefly closes his eyes, and when they open again, he softly says, “I’ll be seeing you, Miss Gray.”
