I should let go. Should step back. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
Instead, my thumb traces a small circle on her arm, and we both feel the spark between us, dangerous and undeniable.
It takes all my control to release her and step away, pushing down the regret and urge to look back at her.
5
CHARLIE
I wake to pale morning light filtering through the single dormer window of my apartment above the rectory. The space is small but mine, at least for now.
Adrian arranged it as part of my penance, close enough that he can monitor my work, far enough that I can pretend I have some independence.
Two weeks I’ve been here, and I still can’t decide if the proximity to him is torture or salvation.
I dress quickly in my diner uniform, the polyester fabric clinging to my curves in ways that make me self-conscious. My vintage cardigan helps, covering what the uniform reveals.
As I descend the narrow servants’ staircase, my hand trailing along the worn banister, I glance through the rectory window and freeze.
Across the street, a massive billboard is being erected. Workers in hard hats guide the structure into place, and even from this distance, I can see it’s going to be huge. Bigger than anything else on this block. Bigger than St. Michael’s bell tower.
I should keep moving. I’m going to be late for my shift. But something about the billboard makes my stomach clench with unease.
By the time I return from the diner that afternoon, my feet aching and my uniform smelling like grease and desperation, the billboard is complete.
“Victory Life Church—Where Modern Faith Meets Prosperity!”
The face staring down at the neighborhood is spray-tanned to an unnatural orange, teeth so white they practically glow, wearing expensive suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Pastor Derek Whitmore.
Even in two dimensions, he looks predatory.
I stand on the sidewalk staring up at it, my purse clutched against my chest. The same purse that held stolen money two weeks ago. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I stole to save my grandmother, and now this man is advertising prosperity like it’s something you can buy with the right prayer and a generous donation.
The church kitchen is empty when I enter through the side door, but I can hear voices coming from Adrian’s office. His voice, low and controlled, the way it gets when he’s fighting to maintain composure.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop.
I should go upstairs, mind my own business, and remember my place.
Instead, I move closer to his office door, which stands slightly ajar.
“I appreciate the courtesy call, Pastor Whitmore.” Adrian’s voice is ice wrapped in politeness. “Though I’m not sure what you expect me to say.”
I can’t hear the response, just the tinny sound of a voice through the phone speaker.
“St. Michael’s has served this community for over a century,” Adrian continues. “I’m sure there’s room for both of us.”
His jaw clenches, visible even from my angle in the hallway. His hand grips his rosary beads until his knuckles go white.
“I see. Well, may God bless your endeavors.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.
I should announce myself. Should knock. Should do anything except stand here watching him through the crack in the door as he braces both hands on his desk, head bowed, shoulders rigid with tension.
The cassock stretches across his broad back, and I remember how those shoulders felt under my hands, how his body pressed against mine in this very office.
