Heat floods my cheeks.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not ever, really, but especially not when he’s clearly dealing with something serious.
“You can come in, Charlie.” His voice startles me. He hasn’t turned around, hasn’t looked up, but somehow he knows I’m here.
I push the door open fully, stepping into his office. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“Yes, you did.” He finally turns to face me, and the look in his gray eyes makes my breath catch. Not anger. Something darker, more complicated. “But I don’t blame you. You have a right to know what’s happening.”
“The billboard,” I say, moving closer despite knowing I should keep my distance. “That’s what the call was about?”
“Pastor Whitmore wanted to introduce himself. Extend an invitation to visit Victory Life, see what modern ministry looks like.” Adrian’s voice drips with barely contained contempt. “He suggested our congregation might benefit from a more contemporary approach to faith.”
“That’s…” I search for a word that isn’t profanity. “Bold.”
“That’s a declaration of war.” Marcus appears in the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes find the billboard through Adrian’s window, and his expression hardens. “I saw it on my way back from the food bank. He’s not even trying to be subtle.”
Adrian moves to stand beside me at the window, close enough that I can smell his cologne, that dark expensive scent that doesn’t match his vows of poverty.
We both stare at Whitmore’s face looming over the neighborhood.
“It’s not just competition,” Marcus says, joining us. Now I’m flanked by both of them, their bodies radiating heat and tension. “It’s a statement. He’s telling everyone that St. Michael’s is old, outdated, irrelevant.”
“We are old,” Adrian says quietly. “The building is crumbling. Our congregation is aging. We can barely afford to keep the lights on.”
“But we’re real.” The words burst out of me before I can stop them. Both men turn to look at me, and I feel my face flush under their attention. “I mean, that billboard promises prosperity. Like faith is a transaction. Give us your money, get blessed. That’s not what happens here.”
“No,” Adrian agrees, his gray eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my skin burn. “What happens here is messier. More complicated.”
The air between us crackles with unspoken meaning. Marcus clears his throat, breaking the moment.
“We need to figure out how to respond,” he says. “Whitmore isn’t going to stop with a billboard. This is just the opening move.”
They discuss strategy while I listen from my position by the window. Attendance numbers, budget concerns, ways to modernize without losing what makes St. Michael’s special.
I should leave, let them handle church business without the thief who’s working off her debt. But Adrian keeps glancing at me, like my presence matters, like my opinion counts for something.
When Marcus finally leaves to check on evening Mass preparations, Adrian and I are alone in his office.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
“You should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move away from me. “It’s late.”
“It’s not even noon yet.” I turn to face him fully, and the movement brings us closer together. Close enough that I can see the stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls with careful breaths. “Adrian?—”
“Don’t.” His voice is rough. “Don’t say my name like that. And, you’re going to be late for your job at the diner.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not thinking about that night in this office. Like you don’t remember how it felt when I—” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “You should go, Charlie.”
But neither of us moves.
Hours later, I’m in the church kitchen at midnight, unable to sleep, my hands working dough with practiced precision. Stress-baking is my therapy, the only thing that quiets my racing thoughts. The billboard. Adrian’s tension. The way Marcus looked at me in that office, like he was remembering things too. The electricity between all of us, dangerous and undeniable.
I’ve made chocolate chip cookies again, Grandma Rose’s recipe, the one she taught me when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter. The dough is perfect, smooth as I finish beating it, and the kitchen smells like home, like safety, like everything I’m terrified of losing.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
