I spin around to find Elijah leaning against the doorframe, his golden hair slightly mussed, wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual formal attire. He looks younger like this, more human, less like the angelic choir director everyone sees during Mass.
“Stress-baking,” I admit, turning back to the rolls. “It helps me think.”
He moves closer, and I’m hyperaware of his presence behind me as I work. “What are you thinking about?”
“The billboard. Adrian’s tension. Everything changing.” I don’t mention the other thoughts, the ones about bodies and heat and the way all three of them look at me sometimes.
Elijah reaches past me for one of the finished rolls, still warm from the oven.
His arm brushes mine, and electricity shoots through me at the contact. He takes a bite, and his crystalline blue eyes widen.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathes. “Charlie, this is—” He takes another bite, his expression transforming into something close to ecstasy. “Where did you learn to bake like this?”
“My grandmother.” I focus on rolling the dough, trying to ignore how close he’s standing, how his body radiates warmth. “She taught me everything.”
“This isn’t just good. This is art.” He finishes the roll and licks frosting from his thumb, the gesture somehow obscene despite its innocence. “You have real talent. Wasted talent.”
“I work at a diner.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I’m not wasting anything. I’m surviving.”
“I didn’t mean…” He touches my arm gently, and I freeze. “Charlie, I just meant you could do more. Be more. This is extraordinary.”
I turn to face him, and suddenly we’re too close.
His hand is still on my arm, his blue eyes searching my face.
The kitchen feels too small, too warm, the air thick with flour dust and something more dangerous.
“Elijah,” I whisper, and his name on my lips makes his pupils dilate.
“I know I shouldn’t.” His voice drops lower. “I know this is wrong. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
His hand slides from my arm to my waist, pulling me closer.
I should push him away.
Should remember that he’s a brother, that this is a church, that I’m already tangled up with Adrian in ways that could destroy us both.
Instead, I rise on my toes and kiss him.
His lips are soft, gentle at first, then hungry as his control breaks. His hands frame my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper.
I taste cinnamon and sugar on his tongue, feel the hard planes of his chest against my breasts.
My fingers tangle in his golden hair, messing the angelic perfection.
He lifts me onto the counter, settling between my thighs, and I gasp at the feel of him pressed against me.
His hands slide under my cardigan, finding bare skin, and I arch into his touch.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat. “So fucking beautiful.”
The profanity from his angel mouth sends heat straight to my core. His fingers trace the curve of my breast through my thin shirt, and I’m about to beg him for more when we both hear it.
Footsteps in the hallway.
We break apart, breathing hard. Elijah helps me down from the counter, and I’m adjusting my cardigan with shaking hands when I see it.
A flash of black fabric disappearing around the corner.
