We still haven’t had that conversation.
There’s been no perfect moment to speak with Adrian when he isn’t consumed by the control he needs to resist Charlie.
We need a moment when he won’t lose that control to anger or frustration.
Charlie stands at the music cabinet, organizing sheet music with those delicate hands that haunt my dreams.
She hums while she works, that same hymn her grandmother taught her, the melody drifting through the choir loft like a prayer.
I’ve memorized the sound, the way her voice catches slightly on the higher notes, the unconscious grace in how she moves.
She bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating, worrying the soft flesh between her teeth.
I watch from the piano bench, my fingers resting on the keys but not playing, and imagine what that lip would feel like beneath my own mouth.
Would she taste like the vanilla from her midnight baking?
Would she gasp if I traced that full bottom lip with my tongue?
Mon Dieu.I’m supposed to be better than this.
The choir members filter out after practice, their voices echoing down the spiral staircase until we’re alone.
Charlie doesn’t notice at first, too focused on alphabetizing hymn books, her sundress swaying as she reaches for higher shelves.
The fabric clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
I can see the outline of her bra through the thin material, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
I’ve watched Adrian look at her with barely contained hunger during Mass, his gray eyes tracking her movements like a predator.
I’ve seen Marcus find excuses to stand too close during parish hall setup, his tattooed hands flexing like he’s fighting the urge to touch her.
They’re both falling, both losing the battle against wanting her.
And I’m no better. Worse, maybe, because I’ve always been the patient one, the observer who waits and watches and plans. But my restraint is wearing dangerously thin.
“Charlie,” I say, my accent thickening slightly the way it does when I’m tired or emotional. “Would you mind staying a bit longer? I need help cataloging the music library.”
She turns, and those hazel eyes catch the afternoon light filtering through the stained glass. Green today, more than gold, and I wonder if her mood affects the color or if it’s just the way the light hits them.
“Of course.” Her smile is genuine, unguarded. She has no idea what she does to me. “I don’t have to be at the diner for a few hours.”
I stand and move to the tall cabinet against the wall, the one that requires a ladder to reach the top shelves. “The older hymn books are up here. I need to inventory them, but I can’t quite reach.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I could reach if I tried, but this gives me an excuse to stand close to her, to test the boundaries of what she’ll allow.
Charlie positions the small ladder, and I stand behind her as she climbs.
My body is close enough that I can feel her warmth and smell the vanilla and cinnamon that cling to her clothes.
When she reaches for a book on the highest shelf, she wobbles slightly, and my hands find her waist to steady her.
The contact sends a jolt through me.
Her waist is small beneath my palms, the curve of her hips flaring just above where my thumbs rest.
I can feel her breathing quicken, feel the slight tremor that runs through her body.
