I catch Adrian’s jaw clench, and Marcus’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Elijah appears from the choir loft stairs, his golden hair slightly mussed, wearing jeans and a white button-down that makes him look younger than thirty-two.
His crystalline blue eyes find me immediately, and his angel-boy smile has an edge to it that makes my stomach flip.
I remember those hands on my body, his filthy praises whispered in French and English. He made me sing.
The three of them stand together near the entrance, a united front of barely restrained hunger, and I feel like prey being circled by predators who’ve agreed to share.
“Everyone, please help yourselves!” Father Adrian’s voice cuts through the chatter, smooth and controlled despite the tension I can see in his shoulders. “We’re blessed to have such a wonderful community.”
The crowd descends on the food tables like locusts. I hang back, watching from the kitchen doorway as plates fill and conversations flow.
Mrs. Delacroix stands beside her lemon meringue pie, waiting for the inevitable compliments.
But something strange happens.
A few people bypass her pie entirely, gravitating toward mine at the end of the table.
I watch Mr. Chen take a slice, his eyes widening at the first bite. He calls his wife over, and she tries it too, making a sound of appreciation that carries across the room.
Within minutes, a small crowd has formed around my pie.
“Who made this?” someone asks.
“Charlie Davis,” Mrs. Patterson announces proudly, like I’m her personal discovery. “Rose’s granddaughter.”
“It’s incredible,” Mr. Chen says, going back for a second slice. “Light, flavorful, perfect amount of sweetness.”
“The crust is amazing,” his wife adds. “Flaky but not too buttery.”
I feel my face flush hot as more people try it, as the compliments pile up, as my pie disappears slice by slice while Mrs. Delacroix’s creation sits untouched and perfect in the center of the table.
Marcus appears beside me in the kitchen doorway, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “You’re causing quite a stir,querida.”
The Spanish endearment sends heat straight through me. I glance up at him, and the hunger in his dark eyes has nothing to do with pie.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts beneath my dress.
When his eyes meet mine again, I’m breathing harder.
“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper.
“I know.” His hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Across the room, Adrian is watching us. His gray eyes are dark, stormy, and I watch his hand tighten around his rosary beads until his knuckles go white.
He’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to cross the room and claim me in front of everyone.
Elijah joins the crowd around the dessert table, trying my pie at Mrs. Patterson’s insistence.
I watch his face transform at the first bite, his crystalline blue eyes widen then find me across the room.
His smile is slow, knowing, intimate.
He licks a bit of cherry filling from his thumb, the gesture somehow obscene despite its innocence, and I remember that tongue on my skin.
“This is extraordinary,” he announces to the room, his French accent thickening slightly. “Charlie, where did you learn to bake like this?”
