She’s wearing one of her vintage sundresses, the fabric clinging to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry despite everything.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.
She sees our faces and stops. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t look at her.
Can’t meet those hazel eyes that shift between green and gold, can’t see the concern there without breaking completely.
My gaze fixes on the letter in my hands, on the formal diocese seal that represents everything threatening to destroy us.
“The Bishop is coming,” Marcus says when I don’t speak. “In two weeks. To investigate concerns about pastoral conduct.”
Charlie’s breath catches. I hear it even though I’m not looking at her. “Concerns about what?”
“About me.” My voice comes out flat, emotionless. “About my conduct with parishioners.”
The air between us, usually electric with want and need and barely restrained desire, goes cold and distant.
I force myself to maintain the separation, to not cross the room and pull her against me, to not promise that everything will be okay.
Because I don’t know if it will be.
“Adrian.” My name in her voice makes my chest tight and my control fracture further. But I don’t respond. Can’t respond.
She stands there for a moment longer, and I feel her gaze on me like a physical touch.
Then she turns and leaves, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, each one feeling like a nail in a coffin.
Marcus rounds on me the moment she’s gone. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’m protecting her.” But my voice lacks conviction.
“You’re hurting her.” Elijah’s gaze hold mine. “And yourself.”
Before I can respond, voices echo from the church entrance. Multiple voices, unfamiliar, accompanied by the sound of equipment being moved.
I move to the window and see a white van parked in the lot,Diocese Technology Servicesprinted on the side.
“What the hell?” Marcus joins me at the window.
We watch as a crew of technicians unloads equipment, led by a man in a diocese polo shirt carrying a clipboard.
Sister Margaret appears to greet them, gesturing toward the church entrance.
My stomach drops. “They’re here to upgrade our systems.”
“What systems?” Elijah asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t authorize any upgrades.”
We move as one toward the church, arriving just as the crew begins setting up in the nave. The man with the clipboard approaches, his smile professional and impersonal.
“Father Cross? I’m Dave Mitchell, Diocese IT. We’re here to install the new audio-visual system. Should have received notification last week?”
“I didn’t receive anything.” My jaw clenches.
Dave frowns, checking his clipboard. “That’s odd. Well, we’re here now. Shouldn’t take more than a few days. We’ll be installing cameras for livestreaming Mass, upgrading the sound system, and running new cables throughout the building.”
