“I’m not calling the police,” I say, and Charlie’s eyes widen with hope that makes my chest ache. “We will help find a solution for your grandmother, and you will work off this debt. Six months of service to this church, under my direct supervision. You’ll answer to me personally for every hour, every task, every moment.”
The air between us crackles with something that has nothing to do with theft or mercy. Her lips part in surprise, and I watch her tongue dart out to wet them, a nervous gesture that sends heat straight through me.
“You’ll do whatever I tell you to do,” I continue, my voice dropping lower. “No questions. No complaints. And if you fail to meet my expectations, if you miss even one day, I will call the police and press charges. Do you understand?”
She stares at me, her hazel eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I want her to find.
The purse is still pressed against her chest, and I can see her heart pounding, can see the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I understand.”
“Good.” I hold out my hand. “Now give me the money.”
She hesitates then slowly extends the purse toward me. Our fingers brush as I take it, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.
Her eyes widen, and I know she felt it too—that dangerous spark that has no place between a priest and a parishioner, between a man of God and a woman who just stole from his church.
I step back quickly, putting necessary distance between us. “You’ll start tomorrow morning. Six a.m. Don’t be late.”
She nods, relief evident in her eyes.
“And Miss Davis?” She looks at me with surprise mixed with wariness. “You’ll move your things here. There’s an upstairs apartment where you will stay while you work off your debt.”
3
CHARLIE
Two weeks of penance have become two weeks of torture.
I scrub the church floors on my hands and knees, the worn wood grain blurring beneath my vision as Father Adrian Cross’s footsteps echo somewhere behind me.
I don’t look up. I never look up anymore.
But I feel his eyes on me like a physical touch, tracking my movements as I work the brush in circles, as I reach forward and my vintage sundress rides up my thighs.
He’ll change his mind, I tell myself, wringing out the rag with hands that have gone raw from bleach and cold water.
They always do.
People don’t keep broken things.
They discard them once the guilt fades.
Mom left, and Dad was never there. I’m the girl men survive, not the girl they stay for.
I arrange flowers in the sanctuary the next morning, my fingers trembling as I trim rose stems.
Adrian stands at the altar reviewing his notes for Sunday Mass, and I’m hyperaware of the space between us.
Twenty feet that feels like twenty inches. His gray eyes lift from the page, finding me across the expanse of pews, and the air goes thick.
I look away first. I always look away first.
But I feel the heat of his gaze on my neck, my shoulders, the curve of my waist where my cardigan has slipped. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
The thief who stole from his church?
The charity case living in his rectory? Or something else, something dangerous that makes his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists?
