eclipsed by the agony played out on the crucifix at the front of the church.
Standing behind the altar, the priest raises a white circle. High-pitched bells ring out. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound reverberates in my head even after the altar server had laid them down.
It is clearly an important moment. The solemnity of the people is so intense it is palpable. It raises the hair on my arms. The people rise and slowly file to the front. I know there is only one of my five senses that will go unsatisfied.
“The body of Christ,” announces the young man, over and over.
“Amen.” The response repeats. Bennet takes my hand, and we slip out of the pew and exit the back of the church. The door is propped open with the wooden statue of a saint. Its paint is chipped. Outside, the sun is painfully bright, and I blink.
“So what did you think?” Bennet asks, watching my face.
“It was…beautiful. Very…sensory. I totally see what you mean.” I close my eyes, letting the last strains of the music sift out the door and right through my body.
“Yeah, I know.” He exhales. “This priest says Mass like it’s a full-contact sport.”
“Do you come every Sunday?” I ask.
“No. But I like to have new experiences, and thought you might, too.” He looks at me with an expression of pure satisfaction. “I’ve got to work this afternoon, but don’t worry. I’ve got more lessons in store for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He smiles, his grin stretching across his whole face, his teeth white in the mid-morning light. He cups my jaw with his hand and strokes his thumb across my lips. “I suspect you still haven’t opened the paints you bought.”
“I was waiting for—”
“The perfect moment,” he says, finishing my thought. “Yeah. I figured. Which is why I’m going to take you to Turtle Island tomorrow.”
My stomach muscles clench as his fingers skim the sides of my ribs. His eyes lock on mine, and I’m trapped by his stare. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
“Turtle Island?” I ask through dry lips. My tongue darts out to wet them. The tendon in his jaw flexes as his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Turtle Island,” he says. “It’s time to put those senses to more work.”
And then he kisses me right there in the church parking lot.
Bennet ends the kiss with a nip at my bottom lip, and I sigh. I don’t know what’s happening between us. The heated swell of emotion in my chest is nothing like I’ve ever felt before. I can’t put a label on it. I can’t figure out where to file it away in the catalog of my heart. A for affection? I for infatuation? L for lust? The only thing I know for sure: nothing about this feels like an F for fling.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Katherine
The next day, Bennet picks me up in his truck, and we head down the dirt road. His strategy for navigating the potholes is to drive so far on the edge that he’s more at risk of gouging the side of his truck on tree branches than hitting a rut. After less than a minute, he pulls into a lakeside driveway.
“Sully O’Hare’s cottage,” he says as he throws the truck in park. My stomach does a lurch when I realize how close his house is to the lighthouse.
He grabs my art supplies from the back of the truck and walks so quickly toward the water’s edge that I have to struggle to keep up.
There’s a medium-sized boat with a covered seating area tied to the dock behind the cottage. The cottage itself is storybook perfect, covered in ivy and wild roses, with a small deck off the back. Before I have a chance to truly admire it, Bennet is already on the dock.
“Whose boat is that?” I yell ahead of me.
“Doyle’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes.” He throws my things into the back of the boat and takes my hand to steady me as I step off the dock and down into the tiny hull. It rocks a little, and I stagger, losing my balance. Bennet catches me by the hand and is kind enough not to laugh.
I stand at the wheel while he unties the rope that tethers the boat to a metal cleat on the dock, then jumps in. He stands behind me, his hard chest pressed against my back, and reaches under my arm to start the ignition. We both look over his shoulder as we