Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,1

eyes, or the craggy dimples in his clean-shaven cheeks that was so much more handsome than every other man she’d ever met. But that was a lie. It was that he was the epitome of unobtainable, and the taboo of it gave her a kind of rush she couldn’t get from overindulging in reality television and pastries. Definitely not from any of the perfectly blah men she’d met on the three dating apps she was currently juggling like a part-time job.

But she had to learn to ignore it if she wanted to get married and have a family. That was something she wanted that she could actually have. And it didn’t matter whether she could summon even a scintilla of the passion aroused by Father Patrick Dooley’s wedding homily or the frisson of something she felt whenever he looked at her, even though he barely looked at her.

She only wanted him with the heat of a thousand suns because (a) he was a priest, and therefore she could never have him, and (b) even if he wasn’t a priest, he wouldn’t acknowledge her existence.

It was just like her first real crush—Jake Sanders in the sixth grade. He was the cutest guy in school, but he persistently ignored her batting her eyelashes and dropping things in front of him. She’d even baked him cookies on his birthday. He’d pointedly thrown them in the trash, and somehow it had only made her want him more.

And her crush on Patrick was eerily reminiscent of her lusty imaginings about her first-year English professor—a Canadian former professional hockey player with a rakish scar from a split lip to show for it. And the way he talked about books by old, dead, cis white men made them seem almost interesting at the time.

Patrick made God seem more interesting than all the Catholic schoolteachers, theology professors, elderly Fathers, and relatively nubile seminarians she’d met in her whole life had.

It was a miracle that she made it through the ceremony without interrupting the proceedings with an audible, wistful sigh. She knew she’d made cow eyes at Father Patrick the whole time because Hannah rolled hers as they left the church for the reception venue.

“Thank God he won’t be at the reception; otherwise you would combust.” Although Hannah had no clue as to the depths of her crush, she’d sussed out that Sasha had a crush on Patrick. Hannah thought it was cute rather than a ticket straight to hell and made jokes about it. Sasha let her do so because getting her to stop would require her to reveal how deeply serious her pants feels for the good priest truly were. She would never survive that sort of humiliation, so she kept her mouth shut.

But she agreed that they were lucky Patrick was not joining the celebration at the reception. They had way too much work to do, what all with making sure no one got gluten who wasn’t supposed to get gluten and that the mic cut off before the mother of the groom’s toast got way too racy for the mother of the bride.

Some people, including her family, thought Sasha’s work was frivolous. But they’d helped her and Hannah with start-up cash because she couldn’t very well be idle until she got married and had lots of babies, as every Finerghty woman had done for generations and generations. But Sasha derived great satisfaction from her work. Since they didn’t work funerals, Good Time Girls’ Events was in the business of harvesting joy. And that had value.

She wished her parents could see that, even though she was glad to be far, far away from them.

Sasha was gathering the favors that several guests had left on the tables when a she felt a tap on her shoulder. She jumped, because most of the guests were bidding the bride and groom farewell out front.

She quickly turned and saw one of the groomsmen smiling down at her. Immediately and problematically, she compared him to Patrick. Where Patrick was dark haired and green eyed, this man was blond haired and brown eyed. He also had the unsettling tan of someone who spent entirely too much time in the outdoors without sunscreen. Where she and Patrick shared the pallor of two people who spent most summer afternoons cloistered inside with a book as Gutenberg intended, this man looked like the sort who pursued beach volleyball or—shudder—hiking.

“Hi, I’m Nathan.” He held out his hand, and she looked at it for a long moment