Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,2

before offering her own.

“Sasha.” She really didn’t know what else to say, but she knew she shouldn’t remark on how white and straight his teeth were. The feral part of her wanted to do that. But the lady that her parents raised bit her lip to stay silent.

He apparently thought her lip bite was charming, because his smile got wider.

After another silent beat, she asked, “Did you misplace something?” She often had to gather a plethora of lost-and-found items after wedding receptions with an open bar—umbrellas, purses, one time even a thong from an empty coat closet.

“No, I . . . uh . . . was wondering.” As he spoke, Sasha felt a level of dread. He was going to ask her out. This wasn’t the first time it had happened while she was on the job, and it wasn’t the first time Sasha had craved the protection of Hannah’s big, sparkly ring. Between that and a positively wicked death stare, groomsmen and drunken wedding guests always left her alone.

Right now, patiently waiting while Nathan spat out his request for her number so that she could give it to him because she would feel guilty if she didn’t, she wished she had half the chutzpah that her best friend did.

“I was wondering if I could get your phone number.”

There it went. “Oh, uh . . .” She did this thing—it was automatic—where she looked down coyly and stared at him from beneath her lashes. Her sisters did it too. So had her mother and generations of women before them. “Of course.”

Nathan let out a breath when she said that, signaling that he’d been nervous that she might refuse. Sasha would never be so mean as to turn down such a polite query for her phone number. If he turned out to be creepy or boring, she could always block him later. Nathan was perfectly handsome, with a nice smile, just about tall enough—sort of a dreamboat if polite, handsome, blond men who were just about tall enough made her feel anything at all.

His smile got even bigger, and she mirrored it. It wasn’t his fault that his earnestness deflated her lady boner like a cold shower or reading entries from the r/relationships subreddit did.

She gave him her phone number and saved his when he texted her.

And she only got a little bit sad when he texted her to set up a date for the following Thursday night.

* * *

—

WHEN FATHER PATRICK DOOLEY joined the priesthood, he’d thought he’d struggle with the vows of poverty, celibacy, and obedience. Especially the celibacy one. But what he didn’t anticipate were his struggles with accounting and paperwork. His issues with the vow of celibacy were entirely theoretical, and he could normally avoid the focus of his inappropriate thoughts. His problems with accounting and administrivia were very immediate.

Sitting in hour three of a financial briefing from Sister Cortona, he thought he might just up and quit then. Not because the stout, fifty-something nun wasn’t lovely—well, not that anyone who’d ever met her would tell her she was anything less than a shining rose of a bride of Christ—but because he’d much rather be hearing confessions or tending to the sacristy or even flagellating himself with a long run in the summer heat.

Hell, he’d rather be reading to the pre-K class, even though their teacher thought that Hop on Pop was way too violent for the three- and four-year-olds. The chaotic energy of small children was never boring.

As Sister Cortona droned on about the level of tithing, for some reason he flashed back on Sasha Finerghty fluffing the bride’s veil before she walked down the aisle yesterday. He should definitely not be thinking about how lovely Sasha had looked in a pastel dress that hugged her small waist. Or how her thick, dark ponytail would feel like silk in his hands.

He was getting fidgety, flexing and unflexing his fist.

The light in his office—all somber mahogany paneling and stained-glass windows—was scant. The smell of old frankincense and the mineral tinge of holy water was almost too relaxing, and he was worried that he would nod off on the sister again. She wouldn’t hesitate to smack him across the back of the head— hierarchy of the Church be damned—so he did his best to stay awake.

When she paused to take a breath, he asked, “Is this going to get less depressing?”

She looked over the top of her gold wire-rimmed glasses and sheaf of papers that somehow spelled out