Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,30
feel about them is a reflection of what’s going on inside of you.”
This was only making things muddier, when she’d come to therapy in order to get clear. If her feelings for Patrick were a reflection of her feelings about herself, did that mean that she didn’t deserve to get what she wanted? And to prove that to herself, she had the hots for a priest?
“I want Patrick because I don’t think I can have what I really want?”
Pam nodded. “And you don’t want Nathan because you won’t let yourself want what you can have.”
It all made sense, and it made her mad—at herself, the world, the Church, Patrick for being so enticing. It even made her angry at Nathan for being too perfect. Maybe if he had a hint of bad boy, she would want to touch his bathing suit parts.
“What do I do?”
Pam shrugged like she always did when Sasha asked her that question. After the tenth time she’d asked, the confounding woman had stopped saying, That’s not what therapy is for.
Sasha wished it was more like a rule book. Even if her unruly desires were running rampant, Sasha could follow rules. She understood rules. Dark lines between good and bad and right and wrong. She wished there was a list of steps she could take to root out the things her body wanted and put her brain back in charge. Or a list of ten easy ways to forget how it felt to have Patrick’s body pressing hers to the ground. Maybe a handy guide to aphrodisiacs to get her motor running for a guy who wore pleated-front pants.
She giggled, forgetting where she was a for a second because dealing with her therapist looking at her and waiting for her to have a breakthrough was a little bit too much for her.
“What’s funny?”
“I wish I could just be fixed, you know? Like, I wish I could wake up one day soon and just love the right people.”
“You love some of the right people.”
That was true. She loved Hannah and Kelly and Bridget and their other friends. She loved her family as long as they kept their distance. “I wish I could fall in love with the right man.”
“There’s no right or wrong with who you love, just what you do with it.”
“I can’t do anything with the feelings I have for Patrick.” She wouldn’t call those feelings love; that would make them too urgent. “And I can gin up feelings for Nathan.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
It was pointless, and yet . . .
“Of course I am.”
“Are you going to talk to the actual object of your affections about how you feel about him?”
Also pointless, and yet . . .
“Of course I’m not.”
CHAPTER NINE
ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S WAS AN old church in an old building. It was the kind of place people imagined when they thought about a Catholic Church if they hadn’t been inside a sanctuary for several decades.
Although the sacraments that took place inside the church had modernized, all of the original architecture—that had survived the fire—was intact. The confessionals were only there in the name of architectural preservation. But if someone wanted to confess one-on-one, Patrick usually sat next to them in a pew.
The confessionals, akin to wooden, stand-up coffins, were a great place to hide, though. Today, Patrick was hiding in the confessional, reading a book of poetry by Seamus Heaney, which he hoped would inform his homily this Sunday, because Mrs. O’Toole, the president of the parish council, was on the hunt for him.
She’d been the sole dissenter at this month’s meeting, where they discussed the plan to save the pre-K program. She represented the contingent of the congregation that didn’t like change and wasn’t particularly welcoming to outsiders. She grew up in a period during which the Church didn’t have to try to get butts into pews on Sunday.
Mrs. O’Toole had decided that the parishioners should provide the baked goods for the bake sale. To prove her point, she’d been bringing over baked goods every day. Patrick had as much of a sweet tooth as the next guy, but there was a limit. And his limit was a loaf of lemon bread and a dozen rhubarb muffins the day after she’d brought over mini blueberry loaves.
If he ate any more sugar, he’d go into a flat-out food coma.
He wasn’t expecting Sasha to be the person who found him.
“What are you doing in here?” She looked so pretty and fresh in jeans and