Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,38

Mrs. O’Toole and few other parishioners for supper after the event. Usually they would have invited him, but they hadn’t bothered for some reason.

She was managing to ignore him much more successfully than he was her. She drew him in just by sitting there and breathing. She mesmerized him with the way her hands moved over the cash. The small smile curving her lips was like a siren song.

“Good haul?”

She looked up at him as though she was surprised to see him standing that close to her. “Very good haul.” Her eyes lit up.

Fuck.

Dammit, she shouldn’t talk to him with that breathy voice. It was lethal for his resolve. “Eh?” She was making him inarticulate.

“Along with everything that was deposited directly into the church’s bank account, almost twelve thousand dollars.”

That shocked him out of lusting after her. His surprise must have shown in his expression, because she gave him a you-poor-sweet-summer-child look and said, “Did you doubt me?”

Her tone was flirtatious, and he desperately needed to not think about that. “Well, no.”

“Almost halfway there.”

On the one hand, he was glad that her idea had been so successful. On the other hand, he knew that would mean that he would be stuck with her for longer. She was so effective that he would be foolish not to accept more of her help if she was still willing to offer it. The war between his gratitude to her for helping and his fear that she would lead him into temptation was bloody.

“That’s amazing. You’re amazing.” She deserved to hear that.

Then she stood up and was way too close to him. He should have stepped back, but he didn’t. He felt her breath on his chin, the heat of her body against his.

She didn’t step back either. Instead, she looked up at him, with her lips parted as though she was waiting for something. He’d barely have to bend down to kiss her, to taste the sugar on her breath and the inherent sweetness of her mouth. The heat inside him was painful. It made his skin feel too tight as well as his pants.

The black pants that he wore every day, along with the black shirt and collar, that reminded him that he was a fucking priest.

And a priest kissing the pretty girl who had just gotten him halfway to saving the pre-K program would not only be breaking his vows, but would be making a very stupid professional decision even if he weren’t a priest.

He stepped back, still aching from being so close to her and only wanting to be closer. “Thank you.”

For her part, Sasha stuffed the cash into one of the vinyl bank envelopes that Sister Cortona used for deposits. Patrick reached out his hand to take it from her. He could do that without making contact.

But she surprised him by wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him. His body went rigid—all of it. He didn’t dare move because then she would feel the evidence that his vocation hadn’t deadened him below the waist. He fought not to sigh at the way her feminine curves pressed into his body, how he would never forget how this felt, how on his deathbed he wouldn’t be thinking about the face of God or if there was really any everlasting reward. He would be thinking about Sasha Finerghty’s embrace.

Somehow he kept himself from wrapping his arms around her waist and feeling her elegant back under his palms. If he did that, he would be lost. She made a sound that he didn’t dare to categorize as a breathy moan before stepping back, leaving him shaken and changed. She put the envelope in his still-outstretched hand.

He was speechless. He was never speechless. Luckily, despite the possibly breathy almost moan, Sasha could speak. She smoothed one perfectly manicured hand through her dark bangs and said, “I will call you next week?”

Patrick somehow made himself nod. “Yes.” His voice sounded as though he hadn’t used it in days—broken. “I’m free. I mean. Most days.”

Why did he sound like such a blathering fool? He was never like this. He dealt with people for a living.

Sasha gave him a break, though. Thank God. If she did something like hugging him again—even squeezing his arm—he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to touch her more. And if they became touching friends, they would become kissing friends. And then he would really be in the shit, because they would become fucking friends. It would be secret