Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,41
weren’t sure he should say the next thing. “You don’t trust yourself to be imperfect.”
Jesus. Maybe he really did know her. “Are you usually this confrontational in confession?”
“This isn’t a confession.” He raised his glass and took a drink. She mirrored his gesture. There was palpable electricity in the air between them. “Besides, I think you can take it.”
“I’m just a delicate flower.” She shouldn’t be teasing him. It was too close to flirting.
“Delicate flowers don’t get Michelin-starred pastry chefs to donate thousands of dollars’ worth of product for a church bake sale.”
Sasha flushed, and Patrick pointed at her. “See? You’re blushing because I brought up that you did something wonderful, and you can’t take it in.”
She didn’t deny it because it was the truth. Somehow, he’d said in fifteen minutes what it had taken years of therapy for her to admit out loud.
“You have me pegged, I guess.” Sasha felt vulnerable and exposed, and it made her want to strike back at Patrick. “But I still don’t understand why you’d become a priest.”
“You’re thinking about the sex thing, aren’t you?”
“Another way in which you have me pegged.”
“I’m going to need you to stop saying ‘pegged.’ ” Her eyes got wide when she got the double entendre. And her eyes got even bigger when he said, “It’s not usually hard.”
“I’m going to need you to stop saying ‘hard.’ ”
Patrick laughed and held up his empty glass. “Another?”
That was a terrible idea. “Only if you tell me the whole story.”
“Not tonight.”
Fair enough. Someone who didn’t get the option of unburdening himself very often probably wouldn’t want to rip off the bandage all at once. And they’d devolved into middle school teasing. Probably not condoned for priests.
“Thanks for the drink.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt.
He got up from his chair and rounded the table so that he was far too close to her. “I’m glad to know you, Sasha Finerghty.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SASHA HAD NO IDEA how she got home, but somehow she got out of a Lyft in front of her condo building with her purse and not looking like she’d almost jumped a priest in his own rectory with the likely salacious addition of a nun being able to hear.
Although she’d always been more of a cultural Catholic, there had to be some higher power that had allowed her not to fall on Patrick’s baloney rocket like her mother after coming back from juice fasting in the desert on anything with simple carbs.
She was so off-balance after the intimacy of her—encounter—with Patrick that she didn’t notice the light coming through where her door was open or the fact that her doorknob was hanging out of place on one side until she was on the top step.
She didn’t often miss the actual presence of a husband or significant man in her life, other than when she had to snake a pipe—and now when her apartment was potentially mid–break in was the only other time.
She should have gone outside and called the police. But she was exhausted and horny and confused. Instead of doing the smart thing, she opened the door as quietly as she could and grabbed a long umbrella from the container next to the door. She choked up on it like a bat.
The light and noise were coming from the kitchen, so Sasha walked that way after she slipped out of her shoes. Only when she saw who was rifling through her cupboards did she relax and put the umbrella down.
“What are you doing here?”
Her sister Madison turned around and shrieked, dropping a bag of quinoa that spilled all over the floor. “You scared me.”
“So I see.” Sasha looked at the thousands of pieces of pseudo-grain that her mother had purchased the last time that she was in town. “What are you doing here?”
Her sister composed herself and put the greatly diminished bag on the counter. “Why don’t you have any snacks without gluten?”
“I don’t have a gluten allergy.” Seeing that—as per usual—her sister wasn’t going to offer to clean up after herself, Sasha went to the closet where she kept the vacuum.
“Everyone has a gluten allerg—” It was a lot more satisfying than it should have been to turn on the vacuum and drown her sister out. It also gave her a few seconds to come to grips with the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to retire to the bathtub to rub thoughts of Patrick Dooley right out of her clitoris and to prepare for the onslaught