Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,75
was simple. And she’d thought that would be safe. But it was the opposite.
What she wanted was something she couldn’t have. And she thought it was maybe time to let herself want it and be open to the distinct possibility that she might not get it. But the wanting would still be worth it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PATRICK TRIED TO PRAY, but he was afraid it was no use. No one was listening. And he should know better. Although God could perform miracles—he really believed that—it wasn’t like those miracles included a bleach rinse for every dirty thought he’d ever had about Sasha Finerghty.
No, God spoke in whispers—having doubts and then being able to help someone in a way that assuaged those doubts, finding something small and lost when feeling small and lost. Patrick tried to slow down and listen to the whispers. But nothing came.
In spite of the fact that he didn’t feel as though he deserved to stand in front of his congregation that Sunday, he got up and did his duty. He put on his vestments and went out to do his job.
He stood at the altar and tried not to go through the rite of Mass by rote. Although the congregants could skate by on memorized ritual, Patrick tried not to. Even though it was a Buddhist concept, the idea of beginner’s mind usually helped him center.
As soon as he looked out over the Sunday morning crowd and saw her, he knew that wasn’t going to work today. He would have to block her out and rely on the years he’d been repeating the words and go through the motions.
He hated himself for how she pulled his intention. For years, everything had been tugged in the direction of God and duty and church. Now, it was only Sasha. He worshipped at the altar of the dimple in her left cheek, prayed novenas to the curve of her mouth. Her angelic visage was his North Star, and frankly it was fucked up.
Hadn’t he given enough to the Church—to God—that he was exempt from temptation? Before she’d barnstormed into my life, he’d certainly thought so. Now, he didn’t know which way was up.
Somehow, he got through the service. By some very small, inadequate miracle, he greeted parishioners as they filed out of the sanctuary. He did it because he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t expel her scent from his nostrils, but he was able to pretend that she wasn’t the impetus of his fall from grace for a few minutes.
At least until she was in front of him—looking fresh and new.
Want washed over him, erasing any grace and sanity that he’d managed to scrape up since seeing her last. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. They matched his damp palms and the red he was sure had crept onto his neck.
Instead of shaking her hand—touching her would be deadly right now—he rubbed the back of his neck and dared to really allow himself to take her in.
That Nathan guy was really not smart. Anyone in their right mind—anyone who could—would marry this girl immediately and take her away from everything so that nothing bad could touch her again. Patrick had been fooled by her extreme competence and inherent grace when they’d first met. He hadn’t seen the vulnerable, soft heart underneath all of that. But when she looked at him now, he couldn’t help but notice that her dark eyes had an inherently delicate quality, not unlike the glass vases that his mother used to collect—the ones that his father broke in a rage right after her funeral.
He didn’t know why he thought of that in this moment; maybe it was that there was something broken in Sasha’s gaze as it met his that morning. When that registered with him, he forgot all concern for his equanimity and touched her arm. She started, and he dropped his hand.
They had still said nothing, but he felt as though they’d spoken for an hour. It was cruel, really, that they were so in tune. Some real Old Testament shit. He felt like Eve. She was the apple. The sensual, juicy apple that would be healthy for someone else to love. Not for him. He just had to keep repeating that to himself. It hadn’t worked before, but he didn’t have any other options.
“You cut your hair. Sorry I didn’t mention it at the wedding.” He might not know much, having grown up with only a brother, but the semiotics of