about their grandchildren, their ailments, and their opinions on the state of the world.
When she woke up on the second Sunday, she had a pit in her stomach. The expectations, the curious eyes—all of it crashed on her the moment her alarm went off that morning. She dressed and walked with Seth to the church to open it up.
Evie grabbed the stress ball off Seth’s church office desk and began tossing it back and forth between her hands. He stood, reading through his notes, closing his eyes every now and again to memorize something.
“You realize that we work harder on Sunday than any other day of the week.”
He glanced up at her.
“It’s ironic because it’s supposed to be the day of rest.”
He chuckled. “A day of rest from the cares of the world.” He dipped his head, back to his notes.
She nodded, thinking about the cares she held in her heart. They centered on the man standing in front of her and didn’t drop from her shoulders—no matter what day of the week the calendar showed. “Do you like the plates we bought?”
“They’re fine.” He waved one hand.
She stared at the top of his head. “I mean, if it had been up to you, which plates would you have picked?”
He lifted a shoulder.
She pressed her lips together, decidedly unsatisfied with the way the conversation went. All she needed was a little direction. With Owen, it had been so easy. He told her exactly what he thought about everything.
Every. Little. Detail.
She rubbed her hand over her throat. “Is it warm in here?” She fanned her face and headed to the window. Throwing it open, she leaned out, gasping for fresh air. There was a lilac bush in bloom, and its fragrance soothed her anxiety. She hadn’t realized just how suffocating Owen’s opinions had been—even the memory of them set her into a tailspin.
“Are you okay?” asked Seth.
She gulped. “Fine.” Taking one more deep breath full of calming lilac, she pulled herself back inside. “I’m good.” She brushed off her skirt, her eyes sweeping over the guitar set next to the bookshelf. She’d heard him play at night, in his room, through the shut door. “You should play something during your sermon.” The idea was like a bolt of lightning, and it lit her on fire.
He shied back from her. “No. I—I don’t play well in front of others.”
“What does that mean?”
His phone dinged an alarm, and they both checked the large clock ticking away on the far wall. “It’s time to go in.” He effectively avoided her question.
She let it slide. He couldn’t avoid her forever.
He rubbed his stomach as he mumbled.
“Were you speaking to me?” She put down the stress ball and picked her clutch off the desk. She wore a navy skirt with white piping that flared at the knees and a white cardigan summer sweater set. The white wedges and clutch rounded out the outfit and made her feel stylish, young, and flirty. Exactly like Hannah and the woman she was supposed to be.
“I was actually pleading for grace. I could use some enabling power right about now.”
Her stomach sank. She’d been so worried about her own insecurities, she hadn’t even thought about his. “Are you really nervous? You did so well last week. Everyone said how much they enjoyed your sermon.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s just … today feels bigger. Like something important is going to happen.”
Her eyes got big. “Do you get feelings like that a lot? What do you think it is?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve only ever had this feeling once before.”
“When?”
“The day I married you.” He touched her elbow.
She melted and put her hand over her heart. “Seth Powell, sometimes you say the sweetest things.”
He reached out to guide her out the door, his hand on her lower back. She sent up her own plea to heaven that Seth wouldn’t be able to hear the thundering of her heart induced by his touch.
They stepped into the hallway, and he turned to lock his office. He handed her the keys, and she dropped them in her purse. He didn’t like them in his pocket, ching-chinging while he paced in front of the congregation.
“You’re going to do great. You’re serving the Lord; He will walk with you.” She checked to make sure his shirt was free of wrinkles. He looked good. Freshly shaven, which was a shame. She really liked him with scruff, and he didn’t seem to like to shave, because he’d