The Small Town Preacher's Fake - Lucy McConnell Page 0,36

He’d thought a lot about hugging Evie—kissing her—lately. It’d been over a week since he’d given in to his base desire and acted without thinking. On his long drive around town, he’d sternly lectured himself on keeping his thoughts on the straight and narrow.

When he’d gotten home, he’d found the house smelling of fresh-baked bread and butter. Evie had been all smiles and chatter about the people she’d visited that afternoon. Her continued openness had been as much of a relief as it was awkward. She’d tried to make him feel comfortable, and that was slightly awkward. But he’d answered with the same level of cheeriness, and they’d managed to get over the bump in the road to a space where they could pretend it hadn’t happened.

Not that he could forget …

“Preacher!” called Mr. Green as he held up a horseshoe. “Come on over here and help me beat these braggarts.”

Seth grinned. They had several yard games set up, including a volleyball net where Evie played center on a team made up of a small group of younger girls. The Henderson family had invited their neighbors and friends for their daughters to hang out with while they were here. No one could deny the energy that having young people around added to the picnic. He made a mental note to point it out to Mr. White. The man was stalwart about keeping the ministry focused on those over the age of seventy.

Evie had gravitated to the girls, and they soon asked her to round out their team. They played against their moms and were serious about taking home bragging rights.

Seth strode over to join the old men. They’d grouped together just as quickly as their wives had circled the quilt frames set up in the shade of the oak tree. That was another one of Evie’s ideas. Since so many of the ladies tied quilts on their own, she thought they might like to get together. He’d never seen so many eyes sparkle behind bifocals before. Perhaps he needed to open up the church for a sewing circle.

Mr. Green shook Seth’s hand and rubbed his shoulder. “All right, you just send up a couple prayers while I get warmed up here, and we’ll get down to the business of beating these bozos.”

“No way.” Mr. Lucas sliced his hand through the air. “You don’t get to call on the Almighty. You gotta face us as a man.”

“I’m not afraid to take you two on,” said Seth. “But I can’t say that the Lord won’t be on my side.”

A chorus of oohs met his throwing down of the proverbial gauntlet.

He glanced over to see if Evie had noticed. She was already looking at him, a small smile on her lips. He whipped his attention back to the group.

“We’re red.” Mr. Green shoved two horseshoes into his hand. “Are you an over-hander or under?”

“Over,” he replied, stealing another look at Evie. She had her eye on the ball and was tracking it to set a bump pass.

Mr. Green elbowed him in the ribs. “Keep your head in the game, man.”

Seth’s neck warmed because someone had noticed him admiring Evie. She was quite the distraction in her shorts and T-shirt. He refocused on the stake at the end of the field. There wasn’t time to gawk at his wife. If he and Mr. Green won this game, he might be able to convince Mr. and Mrs. Green to vote with him during the church board meeting.

Mr. Green pulled a quarter out of his pocket and told Mr. Lucas to call it in the air. Mr. Lucas won and lined up to throw his shoes. Mr. Green ran the game with military precision. He probably tied his shoes, made his bed, and ate his breakfast with soldier-like attention.

Mr. Lucas threw one ringer, and the other shoe landed an inch away.

“Good job.” Seth stepped up to the line. He threw, his shoe bouncing on the sand to hook the stake with one side. He breathed out a sigh of relief and glanced over to meet Evie’s eye. She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. He puffed his chest out.

Mr. Lucas smacked him on the back. “Quit being such a rooster. She’s already in love with ya. Get on with the game.”

“Aw, don’t give him a hard time.” Mr. Duncan, the fourth man in their group and usually the quietest of the bunch, swatted at the air. “He’s still in the puppy stage.”

“Better him than me. I