Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
My hand shot out, and I grabbed her arm. “Wait,” I said.
She was gorgeous and smelled like vanilla with a hint of cinnamon, but I could ignore all that. There had been a cry for help in her words that couldn’t be ignored.
“Sit back down. You aren’t going to hell, and you don’t hate a baby. You hate what that child represents. And you’re human. You were betrayed. You lost someone you loved, and while mourning that, you had the betrayal slapped in your face.” I released my hold on her arm, but if she tried to leave again, I might actually go after her.
She stared at me for a moment, then slowly sat back down on the pew. “I’m tired of hating. Of all of it. The hollowness in my chest. The inability to trust. The feeling that, at any time, someone else I love will turn on me. And I’m tired of needing the meds to sleep.”
I needed to hear she had someone, anyone she could talk to at home. It wasn’t like I could keep her here, but the idea of her being alone bothered me.
“Who do you live with?” I asked.
“My parents,” she replied with bitterness in her voice.
“And they know you are dealing with all this?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked off to the side. Not at me. “They prefer to say it’s PTSD from witnessing the shooting, and if I take my meds, I’ll be fine. The shooting was something that will forever haunt me, but it’s not that. Not anymore. It’s all the…other stuff.”
The other stuff being the betrayal. Seeing those around her move on and find joy again. Poor girl.
“Tomorrow night—every Saturday night actually—we have a support group that meets in the rec hall. The white building to the left of the church. It’s for coping with loss, be it from death or betrayal. It’s not a large group. Less than a dozen most nights. But I think it would be good for you. We serve dinner, and then everyone discusses their week. With no judgment.”
And I’d get to look at you some more.
Not the train of thought you need to be having, Jude. Get it together. You want to help her.
She scrunched her nose. “I’m not sure that’s for me.”
I would not pressure her. This had to be her decision.
“Will you be there?” she asked me.
Why did she want to know that? Why did I like that she’d asked? Because I needed to take my ass into that booth and do some confessing. A few Hail Marys, some Our Fathers.
“Yes. I lead the group.”
Her eyes met mine, and I focused on the pain in them. That would keep me grounded. Grief, sorrow, bitterness—it all swirled in the blue that reminded me of a clear sky at dusk.
“What time?” she asked.
The immediate relief that jolted through me was because she needed help to deal with all this inside her. That was it.
“Six thirty,” I replied. “And Lora Gail will be making her famous chicken potpie and carrot cake for the meal. The weeks she supplies the dinner are always a favorite. We might actually hit the dozen mark in attendance.”
She released a soft chuckle, and I wished I could hear more of it. A laugh like hers should be enjoyed by everyone. If I could lead her to a path where she could let this all go and find joy again, then this would all be worth it. This being…my attraction to her. Not something I wanted in my life. I’d grown accustomed to not being distracted by beauty.
“What’s your name, or do I just call you Father?” she asked, and for a moment, there was a teasing glint in those dark blue depths.
My cock decided to remind me just how well he worked.
I shifted slightly, glad my jeans could keep my reaction somewhat hidden. “My parishioners call me Father Jude. Some of the older members prefer to be more formal with my last name and refer to me as Father Rayne. You’re not Catholic or my parishioner. You can call me Jude if you prefer.”
The corner of her lips curled up slightly. “I don’t know. I kinda like Father Jude.”
Another jump from my dick. Great. Just great.
She held her hand out to me as she stood back up. “It was nice to meet you, Father Jude.”
I looked down at her hand for a moment too long before sliding mine into hers and standing up, hoping like hell she didn’t notice the bulge in my pants.
“It was nice to meet you too…” I paused, waiting on her name.
That dimple appeared again, but with it came a second one. She had them in both cheeks. The tiny gap between her otherwise perfect teeth had probably started a trend in her high school, girls wanting one just like it.