Page 13 of Priest

“Yes, I went to the parish but he wasn’t there.”

“He’s on a short vacation.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m his friend.”

I frown. “Your name is Priest… are you one?”

He shakes his head. “Far from it. I’m not Catholic, but I wasn’t lying about my faith. I just go about my beliefs in different ways. I’m more spiritual than I am holy, if that makes sense.”

I’ve no idea what he means by that. “I grew up Catholic,” I feel the need to say.

I press my lips together.

Good one, wise ass. Now you’re opening up to him?

All that’s going to achieve now is a barrage of questions, and as I wait for the first one, I can’t take my eyes from his handsome face. I’m like a moth to a flame.

I also don’t miss the way my heart skips a beat whenever we make eye contact.

I should not be checking this guy out, but I can’t help it.

Priest is like no other man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and as if sensing the shift in me, he grips the back of the chair and those green eyes meet mine once more.

3

PRIEST

She trusts me.

She may be wary of me — of all men — but she isn’t afraid of me. That’s refreshing; most people are. I’ve been told I have a presence that makes men quake in their shoes, and women fall at my feet. Not that I’m trying to do any of that with her. I want to help her. I know she’s lying when she says she has a place to stay. She looks rougher than she looked last time.

Her hair is a little disheveled, her clothes rumpled and I could just be imagining it, but she looks paler and there are dark circles under her eyes. Like she hasn’t slept properly in a while.

The idea tugs deep within my chest.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Though, I’m sorry to say I lost my faith along the way.”

“We all have at some point in time,” I tell her. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Who is this girl? What is her story?

I don’t know what, but unspeakable things happened to her. Things that have made her, by choice, homeless.

There goes my instincts, kicking in again, or as Stella would call it — my inner woo woo. It’s not like I can control it. I just get feelings about people, and nine times out of ten, I’m right.

With Isabella, though, she’s a closed book. Or at least she thinks she is.

It took a lot to come back here after she ran. I realize she must be desperate. And I don't like that idea. I also don’t like the comment that she thought I was accosting her.

Have other men done that before?

Anger boils in my blood at such a thought. That someone would take advantage of her or worse… try to force her.

I grip the chair tightly as I try to hold onto more anger at the idea that someone could hurt her. She’s so small. Frail. I’d be guessing, but she’s in her early twenties.

---