Page 32 of Crossed
Still, I lean in to their terror, because if nothing else, they’re so afraid of me cursing them or bringing the town to ruin that they take to avoidance rather than full- on hate. Well, most of them. Florence is a rare breed.
I shrug, reaching beside her and grabbing a can of tomato sauce, plopping it into my cart. “I hear karma’s a vengeful bitch.”
This time when I walk past her, she doesn’t move an inch, and I quicken my footsteps, dragging Quinten along as we round the corner, my heart racing so quickly I can feel it thrumming in my neck.
It isn’t until we’re three aisles over that I let out the breath I was holding.
“You handled that well.”
The accented voice floats over me like a warm blanket, and the familiarity makes me pause. I’ve felt this before. The other night at the Chapel. And then again when I made the last-minute decision to waltz into the church like I belonged and confess my sins because it’s cheaper than therapy.
It hits me, so suddenly that I feel like a fool for not noticing it before. Maybe it’s because French accents aren’t entirely uncommon in Festivalé, or maybe it’s because the idea itself of a priest being in a strip club is ludicrous.
But I can’t deny it when it’s staring me in the face.
My mystery man and the new priest of Notre- Dame are one and the same.
Holy shit.
Slowly, I twist around.
His face is stern, all sharp angles and haunted shadows, and his hands rest in his pockets like he can’t be bothered. He’s dressed in a simple black button- down, the color matching his hair perfectly, and a long peacoat over the top. I can see the smallest hint of his clerical collar peeking at his neckline.
What the hell was he doing in a strip club?
I lift a brow. “You’re a priest?”
It’s only after the words slip from my mouth that I realize they may have been a mistake, because why would I be surprised by that unless I had another idea of him in my head? I don’t think he recognizes me from the club, but there’s a chance he does and that’s why he approached me.
I shake off the panic that’s mounting in my gut, reminding myself that even if he does, I doubt he’d acknowledge that he was there.
My anxiety eases when recognition doesn’t even flicker in his gaze.
“Is it that obvious?” His mouth tilts up as he stares down at himself, like he’s surprised with what he’s wearing.
He’s joking, but all I can do is nod, my throat suddenly too thick to even swallow. My tongue swipes out across my bottom lip, and his grin drops as he tracks the movement.
Clearing my throat, I look down at Quinten as he hovers near the cereal shelf a few steps away, reading the words aloud on the front of every box.
“Cade Frédéric.” He reaches out a hand, drawing my attention back like a homing beacon.
I slip my palm into his, but I don’t offer my name in return. I expect a handshake, but he brings it up to his mouth, skimming his lips over the back.
My stomach jumps. This hardly seems appropriate.
“Nice to meet you, Father.”
Something flashes in his dark brown eyes when I speak, and he drops my hand like it’s coated in acid.
“That woman was very rude to you, no?” He jerks his head toward the other aisle.
“You know how it goes,” I say, brushing it off. “Maybe she needs Jesus. I bet you could convince her to come and confess her sins.”
He chuckles, stepping forward until the tips of his shoes press against mine and leaning in like he’s about to tell me a secret. “Ah yes, but there’s one problem. I’m not sure I’d want to offer her forgiveness.”
My stomach clenches, and I suck in a small, surprised breath that I hope he didn’t notice.
God, how embarrassing to react this way to a freaking priest.
