Page 25 of Desert Thorns

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A chuckle escaped me. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s just my nose.”

“Do you have a headache?”

“Maybe a little.”

A muscle twitched in his bearded jaw. “You gotta keep pinching your nose for another five minutes to make sure the bleeding stops.”

“Mm-hmm.” My gaze landed on his upper body. Apparently the piece of clothing he’d given me was his sweater, because he was now only wearing a black T-shirt. It was a normal T-shirt, but boy oh boy, it stretched over the plain muscles of his chest, his biceps straining the sleeves. The only reason this sight hit meharder than the soccer ball was because I was used to seeing him in a habit.

The teenagers gathered in a circle around us whispered and chatted, the girls pointing at Kingsley’s back and giggling as if something interesting stuck to it.

The deep crease etched between his brows made me grin. “Stop worrying, Brother Samuel. I’m okay.”

“And you stop talking.”

I laughed at the uncharacteristically harsh tone. “Or what?”

Now he cracked a smile, although a tortured one. Something was up with him. I was literally just having a nosebleed, yet he acted like he’d caved in my entire face.

“All right, let me take a look,” he said after another couple of minutes.

I let go of my nose and lowered his sweater.

Kingsley caught my chin and carefully lifted it while inspecting me. His fingers felt rough yet warm on my skin.

His gaze collided with mine, and for a moment, we were caught in a spell that slowed down the clock. The few days we’d known each other felt like a lifetime. He’d been my protector, inspired me with his devotion to Jesus like a godly man ought to, and taken care of me like I was . . .his.

And now he looked at me just like that. With the kind of longing that only meant one thing—he wanted to kiss me.

He’s a monk, Harley. Monks don’t kiss and monks don’t date and monks don’t marry.

Right.

I broke eye contact, lifting my gaze to the darkening sky. A few stars had come out, winking down on us.Why, God? Why do I always fall for the wrong men?

Whistling and catcalls came from around us. One of the boys started with, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”, egging the other teenagers on tojoin in. Brother Matthew tried to calm them down, but they kept going.

The chant brought life back into Kingsley. Much to my disappointment, the soft pressure of his touch disappeared. “You’re good. Looks like your nose stopped bleeding.”

“Thank God.” I dropped my head, my gaze landing on his sweater I was still clutching in my hands. A lot of blood caked the gray fabric. “I’m so sorry. I totally ruined it.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Can you stand up?”

“Yup.” I accepted his proffered hand—once again savoring his touch—and let him pull me to my feet. Once I stood on my own, he slowly let go. Then he turned to the still chanting kids. “All right, all right. Calm down. No kissing happening here.”

A fewbooscame in response, but the teens quieted.

I chuckled. “You guys can’t tell a monk to kiss. That’s not cool.”

“Have you ever kissed a woman, Brother Samuel?” Giuliana asked. “I mean, before you became a monk, obviously.”

“What are you going to do with that information?” he asked.

An innocent smile stole onto her pretty face. Hands clasped in front of her and swaying side to side, she shrugged. “I just wanna know.”

“Here’s some water.” Jenna, a quiet girl with glowing ebony skin and an Afro, passed me a bottle.

“Thank you.” I accepted it and washed my face. My head pounded, and my limbs felt like weights were tied to them. I was so ready to go to bed. The life of a monk was surprisingly exhausting.