Page 3 of Fighting Fate

If only being a nun came as easily. Let’s be honest, I suck at it. And it’s not like I haven’t done my research because I definitely have. No, it’s the social cues. For example, no nun reacts to music, but I have to physically stop myself from swaying my hips to the worn guitar a man plays at one of the tables.

I sigh out loud as the music stops then, nearly as one, the sisters pause serving the food, and one after another, their heads swing left.

I look around for what caused the response. Actually, notwhat.

Who.

Six-feet-something, and that something is fine with a capital F. Wavy auburn hair, sexy trimmed beard, and summer-brown eyes. The kind of toned body that a man can’t hide, even under the long-sleeved over-shirt that suggests conceal-carry. Sean Bradford. The man I’m here to meet. Not that he knows that.

Unbidden, the memory of him as a sleek young man driving down the soccer pitch surfaces, along with a surge of admiration and longing. I remember watching him with my heart in my throat and my eyes glued to the screen.

He’d been an amazing player, beautiful and sure-footed, but he’d been injured right before signing a contract in the Premier League. Most people probably wouldn’t remember him or recognize this version of him, bearded and older.

I’m not most people.

I’ve been known to get up at all hours to watch games from overseas. It’s the one thing I remember of my papi. Long ago, we’d watch matches together in Puerto Rico.

When I saw Sean’s face on recon photos my family took of the traffickers, I’d recognized him. A deep dive, including my brother Tony flying down to El Salvador, gave us the whole story. And a way to use Sean as an asset.

Despite Sean’s limp, he walks with a confident swagger. Yum, he is glorious—a very un-nun-like thought to have. Except, it’s not only me reacting to him. Why did everyone go so still when he appeared? Do people here know his history?

I brush Lupe’s shoulder and pretend ignorance. “Who is he?”

Lupe’s bright expression sours. “Juan the Forger. Works for traffickers—men aligned with the cartel that own this area. He donates every week”—she nods toward the donation boxes dotting the room—“then takes a tray for an older woman in town who can’t leave her home.”

“You don’t approve of him doing kind things?”

Scooping yellow rice for the next-in-line, Lupe shakes her head. “He does bad,allowsbad, because he benefits from it then, to assuage his guilt, he donates. I do not approve.”

With her words comes genuine pain for this man, because Iknowhis story. Eighteen months ago, Sean went up against men trying to take an art student from his studio in El Salvador. When he resisted, they nearly beat him to death.

Three months later, he was finally able to leave the hospital. That very day, he packed a bag and walked out of El Salvador, joining a caravan of refugees going north.

Now, he’s in an impossible situation, trying desperately to stay on the fringes of what the slavers are doing, but also trying to find the child he fought to keep from being taken.

I can help him… assuming he helps me.

My heart ratchets up as Sean swaggers closer. Each of my heartbeats, like a cart ascending on a roller coaster, clicks higher and higher into my throat.

Oh, no. Nope. Ican’tdevelop feelings for him.

Squaring my shoulders, I slap down my attraction and put it in chains. Chains as heavy as my determination. How ironic that, after a lifetime of denying my wants and needs, the one disguise that requires I do just that has my libido rebelling like a teenager.

After accepting a scoop of rice, Sean stops in front of me for frijoles. My fool heart, obviously not having gotten the no-lust memo, jumps as Sean’s eyes widen then take me in. His hungry gaze skims down my body. It does not help that my fool body reacts, heat cascading through me. Not needed. I’m already sweating.

I’m so unwillingly turned on by those gorgeous brown eyes framed in a bounty of lashes that I forget for a moment where I’m at, what I’m supposed to be doing, and who I’m supposed to be. Ay. Dios.

Beside me, Sister Lupe says, “Do you want beans or are you filling your belly looking at Sister Dee?”

His pale skin flushes. “Disculpe, Hermana. Frijoles, por favor.”

His Spanish is good as he apologizes and asks for beans, but I can definitely hear his Welsh accent.

Heart still in my throat, I scoop the beans into a small paper cup, then hand them to him.

Our fingers brush. A strong, certain flash of awareness shoots up my arm and down my spine. A visceral response. A longing. A knowing. A wanting.

A big complication.

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