Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Lucien
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take it. The kitchen was already hot enough to melt the paint off the walls, but Jimmy Tanner—sweet, nervous, pure-as-spring-rain Jimmy—had turned it into an inferno.
That combination of innocence and desire was rolling off him like sun-baked asphalt. You could practically see it in the air—his flushed cheeks, the way his fingers fumbled over the spoon, the way his breath caught when our shoulders brushed.
It was doing something to me.
I’d always prided myself on patience. I didn’t chase. I didn’t beg. I let a man come to me—literally and metaphorically. Desire was stronger when it bloomed from choice, not persuasion.
But with Jimmy, that rule was cracking apart one heartbeat at a time.
Every glance at him—his damp hair curling at the temples, the slight tremor in his voice when he spoke—it hit me like a match strike.
And I wanted him so badly it freaking hurt.
Not just to kiss him, but to claim him. To see that rigid self-control break. To make him say my name like a confession.
“Lucien,” Mama Jo barked from the other side of the room, snapping me out of my daze. “You gonna stir that pot or just stand there drooling like a fool?”
“Working on it,” I said, reaching for the ladle—anything to get my hands moving before I did something stupid.
Mama Jo laughed, deep and wicked. “Mm-hmm. You better watch yourself.”
I ignored her, or tried to.
But she was right. Jimmy had me feeling like an out-of-control fool. The way his eyes followed me, hesitant but hungry, like he didn’t understand the pull but couldn’t resist it either—it was too familiar.
Thomas had looked at me that way once.
A flash of memory burned behind my eyes: Miami heat, the smell of incense, the cool hush of the confessional booth.
Thomas’s eyes meeting mine through the grate had been the same gold-green as Jimmy’s, filled with guilt and something far worse: desire.
After I’d confessed my feelings for him, he’d whispered, “Pray, Lucien. Ask God to take this lust from you.”
And I’d prayed. For hours. Until I realized the only sin was denying the truth of who I was and how I felt.
That was the day I walked away from the church and never looked back.
Now, standing in this kitchen, watching Jimmy move like temptation made flesh, I felt that same ache—only stronger. I bet Jimmy didn’t even know what he was feeling. He was trembling on the edge of awakening, and I wanted to be the one who pushed him over the edge.
“Lucien?”
His voice broke through my thoughts. He was holding a bowl of mashed potatoes, looking lost.
“Where do you want these?”
Covering your naked body.
I cleared my throat. “Over there,” I said, pointing to the counter. “Next to the rolls.”
He turned, brushing past me, and for one blinding second, his hip grazed mine. I felt it through every nerve in my body.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Don’t be.” My voice came out lower than I meant. Rough.
His head lifted, eyes meeting mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. The noise of the kitchen faded into a hum—the clang of pans, Mama Jo’s humming, the hiss of boiling water. All of it slipped away.
There was just him. And me. And the unbearable space between us.
Mama Jo banged a spoon against the counter, startling us both. “Alright, knock it off, boys! Lunch crowd’s thinning. I can handle the rest.”
Jimmy blinked, stepping back. “We can help—”
“Nope.” She wagged her spoon. “Out. Both of you. Sit your fine asses down in the dining room, and I’ll bring you plates.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t sass me,” she warned, eyes twinkling. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Jimmy flushed scarlet, and I nearly laughed.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.
I grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and nodded toward the dining hall. “Come on.”
He hesitated, biting his lower lip—and it took every ounce of my control not to reach out and trace that motion with my thumb.
Sweet hell, the things that lip made me imagine.
Mama Jo cleared her throat pointedly.
I forced myself to move. “After you,” I said, voice too tight.
He walked past me, with the scent of soap and sweat trailing behind him. The dining room was quiet now—empty tables, sunlight slanting through stained glass, the hum of the ancient refrigerator in the corner.
We sat at one of the long tables. Silence settled between us, thick and loaded. Jimmy fidgeted with his water bottle, fingers twisting the cap over and over.
I watched him. Couldn’t stop myself.
The way the light caught his hair, and the quick, nervous glances he kept sneaking my way. The rise and fall of his chest, it was too fast.
He was terrified, yet turned on.
God help me, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“You’re quiet,” I breathed.
He glanced up. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
His jaw worked. “About everything.” He gave a small laugh, self-conscious. “About what my daddy would say if he saw me here. He, well, wouldn’t approve.”
Jimmy’s words hung between us, the air thick enough to chew.
“Serving food to the hungry? Why?” I asked, tilting my head.
Jimmy blushed, then stammered out, “Not the hungry part.” He paused for a second. “He’s um, very religious and…”
“Your daddy a preacher or something?” I interrupted him. If he were, that would explain a lot.
He nodded, eyes darting down to his hands. “Yeah. He’s got a church back home in North Carolina.”
Something flickered on his face when he said it—pride and fear tangled up like a knot.
“That so?” I leaned back a little, watching him squirm. “And you decided to study alternative faiths?”
Jimmy gave a nervous little laugh, his fingers fidgeting with the cap of his water bottle. “Guess I just… wanted to understand more. About people and God. About how others see Him.”
He blushed then—deep, all the way up to his ears—and I swear it hit me like a punch. That kind of innocence could kill a man.
“So you grew up in the church,” I said. “Sunday services, youth choir, all that?”
He nodded again, a small, almost shy smile curving his lips. “Yeah. I play, well, I mean I used to play guitar with the worship band. My daddy said it was the one thing I did that made the Lord proud.”
“That sounds… nice,” I said, though I could feel something tight twisting in my chest. The way he said it—it wasn’t nostalgia. It was guilt. Like he’d left something burning behind him and didn’t know how to face it.
He hesitated before adding, “I guess I just wanted to learn for myself, you know? Not just believe what someone else told me was true.”
I studied him for a long moment. He couldn’t meet my eyes, and I wondered if he was being completely honest. Whatever reason he had for being here, it went deeper than curiosity.
But I let it go. For now.
Mama Jo appeared then, breaking the silence with two plates balanced in her hands. “Alright, y’all quit lookin’ at each other like it’s Judgment Day. Eat, damn it.”
She set down the food—catfish, collard greens, mashed potatoes, cornbread still steaming—and slid into a chair.
“Now that’s better,” she said, eyeing us both. “You know, this reminds me of when I met my Leroy. Lord, that man was fine. Walked into my cousin’s cookout wearin’ a shirt so tight I almost forgot to breathe. And right then and there I said to myself, ‘That fool’s gonna be my husband.’”
Jimmy froze mid-bite, wide-eyed.
“You just knew?” I asked, wondering why she was telling us this story.
She chuckled, low and throaty. “Oh, honey. When it’s right, you feel it. You just know it in your bones.”
Her eyes found mine then, sharp and glimmering. “Even if the world says you shouldn’t.”
The words landed like a spark in a room full of gasoline. For a split second, I forgot how to breathe. Mama Jo didn’t break eye contact—she didn’t need to. Whatever she saw in me, I knew she recognized it.
Jimmy swallowed hard, his fork clinking against the plate. “That’s, uh… that’s romantic,” he said awkwardly.
She smiled with a glint in her eye I’d never seen before. “Romantic, sure. But love ain’t meant to be safe, sugar. It’s meant to shake you wide awake. Now let me get back to the kitchen. Packing up some food for Liza Moore, poor woman fell and broke her hip.”
We ate in silence after that, both pretending not to notice the current humming between us. Every brush of his sleeve, every quiet inhale—it all felt loaded.
When he finished, I reached for his plate without thinking. “I’ll take care of these.”
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, half-standing.
“Sit,” I said, a little too sharp. My voice had gone rough again. “You’ve done enough.”
He froze, then eased back into his seat. His eyes dropped, lashes fluttering as he murmured, “Yes, sir.”
I took a deep, cleansing breath and tried not to imagine him naked underneath me saying those exact words.
I took the plates into the kitchen, needing the distance.
Mama Jo snatched the dishes right out of my hands before I could speak.
“Mm-mm.” She shook her head. “Don’t even try to act innocent.”
I blinked. “What?”
She gave me a sly, knowing look that could curdle milk. “You know damn well what. I can smell it on you.”
“Smell what?”
“That boy’s got your blood singin’ like a gospel choir,” she said, voice soft but cutting. “You keep lookin’ at him like he’s the last prayer you’ll ever say.”
I tried to laugh it off, but it came out strangled. “You’ve got quite the imagination, Mama Jo.”
“Mm-hmm.” She stacked the plates in the sink, her back to me. “Just don’t scare him off, sugar. He’s green as they come, but I seen that look before. He’s got a fire in him. Maybe he don’t know it yet—but he will.”
I swallowed hard, throat dry. “You think so?”
She turned, eyes narrowing with a knowing smile. “I know so. But the question is—what are you gonna do when he burns for you too?”
* * *