Chapter 7 Cece
CECE
I've always thought the worst sin was envy, but this morning I'm redefining temptation as I pull into the church parking lot and spot him.
Brayden Cole, leaning against his motorcycle, his thick dark hair slightly messy under a beanie.
My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with the coffee I gulped down earlier and everything to do with the way his steel-gray eyes lock onto mine through my windshield.
Temptation, thy name is leather cut and bad decisions.
I take a deep breath before killing the engine, trying to calm the rapid flutter of my pulse.
“Morning, princess.” His voice carries across the parking lot as I step out of my car, the nickname making my cheeks warm despite the December chill.
“What are you doing here?”
“Figured I’d save you the trouble of sending me that grocery list. We can go get it together.”
“Go get it together?” I repeat, sounding a bit dazed even to my own ears. “I haven't even made the list yet.”
“Even better. We can figure it out while we shop.” He pushes off his bike with that easy grace that seems unfair for someone his size. “Unless you've got other plans this morning.”
I should say yes. I should tell him that I have a dozen church-related responsibilities to attend to, a meeting with my father about the toy distribution, maybe even a job interview to pretend to care about.
But the truth is, I've spent the last three days hoping he'd message me again, jumping every time my phone buzzed.
“No other plans,” I admit, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I'm pretty sure the only grocery store in town won't let you through the door. The Millers have been very clear about their 'no bikers' policy since that incident in '08.”
“What incident?”
“Some guys from a passing club decided to redecorate their produce section with watermelons. It wasn't pretty.”
His lips twitch. “Sounds artistic.”
“The police report called it fruit-based vandalism.”
“Creative cops in this town.” He steps closer, and I catch his scent again. How good he smells should be illegal. “Good thing I wasn't planning on Miller's. There's a warehouse club about twenty minutes outside town. Better prices, bulk quantities, and good selection.”
“You planning to hitch a wagon to your bike?”
“Nah,” he grins. “Think your dad will let you borrow it?” He jerks his head towards the church’s passenger van.
I blink at him, processing what he just suggested. “You want me to ask my father if I can take the church van on a grocery run with a member of a motorcycle club?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds unreasonable.”
“Because it is unreasonable.” I cross my arms, trying to ignore how the morning light catches the blue flecks in his eyes. “My father barely tolerated you bringing the toys. If I ask to borrow church property to go shopping with you, he'll probably have me committed.”
“Or he could see it as his daughter doing charitable work.” Brayden's expression shifts to something more serious. “Look, we need to get food for nearly four hundred families. Your Honda's not gonna cut it, and my bike definitely won't. The van makes sense.”
He’s right, damn him. The practical part of my brain knows we need a bigger vehicle, but the part of me that’s already caused enough scandal this week is sounding every alarm.
Richard kept his promise and contacted the church executive board about Brayden’s club donating to the toy drive.
He conveniently omitted our run-in at the coffee shop, but the rumor mill handled that for him.
My father was spitting nails after I got home from my ride with Brayden.
The last time he lectured me that harshly was when I was five minutes late coming home from a high school party.
Three days have passed, and he’s still down to single word replies.
“Besides,” he adds, that hint of a smile returning, “what's the worst that could happen?”
I stare at him. “Did you just ask me what's the worst that could happen? In my experience, that's usually when everything goes spectacularly wrong.”
“You worried about being seen with me?”
The question catches me off guard with its directness. Am I worried about being seen with him? Yes. But not for the reasons he probably thinks.
“I'm worried about my father having a stroke.”
“He'll survive. He’s got the Lord on his side, right?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing it up further. “Sometimes doing the right thing means pissing off the wrong people.”
The irony isn’t lost on me that he’s quoting something that sounds suspiciously close to sermon material. “Did you just give me a moral lesson?”
“Maybe I picked up a few things sitting in the back pew all those years.”
Despite everything—the scandal, my father’s disapproval, the voice in my head that sounds almost exactly like my mother warning me about boys of his caliber—I find myself nodding. “Fine. But you’re the one explaining to my father why we need the van.”
“Deal.” He extends his hand as though we’re finalizing a business agreement. When I take it, his palm is warm and rough against mine, sending that familiar jolt up my arm. “Where is he?”
“Probably in his office, preparing for this afternoon's emergency board meeting.” I don't let go of his hand immediately, and neither does he. “The one where they'll discuss whether accepting donations from your club was appropriate.”
“Sounds fun. Lead the way.”
I drop his hand and start walking toward the church, hyperaware of him following behind me.
The side door is unlocked, and the familiar smell of lemon polish and furniture wax hits me immediately.
It's the scent of my childhood, of Sunday mornings and youth group meetings.
I glance back at Brayden, suddenly aware of how out of place he looks here, his leather cut and heavy boots a stark contrast to the polished floors and framed Bible verses.
“This way,” I murmur, leading him down the hallway toward my father’s office. My heart thumps against my ribs with each step, the same way it did when I was sixteen and slipping in after curfew.
We’re halfway there when Mrs. Whitaker emerges from the fellowship hall, a clipboard clutched to her chest. She stops dead when she spots us, her eyes going comically wide.
“Cecelia! What is—” Her gaze darts between Brayden and me, settling on his Heaven’s Rejects patch with undisguised horror. “What is he doing here?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker,” I say, summoning my most pleasant church-lady tone. “Mr. Cole is helping with the food box collection. We’re on our way to speak with my father.”
“I see.” She clearly doesn’t see at all. “Well, I was heading that way myself.”
Of course she was. The woman has a sixth sense for drama—probably circling the building all morning, waiting for a chance to corner my father.
She falls into step beside us, her sensible shoes clicking against the hardwood, each tap a tiny hammer of judgment.
I can feel Brayden’s amusement without even glancing at him.
“I was just telling Reverend Montgomery about the…concerns…some of the congregation has expressed,” Mrs. Whitaker continues, her voice pitched to carry down the hall. “About recent events.”
“Recent events such as feeding hungry children for Christmas?” I ask sweetly. “Truly shocking.”
Brayden makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Mrs. Whitaker's lips thin to a bloodless line.
“You know very well what I mean, Cecelia. The board is quite concerned about the church's reputation.”
“More concerned about its reputation than its mission, apparently.”
We reach my father's office door, which stands slightly ajar. I can see him at his desk, head bowed over paperwork, silver hair catching the morning light from the window. For a moment, I hesitate. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should send Brayden away and handle this myself.
But then he steps forward, his shoulder brushing mine in a quiet show of support, and I find myself knocking on the doorframe.
“Dad? Do you have a minute?”
My father looks up, his expression shifting from concentration to surprise to something far more guarded when he spots Brayden. “Cecelia. Mrs. Whitaker.” His gaze lands on Brayden’s cut, disapproval radiating from him with the force of a furnace. “Brayden.”
“Reverend,” Brayden says with a casual nod, completely unfazed by my father’s chilly reception. “Nice office. Very… biblical.”
He’s not wrong. Every available surface is covered with religious texts, framed scripture, or souvenirs from mission trips. The whole room feels more museum display than workspace—an exhibit devoted entirely to my father’s faith.
“What can I do for you?” Dad asks, deliberately ignoring Brayden and focusing on me instead.
“We need to borrow the church van,” I say, diving straight in before I lose my nerve. “For the food boxes. We're going to make a supply run.”
“We?” He raises an eyebrow that could cut glass.
“Brayden has offered to help with the food collection,” I explain, trying to sound as reasonable and church appropriate as possible. “Since the usual donations fell through, we need to purchase supplies in bulk. My car isn't big enough, and his...transportation options are limited.”
Mrs. Whitaker makes a small huffing sound beside me. “I must express my concern about using church property for this arrangement.”
“It's not an arrangement,” I say, perhaps a bit too sharply. “It's charity work. Which is kind of our whole thing, isn't it? 'Feed my sheep' and all that?”
My father looks pained, the vein on the side of his neck bulges as his exasperation grows.
“Cecelia, may I speak with you privately?”
“Actually, Reverend,” Brayden interrupts, stepping forward with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and purposeful—as though he’s reporting for duty.
“This was my idea. Your daughter is simply trying to help feed families in need. If you have concerns about me using church property, I understand.”