Sinful Daddies (Forbidden Reverse Harem Fantasies #25)

Chapter 1

CHARLIE

The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzz in my ear like wasps as the billing coordinator’s voice drones through my phone, each word another nail in my grandmother’s coffin.

“Miss Davis, without the five-thousand-dollar payment by end of business today, we’ll have no choice but to transfer Mrs. Davis to a state facility.”

My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles go white. State facility.

The words taste like ash in my mouth.

Those places where old people go to die forgotten, where the staff is overworked and underpaid, where Grandma Rose will become just another body in a bed, waiting for the end.

“I understand,” I whisper, though I don’t.

I don’t understand how the world can be so cruel, how one stroke can devour a lifetime of savings in weeks, how I’m supposed to choose between keeping a roof over my head and keeping my grandmother alive.

The coordinator’s sigh crackles through the speaker. “I’m sorry, Miss Davis. I really am. But hospital policy—”

I hang up before she can finish. My hands shake as I stare at my phone screen, at the eviction notice email that arrived this morning.

Three days.

I have three days before my landlord changes the locks, and I’m living in my car with nothing but the clothes on my back and a collection of thrift-store teacups that won’t keep me warm at night.

The diner’s break room smells like old grease and desperation. I’ve been surviving on stolen ketchup packets and the occasional plate of fries a sympathetic cook slides my way.

My vintage sundress hangs looser than it did a month ago, the floral pattern faded from too many washes in the laundromat sink.

I catch my reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink.

Hollow cheeks.

Dark circles under hazel eyes that shift between green and gold depending on the light.

Auburn hair escaping its messy bun in waves that would look romantic if they weren’t just evidence of not having time to care.

I look like what I am. Desperate. Broken. Alone.

Everyone leaves. The thought slides through my mind like a knife between ribs.

Mom left when I was two, chasing some man and a bottle into oblivion.

Dad never even tried to stay.

Grandma Rose is the only person who ever chose me, who ever stayed, who ever made me feel like I was worth keeping.

And now I’m going to lose her too.

My shift ends, and I drive to St. Michael’s Catholic Church because I don’t know where else to go.

The building rises against the afternoon sky, all weathered limestone and Gothic Revival architecture that’s seen better days.

The bell tower reaches toward heaven like a prayer, and I wonder if God is listening, if He cares about girls like me who steal ketchup packets and can’t pay their rent.

Inside, the church is cool and dim, smelling of incense and old wood and centuries of whispered confessions.

Stained glass windows filter the sunlight into jewel tones that paint the worn pews in shades of ruby and sapphire.

I’ve been here before, years ago, sitting beside Grandma Rose while she hummed hymns under her breath and squeezed my hand three times. I love you. Our secret code.

I light a candle at the side altar, watching the flame flicker to life. The wick catches, and I close my eyes, trying to remember how to pray. The words won’t come. Just the desperate, wordless plea of someone drowning, reaching for anything that might keep her afloat.

The hymn rises from my throat unbidden. “Amazing Grace,” the same song Grandma Rose used to hum while baking cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings, the scent filling our tiny apartment with warmth and safety and love.

My voice cracks on the second verse, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.

I don’t mean to wander toward the vestry. My feet just carry me there, drawn by some terrible gravity I can’t resist.

The door is open.

Inside, the Sunday collection sits in a metal lockbox on the desk, unguarded, unlocked.

Bills visible through the gap in the lid.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

This is wrong.

The thought is clear, sharp, undeniable.

This is stealing from God, from the church, from people who gave their hard-earned money in faith.

But Grandma Rose is dying.

And I’m three days from homelessness. And there’s no one else, no safety net, no miracle coming to save us.

My hands move before my conscience can stop them.

The bills are crisp and worn in equal measure, twenties and fifties and hundreds that feel obscene in my trembling fingers.

I count quickly, my breath coming in short gasps.

Five thousand.

Exactly five thousand.

Like the universe is testing me, seeing how far I’ll fall when pushed.

I stuff the money into my vintage purse, the leather worn soft from years of use, a thrift store find that cost me three dollars and made me feel like Audrey Hepburn for exactly one day before reality reminded me I’m just Charlie Davis, the girl nobody keeps.

The weight of the cash feels like stones in my bag. Like evidence. Like sin made tangible.

I close the lockbox carefully, my hands steadier now that the decision is made. There’s a strange calm that comes after you cross a line you can never uncross.

A terrible clarity.

I’ve become the kind of person who steals from churches.

The kind of person Grandma Rose raised me not to be.

But at least she’ll be alive to be disappointed in me.

I return to the side altar, my purse clutched against my chest like a shield. The candle I lit still burns, the flame dancing in some invisible draft. I kneel on the worn cushion, and the words finally come.

“Forgive me.” My voice is barely a whisper in the empty church. “Forgive me for what I’ve done. For what I’m about to do. I know it’s wrong. I know I’m damned. But she’s all I have. She’s the only one who stayed.”

The hymn rises again, my grandmother’s favorite. I hum it softly, the melody wrapping around me like her arms used to, back when I was small enough to believe the world was safe and people didn’t leave and love was enough to keep me whole.

The sound of my own humming is what saves me from hearing his footsteps.

I don’t know he’s there until I turn to leave, my purse heavy with stolen money and heavier guilt, my eyes still wet from tears I didn’t realize I was crying.

Father Adrian Cross stands in the doorway of the vestry.

His gray eyes lock onto the purse clutched against my chest, and the world stops.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that makes you want to confess sins you haven’t even committed yet. Salt-and-pepper hair cut severely short.

Sharp jawline shadowed with stubble that suggests he shaved this morning but it’s been a long day.

His cassock is perfectly pressed, every button fastened, every line crisp. A man who uses control like armor.

But it’s his eyes that pin me in place. Piercing gray, the color of storm clouds, seeing straight through to every secret I’ve ever kept.

They drop to my purse then rise slowly back to my face, and I watch understanding dawn in them like a terrible sunrise.

He knows.

My breath catches in my throat. My fingers tighten on the purse strap until the leather cuts into my palm.

I should run.

I should drop the money and beg forgiveness. I should do anything except stand here frozen like a deer in headlights, watching this man of God realize I’m a thief.

But I can’t move. Can’t speak.

Can’t do anything except stare back at him, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it echoing through the empty church.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I notice they’re strong hands, calloused, the hands of someone who’s done physical labor.

Not the soft hands of a man who’s spent his whole life in churches.

There’s something dangerous in the way he holds himself, something barely restrained, like violence wrapped in priestly robes.

He’s beautiful in a severe, untouchable way that makes my stomach flip despite the terror flooding my veins.

Or maybe because of it. There’s something electric in the air between us, something that has nothing to do with the money in my purse and everything to do with the way his eyes haven’t left mine, the way his jaw clenches like he’s fighting some internal battle I can’t see.

“Miss Davis.” His voice is deep, measured, each word carefully controlled. He knows my name. Of course he knows my name. Small parish.

Grandma Rose probably mentioned me a thousand times before the stroke stole her words.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

What can I possibly say? I’m sorry? I’ll give it back?

My grandmother is dying, and I’m desperate, and I don’t know what else to do?

All of it is true. None of it matters.

Father Cross takes a step forward, and I take a step back, my body moving on instinct. His eyes track the movement, something flickering in their depths that I can’t name. Not quite anger. Not quite pity. Something darker, more complicated.

“I think,” he says slowly, his gaze dropping once more to the purse pressed against my chest, “we need to talk.”