Chapter 5 - Charlie
CHARLIE
I wake to pale morning light filtering through the single dormer window of my apartment above the rectory. The space is small but mine, at least for now.
Adrian arranged it as part of my penance, close enough that he can monitor my work, far enough that I can pretend I have some independence.
Two weeks I’ve been here, and I still can’t decide if the proximity to him is torture or salvation.
I dress quickly in my diner uniform, the polyester fabric clinging to my curves in ways that make me self-conscious. My vintage cardigan helps, covering what the uniform reveals.
As I descend the narrow servants’ staircase, my hand trailing along the worn banister, I glance through the rectory window and freeze.
Across the street, a massive billboard is being erected. Workers in hard hats guide the structure into place, and even from this distance, I can see it’s going to be huge. Bigger than anything else on this block. Bigger than St. Michael’s bell tower.
I should keep moving. I’m going to be late for my shift. But something about the billboard makes my stomach clench with unease.
By the time I return from the diner that afternoon, my feet aching and my uniform smelling like grease and desperation, the billboard is complete.
“Victory Life Church—Where Modern Faith Meets Prosperity!”
The face staring down at the neighborhood is spray-tanned to an unnatural orange, teeth so white they practically glow, wearing expensive suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Pastor Derek Whitmore.
Even in two dimensions, he looks predatory.
I stand on the sidewalk staring up at it, my purse clutched against my chest. The same purse that held stolen money two weeks ago. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I stole to save my grandmother, and now this man is advertising prosperity like it’s something you can buy with the right prayer and a generous donation.
The church kitchen is empty when I enter through the side door, but I can hear voices coming from Adrian’s office. His voice, low and controlled, the way it gets when he’s fighting to maintain composure.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop.
I should go upstairs, mind my own business, and remember my place.
Instead, I move closer to his office door, which stands slightly ajar.
“I appreciate the courtesy call, Pastor Whitmore.” Adrian’s voice is ice wrapped in politeness. “Though I’m not sure what you expect me to say.”
I can’t hear the response, just the tinny sound of a voice through the phone speaker.
“St. Michael’s has served this community for over a century,” Adrian continues. “I’m sure there’s room for both of us.”
His jaw clenches, visible even from my angle in the hallway. His hand grips his rosary beads until his knuckles go white.
“I see. Well, may God bless your endeavors.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.
I should announce myself. Should knock. Should do anything except stand here watching him through the crack in the door as he braces both hands on his desk, head bowed, shoulders rigid with tension.
The cassock stretches across his broad back, and I remember how those shoulders felt under my hands, how his body pressed against mine in this very office.
Heat floods my cheeks.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not ever, really, but especially not when he’s clearly dealing with something serious.
“You can come in, Charlie.” His voice startles me. He hasn’t turned around, hasn’t looked up, but somehow he knows I’m here.
I push the door open fully, stepping into his office. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“Yes, you did.” He finally turns to face me, and the look in his gray eyes makes my breath catch. Not anger. Something darker, more complicated. “But I don’t blame you. You have a right to know what’s happening.”
“The billboard,” I say, moving closer despite knowing I should keep my distance. “That’s what the call was about?”
“Pastor Whitmore wanted to introduce himself. Extend an invitation to visit Victory Life, see what modern ministry looks like.” Adrian’s voice drips with barely contained contempt. “He suggested our congregation might benefit from a more contemporary approach to faith.”
“That’s…” I search for a word that isn’t profanity. “Bold.”
“That’s a declaration of war.” Marcus appears in the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes find the billboard through Adrian’s window, and his expression hardens. “I saw it on my way back from the food bank. He’s not even trying to be subtle.”
Adrian moves to stand beside me at the window, close enough that I can smell his cologne, that dark expensive scent that doesn’t match his vows of poverty.
We both stare at Whitmore’s face looming over the neighborhood.
“It’s not just competition,” Marcus says, joining us. Now I’m flanked by both of them, their bodies radiating heat and tension. “It’s a statement. He’s telling everyone that St. Michael’s is old, outdated, irrelevant.”
“We are old,” Adrian says quietly. “The building is crumbling. Our congregation is aging. We can barely afford to keep the lights on.”
“But we’re real.” The words burst out of me before I can stop them. Both men turn to look at me, and I feel my face flush under their attention. “I mean, that billboard promises prosperity. Like faith is a transaction. Give us your money, get blessed. That’s not what happens here.”
“No,” Adrian agrees, his gray eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my skin burn. “What happens here is messier. More complicated.”
The air between us crackles with unspoken meaning. Marcus clears his throat, breaking the moment.
“We need to figure out how to respond,” he says. “Whitmore isn’t going to stop with a billboard. This is just the opening move.”
They discuss strategy while I listen from my position by the window. Attendance numbers, budget concerns, ways to modernize without losing what makes St. Michael’s special.
I should leave, let them handle church business without the thief who’s working off her debt. But Adrian keeps glancing at me, like my presence matters, like my opinion counts for something.
When Marcus finally leaves to check on evening Mass preparations, Adrian and I are alone in his office.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
“You should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move away from me. “It’s late.”
“It’s not even noon yet.” I turn to face him fully, and the movement brings us closer together. Close enough that I can see the stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls with careful breaths. “Adrian—”
“Don’t.” His voice is rough. “Don’t say my name like that. And, you’re going to be late for your job at the diner.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not thinking about that night in this office. Like you don’t remember how it felt when I—” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “You should go, Charlie.”
But neither of us moves.
Hours later, I’m in the church kitchen at midnight, unable to sleep, my hands working dough with practiced precision.
Stress-baking is my therapy, the only thing that quiets my racing thoughts.
The billboard. Adrian’s tension. The way Marcus looked at me in that office, like he was remembering things too.
The electricity between all of us, dangerous and undeniable.
I’ve made chocolate chip cookies again, Grandma Rose’s recipe, the one she taught me when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter. The dough is perfect, smooth as I finish beating it, and the kitchen smells like home, like safety, like everything I’m terrified of losing.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
I spin around to find Elijah leaning against the doorframe, his golden hair slightly mussed, wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual formal attire. He looks younger like this, more human, less like the angelic choir director everyone sees during Mass.
“Stress-baking,” I admit, turning back to the rolls. “It helps me think.”
He moves closer, and I’m hyperaware of his presence behind me as I work. “What are you thinking about?”
“The billboard. Adrian’s tension. Everything changing.” I don’t mention the other thoughts, the ones about bodies and heat and the way all three of them look at me sometimes.
Elijah reaches past me for one of the finished rolls, still warm from the oven.
His arm brushes mine, and electricity shoots through me at the contact. He takes a bite, and his crystalline blue eyes widen.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathes. “Charlie, this is—” He takes another bite, his expression transforming into something close to ecstasy. “Where did you learn to bake like this?”
“My grandmother.” I focus on rolling the dough, trying to ignore how close he’s standing, how his body radiates warmth. “She taught me everything.”
“This isn’t just good. This is art.” He finishes the roll and licks frosting from his thumb, the gesture somehow obscene despite its innocence. “You have real talent. Wasted talent.”
“I work at a diner.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I’m not wasting anything. I’m surviving.”
“I didn’t mean…” He touches my arm gently, and I freeze. “Charlie, I just meant you could do more. Be more. This is extraordinary.”
I turn to face him, and suddenly we’re too close.
His hand is still on my arm, his blue eyes searching my face.
The kitchen feels too small, too warm, the air thick with flour dust and something more dangerous.
“Elijah,” I whisper, and his name on my lips makes his pupils dilate.
“I know I shouldn’t.” His voice drops lower. “I know this is wrong. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
His hand slides from my arm to my waist, pulling me closer.
I should push him away.
Should remember that he’s a brother, that this is a church, that I’m already tangled up with Adrian in ways that could destroy us both.
Instead, I rise on my toes and kiss him.
His lips are soft, gentle at first, then hungry as his control breaks. His hands frame my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper.
I taste cinnamon and sugar on his tongue, feel the hard planes of his chest against my breasts.
My fingers tangle in his golden hair, messing the angelic perfection.
He lifts me onto the counter, settling between my thighs, and I gasp at the feel of him pressed against me.
His hands slide under my cardigan, finding bare skin, and I arch into his touch.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat. “So fucking beautiful.”
The profanity from his angel mouth sends heat straight to my core. His fingers trace the curve of my breast through my thin shirt, and I’m about to beg him for more when we both hear it.
Footsteps in the hallway.
We break apart, breathing hard. Elijah helps me down from the counter, and I’m adjusting my cardigan with shaking hands when I see it.
A flash of black fabric disappearing around the corner.
My blood runs cold.
“Did you see,” I start, but Elijah is already moving toward the hallway.
It’s empty. No one there. But I know what I saw.
Someone was watching us. And now they’re gone.