Chapter 7 - Elijah
ELIJAH
I’ve been watching her for three weeks now, and it’s destroying me in the most exquisite way possible.
We still haven’t had that conversation.
There’s been no perfect moment to speak with Adrian when he isn’t consumed by the control he needs to resist Charlie.
We need a moment when he won’t lose that control to anger or frustration.
Charlie stands at the music cabinet, organizing sheet music with those delicate hands that haunt my dreams.
She hums while she works, that same hymn her grandmother taught her, the melody drifting through the choir loft like a prayer.
I’ve memorized the sound, the way her voice catches slightly on the higher notes, the unconscious grace in how she moves.
She bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating, worrying the soft flesh between her teeth.
I watch from the piano bench, my fingers resting on the keys but not playing, and imagine what that lip would feel like beneath my own mouth.
Would she taste like the vanilla from her midnight baking?
Would she gasp if I traced that full bottom lip with my tongue?
Mon Dieu. I’m supposed to be better than this.
The choir members filter out after practice, their voices echoing down the spiral staircase until we’re alone.
Charlie doesn’t notice at first, too focused on alphabetizing hymn books, her sundress swaying as she reaches for higher shelves.
The fabric clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
I can see the outline of her bra through the thin material, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
I’ve watched Adrian look at her with barely contained hunger during Mass, his gray eyes tracking her movements like a predator.
I’ve seen Marcus find excuses to stand too close during parish hall setup, his tattooed hands flexing like he’s fighting the urge to touch her.
They’re both falling, both losing the battle against wanting her.
And I’m no better. Worse, maybe, because I’ve always been the patient one, the observer who waits and watches and plans. But my restraint is wearing dangerously thin.
“Charlie,” I say, my accent thickening slightly the way it does when I’m tired or emotional. “Would you mind staying a bit longer? I need help cataloging the music library.”
She turns, and those hazel eyes catch the afternoon light filtering through the stained glass. Green today, more than gold, and I wonder if her mood affects the color or if it’s just the way the light hits them.
“Of course.” Her smile is genuine, unguarded. She has no idea what she does to me. “I don’t have to be at the diner for a few hours.”
I stand and move to the tall cabinet against the wall, the one that requires a ladder to reach the top shelves. “The older hymn books are up here. I need to inventory them, but I can’t quite reach.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I could reach if I tried, but this gives me an excuse to stand close to her, to test the boundaries of what she’ll allow.
Charlie positions the small ladder, and I stand behind her as she climbs.
My body is close enough that I can feel her warmth and smell the vanilla and cinnamon that cling to her clothes.
When she reaches for a book on the highest shelf, she wobbles slightly, and my hands find her waist to steady her.
The contact sends a jolt through me.
Her waist is small beneath my palms, the curve of her hips flaring just above where my thumbs rest.
I can feel her breathing quicken, feel the slight tremor that runs through her body.
“Careful, chérie,” I murmur, letting my hands linger a moment longer than necessary before releasing her.
She descends the ladder with flushed cheeks, clutching a stack of dusty hymn books against her chest.
The position pushes her breasts up, and I force my gaze back to her face before she catches me staring.
We work side by side at the long table, sorting through decades of music.
Every time our fingers brush passing a folder, that same spark ignites between us.
I watch her hands, those graceful fingers that create such beautiful pastries, and imagine them on my skin.
Would she touch me with the same careful precision she uses when decorating cakes?
Would she be bold or hesitant?
“You have beautiful hands,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Charlie looks up, startled. “What?”
“Your hands.” I reach across the table, my fingers hovering just above hers. “They’re artist’s hands. The way you work dough, the way you arrange flowers in the sanctuary. It’s like watching someone paint.”
Her cheeks flush deeper, and I notice the rapid pulse at her throat. “I never thought about it that way.”
“You should.” I let my fingers brush hers, just barely, watching her pupils dilate. “You create beauty without even trying.”
The air between us grows thick, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
I’ve always been good at reading people, at understanding what they want before they know it themselves.
And Charlie wants this.
Wants me.
Even if she’s fighting it.
I stand and move to the piano, needing to channel this energy into something productive before I do something we’ll both regret.
Or maybe something we won’t regret at all.
“Come sit with me,” I say, patting the bench beside me.
She hesitates for just a moment before crossing the loft.
When she settles onto the bench, our thighs touch, and I feel that contact like a brand.
She’s wearing that cardigan she always has, the one that’s slightly too big, and I want to peel it off her shoulders, see what she’s hiding underneath.
My fingers find the keys, and I begin to play.
Not a hymn, nothing sacred or appropriate.
Something dark and sensual in a minor key, the kind of music that sounds like sin feels. My hands dance across the keys with the same precision I’d use on her skin, each note deliberate, building toward something inevitable.
Charlie watches my fingers, transfixed, and I watch her face. Her lips part slightly, her breathing shallow. The sexual tension is so thick I can taste it.
“Have you ever been to Paris?” I ask, my voice dropping lower, more intimate.
“No.” The word is barely a whisper. “I’ve never been anywhere.”
“C’est dommage.” I transition into something softer, more romantic. “Paris in the spring is like nowhere else. The Seine at sunset, the way the light turns everything golden. The cafés where you can sit for hours watching people fall in love.”
I describe the city in vivid detail, painting pictures with words the way I paint pictures with music.
My accent thickens as I speak, French phrases slipping in naturally.
I tell her about the hidden gardens, the bookshops along the river, the way the whole city smells like fresh bread and possibility.
“I’d take you to Sainte-Chapelle,” I continue, my fingers still moving across the keys. “The stained glass there makes our windows look like children’s drawings. When the sun hits them just right, the whole chapel glows like it’s on fire.”
Charlie leans closer, drawn in by my words, by the music, and the promise of beauty she’s never experienced. Her shoulder presses against mine, and I can feel her heart racing.
“The music,” I say, transitioning into something even more sensual. “Paris has music everywhere. Street performers on every corner, opera houses, jazz clubs in basements where the air is thick with smoke and desire.”
Her hand rests on the bench between us, and I let my pinky finger brush against hers.
Such a small touch, barely anything, but it feels monumental.
“I’d show you everything,” I murmur, my eyes locked on hers now instead of the keys. “Every beautiful thing the city has to offer. Every secret corner, every hidden treasure.”
The music builds, my fingers flying across the keys with increasing intensity. Charlie’s breathing matches the rhythm, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I can see her nipples hardening beneath her dress, and the knowledge that I’m affecting her this way makes my own body respond.
I imagine laying her across this piano bench, pushing that sundress up her thighs, discovering what she wears underneath.
Would she be bold or shy?
Would she let me worship her the way she deserves?
“Elijah,” she breathes, and my name in her voice does something to me.
I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Yes, chérie?”
“I—” She stops, swallows hard. “The music is beautiful.”
“So are you.” The words hang between us, honest and dangerous.
Her hand finds mine on the keys, her fingers threading through mine, stopping the music.
The silence is deafening.
We’re so close now that I can count the freckles dusting her nose, can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
I’m going to kiss her. I know I shouldn’t.
This will complicate everything because we haven’t fully talked with Adrian yet, but I’m going to do it anyway.
My free hand rises to cup her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbone.
Footsteps echo on the spiral staircase.
We freeze, our faces inches apart, her hand still tangled with mine on the piano keys.
The footsteps grow louder, deliberate, and I know who it is before he appears.
Adrian emerges at the top of the stairs, and the look on his face makes me raise my eyebrows in surprise.
His gray eyes are dark, stormy, locked on the scene before him.
Charlie and I on the piano bench, bodies angled toward each other, the intimate atmosphere so thick it’s almost suffocating.
His jaw clenches, and I watch his hand tighten around the rosary beads wrapped around his knuckles until they’re white.
I’ve seen Adrian angry before.
I’ve seen him frustrated, conflicted, barely holding onto his control. But this is different.
This is raw, primal jealousy burning in his eyes as he takes in how close I am to Charlie, how her hand rests in mine, how her lips are parted and flushed.
He’s not just protective of her.
He’s jealous.
As he storms out, I realize with sudden, perfect clarity that this situation is far more complicated than any of us anticipated.