Chapter 10 Charlie
CHARLIE
I wake in darkness, my heart already racing before my eyes fully open.
My body still remembers. The way his hands felt on my skin, reverent and hungry.
The French words he whispered against my throat, beautiful sounds I didn’t understand but felt in my bones. The way he looked at me afterward, like I was something precious he’d been searching for his entire life.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the flood of memories. His mouth on mine.
His fingers threading through my hair. The way he said my name like a prayer and a curse wrapped together.
Stop.
I throw off the covers and pad barefoot to my tiny kitchen, the floorboards cold beneath my feet. My hands shake as I pull out the mixing bowl Grandma Rose gave me years ago, the ceramic worn smooth from decades of use.
Flour. Sugar. Butter. Cinnamon.
The ingredients that have always saved me when my thoughts spiral too dark, too fast.
Stress-baking is my therapy, learned at Grandma Rose’s elbow when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter. When life gets hard, baby girl, you make something sweet.
Her voice echoes in my memory as I measure flour with practiced precision, the repetitive motion already beginning to quiet my racing mind.
I work the dough for cinnamon rolls, kneading with the heels of my hands, pushing and folding until the texture transforms from rough to silky.
The apartment fills with the scent of yeast and possibility. For these few hours before dawn, I’m not a thief working off her debt. I’m not the girl who stole from God’s collection plate. I’m just someone creating something beautiful from simple ingredients.
The dough rises while I make the filling, mixing butter and brown sugar and cinnamon until it smells like every Sunday morning of my childhood.
I roll the dough into a rectangle, spread the filling with careful strokes, then roll it tight and slice it into perfect spirals.
They go into the pan like little promises, each one a small act of redemption.
While they bake, I lean against the counter and let myself remember more of last night.
The way Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes darkened when he looked at me.
How his lean body felt pressed against mine, all controlled strength and barely restrained need.
The sounds he made when I touched him, like I was unraveling him piece by piece.
My phone buzzes on the counter, making me jump. A text from the hospital about Grandma Rose’s medication schedule. I read it twice, my chest tight with gratitude that she’s still here, still fighting. The money I stole paid for that. Adrian’s mercy gave me the chance to save her.
And now I’m sleeping with three men of God.
The timer dings, saving me from that spiral. I pull the rolls from the oven, golden and perfect, and frost them while they’re still warm. Cream cheese icing melts into every crevice, sweet and tangy and exactly right.
I eat one standing at the counter, letting the flavors ground me in the present moment.
By the time the sun rises, I’ve made two dozen cinnamon rolls and a decision.
I’ll bring them to St. Michael’s as a thank-you.
For Adrian’s mercy. For Marcus’s kindness. For Elijah’s…everything.
I pack them carefully in a container, write a simple note—Thank you for everything—and leave them in the parish hall kitchen before my early shift at the diner. I don’t wait to see anyone’s reaction. I’m too much of a coward for that.
The diner shift drags endlessly. I pour coffee, take orders, and smile at customers while my mind replays last night on an endless loop.
Elijah’s hands.
His mouth.
The way he looked at me like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in one package.
When I finally return to St. Michael’s to collect my empty container, I expect to find it still half-full. Church basement baked goods rarely disappear completely.
Mrs. Delacroix’s lemon meringue pie sat untouched for three days last month.
Instead, I find three men standing around a spotless pan in the parish hall kitchen.
Marcus sees me first. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and something in his expression makes my breath catch.
He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those tattooed forearms that I’ve caught myself staring at more times than I can count.
Saints and sinners inked into his olive skin, beautiful and dangerous.
“Charlie.” My name in his rough voice sends heat straight through me.
Adrian turns from where he’s been examining the empty container like it holds the secrets of the universe.
His gray eyes track my movement as I step into the kitchen, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how my vintage sundress clings to my curves, how the neckline dips just low enough to be interesting.
His jaw clenches, and I watch his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You made these?” Elijah asks, and his angel-boy smile has an edge to it that makes my skin flush hot.
He’s leaning against the counter, golden hair slightly mussed, and all I can think about is how that hair felt tangled in my fingers last night.
“My grandmother’s recipe.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I stress-bake sometimes. Helps me think.”
“These weren’t just good.” Marcus moves closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. “They were perfect. Light, flavorful, exactly the right amount of sweetness.”
He’s standing close enough now that I can see the pulse beating in his throat, can feel the heat radiating from his body.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts beneath my dress.
When his gaze meets mine again, the hunger there makes my knees weak.
“Where did you learn to bake like that?” Adrian’s voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the strain beneath it.
He hasn’t moved from his position by the counter, but his knuckles are white where he grips the edge.
“Grandma Rose.” I reach for the empty pan, needing something to do with my hands. “She taught me everything.”
My fingers brush Adrian’s as I take the container, and electricity shoots up my arm.
His breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it. Our eyes meet, and for a moment the kitchen disappears.
There’s only his gray eyes burning into mine, the memory of his body pressed against me in his office, the way he quoted scripture between kisses like he was trying to pray away his desire.
“This isn’t just amateur baking,” Elijah says, breaking the moment. He waves at a plated cinnamon roll, the last one, and pushes off the counter, moving toward me with that fluid grace that makes everything look like choreography. “This is real skill. Real talent.”
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his crystalline blue eyes.
Close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, remember how it felt scraping against my inner thighs.
“You saved me the last one?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course.” His smile turns knowing, intimate, like we’re sharing a secret the others can’t hear. “I wanted to make sure you knew how much we appreciated them.”
The way he says appreciated makes it sound like he’s talking about something else entirely.
Something that has nothing to do with cinnamon rolls and everything to do with the way his hands felt on my body last night.
Marcus licks frosting from his thumb, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
The gesture is obscene despite its innocence, and I feel heat pool low in my belly.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, the way his tongue traces his skin, slow and deliberate.
“Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Elijah murmurs, and the words feel weighted with meaning that has nothing to do with pastry.
Adrian’s jaw tightens further.
His hands are still gripping the counter, and I wonder if he’s holding on to keep from reaching for me.
The sexual tension in the small kitchen is suffocating, electric, dangerous.
All three of them are looking at me like I’m something they want to devour, and I’m not sure if I should run or surrender.
“I should go.” I clutch the empty pan against my chest like a shield. “I have another shift soon.”
It’s a lie. They probably know it’s a lie. But none of them call me on it.
I turn to leave, feeling their stares burning into my back as I walk down the hallway.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and my skin feels too hot, too tight.
I’m hyperaware of how my dress swirls around my thighs with each step, how my body still aches in places that remind me of Elijah’s touch.
Back in my apartment, I set the empty pan on the counter and lean against it, trying to catch my breath.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump.
Unknown number.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the message.
You didn’t eat your roll. Come to the rectory tonight. –M.
My heart stops, then starts again, racing. I should delete this. I should pretend I never saw it.
I should remember that I’m already tangled up with Adrian and Elijah in ways that could destroy us all.
Instead, I touch the spot on my hand where Adrian’s fingers brushed mine, remembering the electricity that shot through me at that simple contact.
I think about Marcus’s dark eyes tracking my body, the hunger barely concealed beneath his careful control.
I remember Elijah’s knowing smile, the way he looked at me like he could see straight through to every secret I’m keeping.
I type back before I can stop myself. What time?
The response comes immediately. After evening Mass. Use the back door.
I stare at the message, knowing this is a line I can’t uncross. Knowing I’m going to cross it anyway.