Chapter 31 Charlie
CHARLIE
I arrive at St. Michael’s before dawn, unable to sleep after another night of tossing and turning in my small apartment above the rectory. The church is quiet, peaceful in that way only empty sacred spaces can be.
My footsteps echo on the stone floor as I make my way toward the choir loft, drawn by the faint sound of piano music drifting down from above.
Elijah sits at the piano, his golden hair catching the early morning light streaming through the stained glass windows.
He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.
There’s something mesmerizing about watching his fingers dance across the keys, the way his whole body moves with the music.
He senses my presence and looks up, those crystalline blue eyes finding mine across the space. The music stops mid-phrase.
“Charlie.” My name sounds different in his voice, rougher than usual. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I climb the spiral staircase, hyperaware of how my dress swirls around my thighs with each step, how his gaze tracks my movement. “Thought I’d help set up for rehearsal.”
He stands as I reach the top, moving toward the filing cabinet where we keep the sheet music.
I follow, and suddenly we’re standing too close in the small space.
His hand reaches past me for a folder on the top shelf, his arm brushing mine, and electricity shoots through me at the contact.
“This one,” he says, his voice dropping lower. His breath is warm against my ear, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. “The Fauré Requiem. It’s haunting.”
I turn slightly, and our faces are inches apart. His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck visible above my cardigan.
I watch his throat work as he swallows, his pulse hammering beneath his skin.
“Elijah,” I whisper, and his pupils dilate.
His free hand rises, hovering near my face like he’s fighting himself. I can see the battle in his expression, the desire warring with everything he’s supposed to be.
His fingers finally make contact, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with excruciating gentleness.
“We can’t,” he says, but he doesn’t move away. “Not here. Not now.”
“I know.” But I lean into his touch anyway, just for a moment, letting myself feel wanted despite the chaos surrounding us.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs breaks the spell. We step apart quickly, both breathing harder than we should be.
Elijah turns back to the piano, his movements deliberately casual, while I busy myself arranging chairs for the choir members who’ll arrive soon.
The rehearsal is emotional in ways I don’t expect. The Fauré piece Elijah chose is achingly beautiful, full of longing and loss and desperate hope.
I watch from my position near the filing cabinet as the choir members pour their hearts into the music, as Elijah conducts with his whole body, as the sanctuary fills with sound that makes my chest tight.
When it’s over, there’s a moment of profound silence before everyone begins gathering their things.
I notice Sarah Chen lingering near the piano, her dark eyes fixed on Elijah with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
The other choir members file out, their voices echoing down the staircase, until it’s just the three of us.
I should leave. Give them privacy. But something about Sarah’s body language, the way she’s trembling as she approaches Elijah, makes me stay in the shadows near the filing cabinet.
“Brother Elijah,” Sarah’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Can I talk to you?”
Elijah looks up from the sheet music he’s organizing, his angel face open and kind. “Of course, Sarah. What’s on your mind?”
She moves closer, too close, her hands twisting together. “I need to tell you something. I’ve been trying to find the courage for weeks.”
I watch Elijah’s expression shift from friendly to wary. He takes a small step back, putting distance between them. “Sarah, if this is about your solo in the Christmas cantata, you’re doing wonderfully. You don’t need to worry.”
“It’s not about that.” Her voice cracks. “It’s about us.”
The word hangs in the air like a bomb. Elijah goes completely still.
“There is no ‘us,’ Sarah.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I’m your choir director. That’s all.”
“But it could be more.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I know you feel it too. The way you look at me during rehearsals, the way you stand close when you’re teaching me breathing techniques. I’ll be eighteen in six months. Brothers can marry. We could—”
“Stop.” Elijah’s voice cuts through her fantasy with surgical precision. “Sarah, listen to me very carefully. What you’re describing isn’t real. I’ve never looked at you as anything other than a talented student. Any closeness you’ve perceived was purely professional instruction.”
Sarah’s face crumbles, but she pushes forward desperately. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I know you’re being careful because of my age, but I’ll wait. I’ll do whatever you need. I love you.”
Horror floods Elijah’s expression. “Sarah, you’re seventeen years old. I’m thirty-two. What you’re feeling isn’t love, it’s a crush, and it’s completely inappropriate for you to express these feelings to me.”
“But—”
“No.” His voice is firmer now, though still kind. “I’m not available. I’m not interested. And even if I were, the age difference alone makes this conversation deeply troubling. You need to understand that what you’re suggesting could destroy my career and hurt you in ways you don’t yet comprehend.”
Tears stream down Sarah’s face. “You’re just saying that because you’re scared. Once I’m eighteen—”
“Once you’re eighteen, I’ll still be your choir director and nothing more.” Elijah’s jaw clenches. “Sarah, I care about you as a member of this parish and as a talented young woman with a bright future. But that’s where it ends. It has to end there.”
Sarah’s face twists with pain and humiliation.
She makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream, then turns and runs from the choir loft, her footsteps pounding down the spiral staircase.
The silence she leaves behind is deafening.
I emerge from the shadows, and Elijah’s head snaps toward me. His eyes are wide with something that looks like panic.
“How much did you hear?” His voice shakes.
“All of it.” I cross to him, and he pulls me close immediately, his body trembling against mine.
His arms wrap around me like I’m the only thing keeping him upright, his face buried in my hair.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathes. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know she felt that way.”
“I know.” My hands slide up his back, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. “You handled it perfectly.”
“Did I?” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the fear in his eyes breaks my heart. “What if she tells someone? What if she twists this into something it’s not?”
“Then we deal with it.” I frame his face with my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze. “Together.”
His fingers tangle in my hair, possessive and desperate. “I need you,” he whispers. “God help me, Charlie, I need you so badly right now.”
The sexual tension that’s been simmering between us all morning ignites. His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and desperate, and I taste fear mixed with need on his tongue.
My back hits the filing cabinet as he presses closer, his lean body solid against mine.
I can feel him hard against my hip, can feel the tremor running through him as he fights for control.
“Not here,” I gasp against his lips. “Elijah, we can’t—”
“I know.” But his hands are already sliding under my cardigan, finding bare skin, and the touch makes me arch into him. “I know, but I can’t stop thinking about you. About this.”
His mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
My fingers tangle in his golden hair, messing the angelic perfection, and he groans against my skin.
The sound of the church bells marking the hour breaks through our haze.
We pull apart, both breathing hard, my lips swollen and his hair disheveled.
Reality crashes back, bringing with it the weight of everything we’re risking.
“Tonight,” he says, his voice rough. “Come to my quarters tonight.”
I nod, unable to form words, and flee down the stairs before I lose what little control I have left.
That evening finds me in the sacristy with Marcus, helping him clean up after Mass.
We’ve barely spoken in days, the Bishop’s scrutiny forcing us into careful distance that’s been slowly killing me.
I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes, the way his arms flex as he lifts the chalice, how his black shirt stretches across his shoulders.
“Charlie.” His voice makes me jump. I turn to find him watching me, his dark eyes burning with barely restrained hunger. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” But I know. We both know.
He moves closer, and suddenly the small sacristy feels suffocating. “About this charade. About pretending you don’t exist. About how I can’t breathe when you’re in the same room and I can’t touch you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Marcus—”
“I’m done pretending.” His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “I don’t care who’s watching anymore. I can’t do this.”
Then his mouth is on mine, desperate and claiming, and I’m lost. My back hits the wall as he presses closer, his body solid and warm against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, can taste the desperation on his tongue as he kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m air.
“Te necesito,” he murmurs against my lips, his accent thickening. “I need you, querida. I need you so badly it’s destroying me.”
My fingers find the saints and sinners inked into his arms beneath his thin sleeves, tracing the lines I’ve memorized in stolen moments. His hands slide down to my hips, pulling me harder against him, and I gasp at the friction.
“Marcus,” I breathe, and his name on my lips makes him shudder.
His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I arch into him, my head falling back against the wall, completely lost in the sensation of finally being touched after days of aching distance.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway freezes us both.
We break apart just as the door opens, but not fast enough. Sister Margaret stands in the doorway, her sharp blue eyes taking in every detail. My mussed hair. Our ragged breathing. The way we’re standing too close, bodies still angled toward each other.
The knowing look on her face says everything.
She smiles slowly, and the expression is colder than anything I’ve ever seen. “How convenient to find you both here.” Her voice is ice wrapped in false sweetness. “I’m sure the Bishop will want to speak to the both of you.”