Chapter 4
Four
Preacher gets an indecent proposal
Dixie
Jack freezes for half a heartbeat—blink and you’d miss it—but then he’s all in on my ridiculous plan. And I mean all in.
We’re practically sprinting toward his place like a pair of silly teenagers sneaking in after curfew, giggling and bumping into each other.
His shoulder knocks mine, our hands brush, and there’s a whole chaotic dance of trying not to trip over each other while also trying to stay close enough to do—well, whatever this is we’re doing.
By the time we hit his front steps, I’m wound tighter than a guitar string and about twice as likely to snap.
He tosses the roof bits we collected into a small basket by the door, saying, when I raise my eyebrows, “Evidence. Every time the wind blows, I lose more of the church roof. I’m building a case to convince the council to fund a complete replacement before the whole thing caves in.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“You have no idea,” he mutters, then opens the door—it’s unlocked—holding it for me and waiting for me to go first like the Southern gentleman he is. He searches my face, all careful glances and unspoken questions. Are you sure? Do you want to change your mind?
As if.
“Don’t mind if I do!”
I feel like I could take on the world right now, and my plan is to carpe diem so hard it’ll leave marks. Who gives a shit what tomorrow brings? Tonight, my body’s finally cooperating with my brain, and we’re both voting yes on Operation Jump the Preacher.
“Make yourself at home.” His face goes pink again above his beard—that same adorable flush that makes me want to pinch his cheeks or maybe bite them. If I stuck around longer than it takes to fix my van, I’d buy him SPF 50 just to mess with him.
From where I’m standing, Jack’s house strikes me as what would happen if a fairy-tale cottage got really into Goth architecture.
All pointy bits and fancy trim, like someone took a normal house and decided it needed more drama.
The kind of place where you’d expect a witch to lean out the window offering poisoned apples, not a minister sharing hospitality.
But it’s also got this pristine white paint job and black shutters that frame windows looking straight out at the church and—oh, great—a whole cemetery full of dead people.
Charming.
Whatever. I’m not here for the real estate tour.
I blow past him into the house before he can change his mind or remember he’s supposed to be a respectable man of God or something equally inconvenient.
He strides after me and closes the door without locking it. Jesus Christ. Does this man just trust every random stranger who wanders into his life? Because that’s either incredibly sweet or incredibly stupid, and I haven’t decided which yet.
“Safe!” I throw my arms up like I just scored a touchdown. “For a minute there I thought the locals were gonna form an angry mob and come after us with pitchforks!”
Jack’s staring at me. When your audience doesn’t appreciate a good metaphor, you move on, so I start snooping around his living room.
The place is trying hard to be a library—all bookcases with glass fronts that look handcrafted, shelves packed with more books than any one person could possibly read, and a well-used fireplace.
There’s a sad fiddle-leaf fig in the corner that’s begging for a bigger pot, and a leather chair that’s seen better decades.
The walls are painted a rich navy so dark it’s basically black, which should be depressing but somehow just makes everything feel cozy and secret.
And when I glance out the window? Nothing but row after row of headstones.
“Okay, I have to ask.” I turn to face him, hands on my hips. “Are you secretly a hot centuries-old vampire gift wrapped in flannel?”
A darker strip of pink colors Jack’s cheekbones. “Sunlight doesn’t fry me, and I have a distinct lack of fangs.”
“The dark, broody aesthetic says otherwise. This is some serious ‘eternal scholar waiting out the centuries’ energy.”
“I like books,” he says. “And quiet. And chairs that don’t fall apart when you sit in ’em.”
Oh, the perils of being a monster-sized man.
I shrug off my jacket, dropping it onto his oversize chair. “See, that sounds exactly like something an ancient vampire would say.”
“And here I thought I was more of a rock than a bloodsucker,” he says, completely deadpan. But there’s this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that gives him away.
“I don’t know.” I tilt my head, pretending to consider this seriously. “I’ve met rocks with more game.”
Shit. Did that come out meaner than I meant it to?
But he just laughs—a soft, rumbly sound that does a number on my insides—and scoops up my jacket before heading toward what I assume is a closet.
“And yet,” he calls back over his shoulder, “here you are. Standing in my allegedly game-less house.”
I grin. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good mystery.”
He has a massive Victorian dollhouse tucked in a corner. Which, okay, raises some questions. What grown-ass man keeps a dollhouse on display in his living room? It’s giving some seriously disturbed vibes.
I drift closer to investigate and nearly jump out of my skin when I spot two tiny dark eyes and the fluffiest little ears peeking out from one of the miniature windows.
“Georgia Peach,” Jack says from somewhere very close behind me. I get goose bumps. “I rescued her—” of course he did “—but that’s one chinchilla who prefers to have her own space.”
I poke a finger toward the little window. The glass is missing, so the chinchilla’s not trapped—just antisocial.
“She’s shy,” Jack explains. “And she’s not big on people.”
Called it.
Georgia Peach makes a distinctly judgmental chittering sound, then disappears back into her tiny mansion, leaving behind tiny chinchilla hairs.
How is this man still single? He’s got a job, he looks like God’s apology for every disappointing Tinder date I’ve ever been on, and he comes with the cutest menagerie.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Huck appears around the corner. He eyes the dollhouse like he’s trying to figure out the architectural requirements for squeezing his giant self through those tiny doors.
Jack shakes his head, running a hand over Huck’s head. “The world’s best watchdog. Where’s your bark, man?”
His voice holds this wealth of love and understanding. Huck’s the luckiest dog in the world: He gets to be himself, drool and all, and Jack loves him for it.
I drop to my knees to love on him. “Who’s the sweetest boy? Yes, you are! The bestest boy in the whole damn world!”
Jack leans against the wall, arms folded over his chest, amusement lighting his eyes.
He’s too far away for my liking, but I’ll fix that situation in a minute because right now Huck’s doing this adorable thing where he butts his massive head against my palm like he’s trying to push all the love back into me. The appreciation drool is just a bonus.
Huck gives me one more enthusiastic lick and rams his head into my hand like he’s trying to high-five me with his skull, then apparently decides I’ve passed whatever test dogs give people and wanders off to do important dog business.
Now it’s just me, Jack, and enough sexual tension to power a small city.
I lean back to get a better look at him. He hasn’t budged from his spot propping up the wall. My stomach picks this exact moment to growl audibly, reminding me that a handful of fries isn’t exactly dinner.
“Hungry?” Jack asks, his smile widening.
“Starving,” I admit. “But not just for food.”
I definitely wink at him. Sue me.
“We’ve got our winnings.” He pushes off the wall and heads toward the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, I’m absolutely demolishing a plate of surprisingly edible chicken and dumplings while Jack watches with amusement. “What?” I say through a mouthful. “I need to keep my strength up.”
“For?”
I give him my most wicked smile and push the empty plate aside. “Let me demonstrate. Bedroom?”
He makes this sound that’s half groan, half laugh. Christ, you’re cute. “Down the hall.”
The hallway’s narrow enough that two people can’t walk side by side without bumping into the walls. I zip down it, and the whole situation hits me—this is officially the weirdest hookup of my life, and somehow I’m absolutely here for it. Ten of ten, would definitely do again.
Jack follows me, and God, he has the deepest, happiest laugh.
“In here?” I push the door open fast because from the outside, this house looks like it’s one creaky floorboard away from a full-on haunting.
There’s the smallest hitch in my step, my knee deciding it wants to be a little bitch about the February cold.
It’s got opinions about pretty much every month that isn’t July, honestly.
Wants me to pack up and move somewhere tropical.
I ignore it.
I stretch, pushing my arms up toward the ceiling, working out the kinks as a familiar heat trickles through my body and my breathing picks up. It’s been way too long since I last did this.
“That’s a big bed, Preacher Man.” I toe off my boots and dig my toes into the coolness of Jack’s hardwood. Just a hint of stiffness in my joints, but we’re still good to go. “Time to put it to good use!”
I dive onto the bed. It’s not exactly graceful, but fuck it.
Jack watches me, breathing hard.
His eyes—
They’re warm and intense, and my libido’s sending up flares about how much we like the way he’s looking at me. I find my footing on the mattress, bounce a little to test the springs, then find my balance and fist the hem of my dress.
Up and over my head it goes.
His smile does the hottest things to me—warm, electric, tingly things that make me want to yank him down onto this bed and skip straight to the main event.