Chapter 9
Nine
Refrain: Every love story needs a slow burn
Dixie
It’s the day after Jack moved me into his place.
To celebrate my near death by exposure yesterday, I dress for spring break in Miami so I can pretend it’s a humid hundred degrees out.
I’m wearing a cropped T-shirt and a pair of pink-striped boxers.
There’s plenty of midriff exposure happening, plus there are rhinestone horseshoes over certain areas of my chest. It’s very Girls Gone Wild for Sunday morning in a parsonage. Or monastery. Whatever. Do I care?
Nope.
My phone buzzes with a list of dates and a message from my dad.
Pick one. See you in the studio!
Delete.
Other people think my dad’s super supportive. My sister, my brother. All my family’s myriad Facebook friends. He’s a loving father, someone who wants what’s best for me.
That’s such bullshit. It’s a constant emotional tug-of-war between love, resentment, and exhaustion. He wants to know why I won’t sign with his label? Maybe because I don’t want to spend my life singing backup in someone else’s dream.
My dad’s an emotional vampire. Drains you dry, then dropkicks your husk to the curb.
We did a project together when I was fifteen. He offered to let me sing backup vocals on a new album. I sang ooh a billion times, and not one of them met his exacting standards. He replaced me and I vowed never again. The album tanked because Karma’s a bitch like me.
Except now I’m a bitch with followers. Holy shit. I refresh Instagram and the numbers keep climbing—20K, 25K, 30K views on my song about Preacher Man. I keep screenshotting because what the hell? I post song snippets all the time to see what sticks, but nothing’s ever blown up like this.
The smell of coffee eventually propels me, unwilling and half dead, away from my phone and out of the bed. Somewhere in the house—my temporary house, definitely not my home—Jack Carter’s awake. Doing things. Probably being competent, responsible, and making drinkable coffee.
I hate him.
I hate morning.
I hate everything.
Dragging myself upright, I rub my face, wincing as my joints protest. There’s the usual shitty dull stiffness in my fingers.
It isn’t super bad, but “not bad” turns into “very bad” fast if I don’t take care of myself.
One of the many reasons I’d agreed yesterday to crash in the rectory rather than my van.
I shuffle out of the room on pure caffeine-seeking instinct, following the scent like a bloodhound.
Jack Carter, Preacher Man, stands in his kitchen, crisp white T-shirt stretched over broad shoulders, dark hair mussed from sleep.
He’s barefoot, cradling a coffee mug, bathed in golden morning light that makes everyone look good.
Georgia Peach has parked her furry behind next to the fruit bowl, gnawing on something that’s either an apricot pit or the bones of Jack’s last houseguest.
Could go either way.
“You are way too awake.” My voice is still rough with sleep.
Amusement flickers over his face. “Good morning to you, too.”
If he calls me sunshine, I’ll kill him and bribe Georgia Peach to help hide the body.
I grunt. Squinting at him through my bed-head chaos, I point an accusing finger. “How. How are you like this? It’s early.”
“It’s six thirty.” In his world, normal humans wake at sunrise on Sunday. I bet he sets New Year’s resolutions and keeps them.
“You disgust me.”
Jack chuckles, filling a second mug that reads Episcopalians Do It Liturgically. “Coffee?”
I snatch it and take a cautious sip. It’s good. Annoyingly good. If the whole preaching thing falls through, he could become a barista at that local coffee van, charming church ladies with his voice and muscled forearms.
Unfortunately, the caffeine means I’m now awake enough to notice how his dress slacks cling to his muscled thighs. Twelve out of ten would recommend looking again.
I hate that, too.
Jack leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me guzzle his peace offering with trademark easy patience. “How are you?”
Hookup or not, we aren’t friends. I’m not oversharing about my RA or my well-founded fear of homelessness. Ergo, I roll my eyes. “None of your business.”
His expression doesn’t change. “That bad? I just figured I’d ask.”
I wish he wouldn’t.
I take another sip. Caffeine will make me less irritable, right?
Long shot. I might have to settle for a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach (absolutely unrelated to proximity to Jack).
The barest loosening of my bad mood. Not enough to make me pleasant, but enough that I realize I need to counteract this moment of human decency before things get out of hand.
I set my coffee down. Time to be annoying.
I march to the fridge, yank it open, start pulling out the eggs, cheese, and butter I bought in Wickham Hollow’s one and only grocery store yesterday, depleting my cash reserves to four bucks in the process.
It’s also the bait, beer, and general store.
Everything’s cheap, generic brands. Apparently, the fish aren’t any pickier about their worms than the fishermen are about their beer.
I flash him a grin, spin toward the stove, and crank the burner on high. Then, I take a deep breath and belt out the raunchiest country song I can make up on the spot. Hey, if it’s any good, I can post that on Instagram, too!
“I wanna sin, I wanna pray,
I wanna have the devil’s way
With my preacher man…”
Jack scrubs a hand over his face, mussing his beard. Bits stick out in a way that’s adorable if you like your guys hairy and wild.
“Dixie.”
“Told me meet him at the altar—” I crack an egg with gusto “—but I met him in the back pew…”
Jack groans. His misery makes me smile. That, and the intensity with which he watches me.
“You don’t like my music, Preacher Man?”
You’re welcome, Jack. You’ll never look at the back pew the same way again.
“I have to go lead a church service at eight.”
I drop the spatula and whip around. “Oh, right! Sunday! Your fun day! You tell people how to be good and decent and not take strange women home from bars!”
He laughs. “Dixie—”
I cut him off. “Wait. Are you running out the door to avoid setting house rules? Because if we’re going to live together, I need to know what I’m not supposed to do. Imagine how I could go wrong. Just lay them on me. Here’s a story prompt. Thou shalt not—what?”
He looks from me to the pan, where my eggs are now burning, and reaches over to turn the heat down.
His arm almost touches mine and he smells good.
Cedar and laundry detergent? Does white cotton have a special scent?
Can I bottle it? Fuck eggs. Fuck church.
This makes me want to throw my arms around him and eat him up.
Abort, abort.
He nods. Agreement with the eat-him-up plan? Great! “One, no stealing the last cup of coffee. Not unless you make a new pot.”
Oh, riiiiight. I arrange my face into over-the-top listening.
“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “Agreed.”
“Two, respect the quiet hours.”
He rinses his mug, sets it in the sink. I make a show of writing a note with my invisible pen. “Preacher Man needs sleep, and so does the country star. Midnight jam sessions and five a.m. Bible studies are hereby banned. Got it.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. Can’t. Look. Away.
“Three, do not, under any circumstances, let Huck sneak into the bed. He will act innocent. He is not. You will regret it.”
“Wow… I’m not sure what to say. I’ve noticed zero bad behavior from Huck. He’s a perfect angel.”
“Four, no passive-aggressive notes. Texts.” He thinks. “Or songs.”
Seriously. Songs?
“Give me an example. Also, I’m gonna need alcohol for this conversation.”
I whip out my phone and text Deacon. Or Slate. One of the two. Those two are practically interchangeable, and I’m not sure whose phone gets the Sweetgum Auto texts. I’m sure it’s one of them. Doesn’t matter—
I’m not leaving my alcohol needs to chance.
Need emergency tequila delivery. Will also take Bailey’s. Or anything that goes in coffee.
Alcohol’s a terrible coping mechanism, but today’s an exception.
Whoever’s manning the phone returns a middle-finger emoji. My money’s on Slate.
Jack’s amused expression tells me he read my text. “It’s not ten a.m. You can’t buy alcohol yet. State law.”
“Someone must have a personal stash.” Which would work better for me, seeing as I have super-limited cash. “And you shouldn’t be so judgy about drinking. We did meet in a bar.”
When he gives me a look, I lean into it. “I bet you’ve heard worse in your confession booth.”
“That’s private. Plus, reconciliation is optional and there’s no confessional. This isn’t reality TV. Five, as noted yesterday, no breaking each other’s hearts. No sex.”
I wink. “I believe I only mentioned sex. Your heart’s one hundred percent safe. Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine,” I repeat.
I look down at a tug on my coffee cup. The handle has grown a chinchilla and Georgia Peach is slurping my coffee like it’s hers.
“Your chinchilla is possessed. Have you considered an exorcism?”
Jack’s mouth curves up. “Not that kind of preacher.”
“Sure?”
“Very.” He eyes me calmly. “If you’re concerned, I can call a Catholic friend. They teach demon exorcism in seminary. I also know an evangelical who does deliverance.”
I’m almost sure he’s teasing.
“I notice she drank my coffee and not yours.”
Jack shrugs. “She’s got a caffeine problem.”
“Or a boundary problem.”
He strokes the fluff demon like a Bond villain.
The chinchilla glares at me. I’ve eaten bigger burritos.
As if she read my mind, she starts barking—loud, sharp sounds I translate as I see you, I do not like you, and I will scream about it.
I concede the mug but meet her beady gaze. “I don’t want your man. You can keep him, honey.”
Jack gives in and laughs. Just lets go and bellows, a full-on, belly-shaking laugh.
“I’m leaving,” he wheezes, grabbing a button-up shirt from the back of a chair and shoving his feet into a pair of shiny dress shoes. He’s forgotten his socks and he’s super early for his church gig. I win!
“You mean you’re fleeing,” I correct.
“I’m going to church. To do my job.”
“Uh-huh. Running away from temptation, just like the Bible says.”
Jack levels a long, unreadable look at me, then—because he’s infuriating—smirks.
“Enjoy your breakfast, Dixie,” he says, voice low, full of something I don’t want to name.
Because he can’t stop being a nice guy, he puts Georgia Peach back in her mini mansion on his way out. I shamelessly stalk him to the door because if I’m being abandoned with a one-pound psycho killer, I’ll have to take steps.
I stand there, watching him lope down the stairs and head over to the church.
Best commute ever: short and quick. The view’s amazing.
Not just his long legs and lumberjack shoulders eating up distance like it’s nothing.
His outsides are pretty, but his insides—those are the true prize.
He won’t ever change. Doesn’t have a deceptive bone in his big, beautiful body.
What I see is what I get. With him, I feel safe.
The parking lot’s filling up with cars. Ladies in hats go up the stairs where Jack disappeared. Someone hammers on the organ, a wheezing, out-of-tune rendition of… I haven’t got a clue. Could be music. Maybe.
My phone buzzes. Pick a date, my dad writes. You wanna do that preacher song of yours? I could be convinced.
I leave him on read but if Dad’s heard about it, that means the song’s getting even more attention than I realized.
I can’t help myself—I open Instagram to recheck the numbers on my post. Holy shit.
The view count has exploded since I last looked.
Comments are pouring in faster than I can read them, and my DMs are packed with heart-eye emojis and fire symbols.
My follower count has jumped by thousands, and there’s some kind of official Instagram notification with a blue badge that I should probably check out.
People aren’t just listening to the song—they’re obsessed with it. With him.
With us.