Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Preacher says: Please don’t put that in a song
Jack
I arrive at Perked Up six minutes early for my meeting with the Right Reverend Dr. Morgan Ellery Caldwell, which makes me five minutes late by her standards.
My bishop lives her life in a perpetual state of ahead-of-schedule that makes the rest of us look like we’re moving through molasses.
Sure enough, she’s already at a corner table, two coffee mugs at parade rest in front of her.
Between them sits what looks suspiciously like a printed copy of “Hot for Preacher,” certain phrases highlighted in neon yellow.
Great. Nothing says “serious professional discussion” like your boss reading lyrics about how you made your girl hot.
“Jack.” She glances up, her expression neutral behind some seriously stylish reading glasses.
Unlike most bishops who dress like they’re perpetually attending a funeral in 1963, Morgan favors tailored clerical shirts with dark jeans and her signature Doc Martens.
The diocese gossip mill once debated an entire week whether her red ones were “proper church attire.” She’d responded by wearing purple ones to the next synod.
“Bishop.” I slide into the seat across from her, grateful she’s chosen a spot where the morning coffee rush creates a buffer of ambient noise. No chance of being overheard discussing my viral song situation.
She taps the printed lyrics with one perfectly manicured nail. “Quite the literary masterpiece you’ve inspired here.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s not exactly a hymn.”
“Clearly.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Though I have to say, the theological framing is surprisingly nuanced for a country song.”
I reach for a coffee, needing something to do with my hands. It’s black and strong enough to strip paint. The Bishop doesn’t believe in cream or sugar—or mercy, apparently.
“I’m assuming someone called you,” I say.
“Mrs. Lancaster, Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Jenkins, and three anonymous voice mails that I suspect were all the same person disguising their voice.” Bishop Morgan removes her glasses, setting them beside the paper. “They were quite detailed in their concerns.”
“I can explain.”
“Can you?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m very interested in hearing how Wickham Hollow’s vicar became the subject of a song that currently has—” she checks her phone “—over one hundred thousand streams since yesterday.”
I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “Dixie’s van broke down in town. I offered her the guest room at the rectory since we don’t have a hotel. She’s a musician, so she wrote a song.”
“About wanting you to, and I quote, ‘break all your rules with your calloused hands’?”
My coffee goes down wrong and I cough, heat crawling up my neck.
Bishop Morgan takes a careful sip of her own coffee. “Look, Jack, I didn’t call you here to scold you like you’re a seminarian who missed curfew. You’re an adult. You’re allowed to have a personal life.”
“But?”
“But you’re also the spiritual leader of Wickham Hollow, and some members are concerned about what this—” she gestures to the lyrics “—suggests about your judgment.”
I lean back, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “And what do you think it suggests?”
“That depends.” She studies me over the rim of her mug. “Is this a passing infatuation with a stranded musician, or something more serious?”
The question hangs between us like a particularly awkward pinata. I consider deflecting, giving the safe answer—the one that will make this conversation easier and shorter. But Bishop Morgan values honesty above comfort, and frankly, she’d see through any BS faster than a window washer on espresso.
“I’ve never felt this way before,” I admit. “About anyone.”
Something in her expression softens. “Go, you.”
“It doesn’t matter, though, does it? She’s Nashville-bound as soon as her van’s fixed. She’s got a career to build. And I have a church with a leaking roof and a congregation that’s counting on me.”
Bishop Morgan drums her fingers against her mug. “When did you last take a vacation, Jack? Three years ago? Four?”
That’s not the question I’m expecting. “What does that have to do with—”
“The Church has survived two thousand years. It will survive you taking some personal time.” She leans forward. “We don’t need perfect ministers, Jack. We need authentic ones.”
I shake my head, trying to process. “So you’re not mad?”
“Mad that one of my ministers is human enough to fall in love? No.” She taps the lyric sheet again. “Although I would prefer if future love songs were perhaps a touch less explicit about what you do with those ‘calloused hands.’”
My face heats to approximately the temperature of the sun’s surface.
“That said,” she continues, “there are practicalities to consider. If this relationship continues, there will be talk. Some people will leave the church. Others will watch you like hawks for any perceived misstep. The vestry will have opinions. So. Many. Opinions.”
“I know.” Boy, do I know.
“But some will support you. Those who see that having a minister who understands love, loss, and difficult choices makes you more effective, not less.” She hands me the lyrics.
“These are yours. It’s your choice what you do with them.
” As I take the paper, she adds, “Just promise me one thing, Jack.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever you decide—about Dixie, about Wickham Hollow—make sure it’s because it’s what you truly want. Not because it’s what you think you should want.” She smiles then, genuine and warm. “The world has enough martyrs already. What it needs are people brave enough to be happy.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
“Good.” Bishop Morgan checks her phone. “Now, I have to get back for a budget meeting that will make me question every life choice I’ve ever made. Any questions before I go?”
Just one, but I’m not sure I want the answer. “Did you listen to the song?”
She stands, shouldering her bag. “Three times. It’s quite catchy.” Then, with a wink that nearly stops my heart: “My favorite part was the bridge. Very evocative.”
As I watch her leave, I feel lighter than I have in days. Whatever comes next with Dixie—whether she stays or goes, whether we have a future together or just this strange, beautiful moment—at least I know I have one unexpected ally in my corner.
And honestly? The lyrics aren’t that bad.
Well, except for the one verse about my beard. That’s definitely coming up at my next performance review.
* * *
Despite the bishop meeting going better than I expected, I’m still processing it all when I get home.
I’m halfway through making lunch when Dixie pads into the kitchen, guitar in hand and that particular grin on her face that usually spells trouble.
She hops up onto the counter beside the stove, bare legs swinging, and settles the guitar across her lap.
Georgia Peach immediately appears on the windowsill above the sink, chittering her disapproval at the musical interruption.
“Want to hear what I wrote for your choir?” Dixie’s already tuning a string.
I set down my knife and wipe my hands on the dish towel. “You finished it?”
“Oh, I finished it alright.” Her grin widens. “Fair warning—it’s no ‘How Great Thou Art.’”
She strums the opening chords, and then her voice fills the kitchen, warm and sure:
“I came here runnin’ from a dream gone cold
With nothin’ but heartache and stories untold
But these back-road angels took me as I am
Broken and lost with an empty-handed plan
Now Sunday morning coffee tastes like coming home
And I ain’t lonely even when I’m all alone
’Cause home ain’t a place you can find on a map
It’s the folks who’ll catch you when your world’s ’bout to collapse.”
I’m in trouble from the first line. She’s sitting on my kitchen counter, her bare legs swinging, and she’s singing about coming here broken with an empty-handed plan.
Well, hell. She offered to write something for the choir, but this isn’t just a song—it’s our whole damn story set to music.
When she gets to the part about finding home in people who’ll catch you, I have to grip the edge of the counter because something’s shifting in my chest that feels dangerously close to hope.
She’s looking right at me when she sings it, not performing but telling me something, and I realize this woman who’s been planning her escape since day one just wrote a love letter to staying put.
That’s a good thing, right? Georgia Peach chirps her approval, the little traitor, and I’m standing here in my own kitchen completely undone by a country song.
I should probably say something profound, but all I can think is that if she’s writing songs about putting down roots, maybe I won’t have to watch her drive away after all.
But as Dixie keeps singing, something shifts. I brace my forearms against the counter on either side of the stove, leaning back to listen.
“Deacon’s pourin’ whiskey with a knowing grin
While Slate just grumbles but he lets me in
Dee’s got flowers bloomin’ everywhere she goes
And Georgia Peach judges all my highs and lows
Found a family in the strangest places
Gruff old hearts and sun-kissed faces
Who knew home could wear overalls and boots
And a chinchilla with some attitude.”
Georgia Peach climbs down to investigate, and I absently stroke her soft fur. Dixie isn’t mocking us—she’s celebrating us. Each verse paints a picture I recognize: Slate’s gruff exterior hiding his soft heart, Dee’s relentless optimism, the way we all show up for each other despite our flaws.
“Hallelujah for the mess we are
Small-town sinners ’neath Southern stars
We ain’t angels but we’ve got big hearts…”
When she hits the bridge—the call and response about lifting each other up—I know for sure. She’s written a love song. Not to me, but to all of us. To the community that’s become her home.
She finishes with a flourish, letting the last chord ring out. I open my eyes to find her watching me, guitar still cradled in her arms, Georgia Peach now sitting possessively on her thigh.
“So? Think they’ll go for it?”
I set the guitar aside, careful not to knock it against the cabinet, then move in close. My hands find the counter on either side of her hips, and suddenly she’s caged between my arms. I can smell that vanilla scent she always carries. “It’s perfect. It’s us.”
“Even the sinner part?”
“Yeah.” I brush a piece of hair away from her face, my rough fingers probably too calloused against her soft skin, but she doesn’t pull away. “We are a mess.”
Her grin goes crooked and she tries to play it off with a half-hearted shrug. “Well, you’re not that much of a mess. Most of you, anyway.”
“Just most of us?”
“Slate’s still terrifying.”
I kiss her then, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
Her mouth opens under mine immediately, and Christ, she tastes like the coffee she’s been drinking and something that’s purely her.
When she makes that desperate sound in the back of her throat, the one that drives me crazy, and her nails dig into my chest through my shirt, I lose what’s left of my control.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me against her, and I can feel how much she wants this through the thin fabric between us.
Georgia Peach hisses and bolts for the windowsill, but I barely register it.
All I can focus on is the way Dixie’s tongue slides against mine, the way her hips rock against me, seeking friction.
Her hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, scraping down my back, tugging at my shirt like she wants to tear it off.
“Jack,” she breathes against my mouth, and hearing my name like that, all rough and wanting, makes something primitive snap inside me. I press her harder against the counter, my mouth moving to her neck, tasting the salt of her skin.
I bite gently at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and she arches against me with a gasp.
“Bedroom,” I growl against her skin, but she shakes her head.
“Here,” she pants, her hands already working at my belt. “Right here, right now.”
For a second, I consider it. God knows I want to take her on every surface in this house. But she deserves better than a quick fuck against the kitchen counter, no matter how much we both want it.
“No.” I pull back to look at her, taking in her swollen lips, the flush spreading down her chest. “When I have you, I’m taking my time.”
Before she can argue, I slide my arms under her thighs and lift her off the counter. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, and the feel of her pressed against me makes me stumble slightly as I carry her toward the bedroom.
“Jack,” she whispers, her mouth finding that spot just below my ear that makes my knees weak. “The talent show—”
“Later,” I say firmly, kicking the bedroom door shut behind us. “The bishop, the song, all of it—later. Right now, there’s just us.”
I set her down beside the bed, my hands framing her face as I kiss her again, slower this time but no less intense. Everything else can wait. Right now, she’s mine, and I’m going to worship every inch of her until the rest of the world disappears.
Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, and when she pulls it over my head, her eyes go dark with want. “Show me,” she says, and I know exactly what she means.
I intend to.