6. Introducing The Wrong Pastor
INTRODUCING THE WRONG PASTOR
Lachlan
People always expect a pastor’s office to look a certain way—bad art on the walls, a cheap couch from Costco, a stack of neglected Bibles with curling pages and a ribbon marker limp from lack of use.
But here at Trinity Church, I’m allowed a little more dignity.
The counseling room is narrow but well-appointed, paneled in old oak, its bookshelves lined with volumes more psychological than spiritual.
The single window is a small miracle: a stained-glass panel rescued from the original church before they knocked it down.
In the morning, it throws a ribbon of color across my desk, mostly amber with a thin bar of violet.
The air is always a little stale, but the incense—Nag Champa, this week—sinks into the drapes and covers the smell of old carpet and unresolved grief.
I sit behind the desk, reviewing last week’s session notes on a battered legal pad. The page is an inkblot of concerns, none of them mine. A few lines are circled. At the margins, I keep a silent tally of days since my last major fuckup. Three. Not bad.
There’s a knock at the door. The knock, then a pause, then the door opening—it’s always in threes, my assistant’s little ritual. She keeps her hair pulled back in a severe knot, wears jewelry like armor, and never forgets to announce the names.
“Pastor O’Toole, your ten o’clock.” She stands aside, holding the door for the pair. Two silhouettes, backlit in the hallway. She leaves the door open an inch, a boundary and an invitation.
First through is the girl. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, but already she walks with an elegance that’s half nymphet, half sylph.
Blonde hair falls in a silken curve against her collarbone; it’s the shade women pay two hundred dollars for and then tip extra because it looks natural.
She’s dressed in a blue dress that might have been business-appropriate had it not been the slightly too-short hem that flares just above her knee.
The neckline is conservative, but the architecture beneath is not: big, buoyant breasts that seem to move independently of her intentions.
Her arms, pale and lightly freckled, are bare except for a single gold bracelet.
Her eyes—when she lifts them—are as blue as the dress.
I can’t help but follow the sightline, from the careful way she smooths her skirt over her thighs, to the small, nervous flex of her fingers against her knee.
She is followed, or maybe shadowed, by the man.
The contrast is immediate. If she is lush femininity, then he’s alpha potential: all mass and momentum, the stillness of a loaded spring.
He fills the doorframe without even trying.
Dark-haired, eyes sharp and unreadable, jaw set in a way that says he’s used to getting his way.
He wears a tailored suit, but the shirt is open at the neck, a calculated carelessness.
There’s a hint of stubble, not enough to look unkempt, just enough to look dangerous.
If I had to guess, I’d say ex-military, or maybe just the kind of billionaire who needs to remind people that he’s not soft.
They hover a bit, unsure of what to do next. I rise and extend my hand. It’s a little thing, but it matters—most people don’t know if they should shake a pastor’s hand. I make it easy for them.
“Welcome, I’m Pastor O’Toole but call me Lachlan,” I say. “You must be Stella.”
She nods, her hand small but not weak in mine. Her perfume is vanilla, edged with something sharper—maybe cedar, maybe the shampoo she used this morning.
“Yes, thank you for meeting us on such short notice, Pastor O’Toole. We appreciate it.”
I turn to the man. “Hunter Roberts, correct?”
His handshake is strong, the kind that dares you to match his grip. “Correct, Pastor. Again, appreciate you seeing us on short notice.”
I wave it off, settling back behind the desk.
“Not at all. I know you asked to see Pastor Pamela, but her schedule is—well, ambitious. She’s limited her appointments to regular congregants for the time being.
” I offer a small smile. “But as an assistant pastor, I had an opening. And you mentioned it was urgent.”
I watch Stella’s face at the word urgent. A pink rises in her cheeks, blooming fast, and my pulse trips. If I could, I’d bottle that blush, send it to all my lapsed congregants as a reminder of what confession used to feel like.
Stella nods, but doesn’t elaborate. She looks at her clasped hands. Hunter’s face doesn’t move, but I see the muscle at the edge of his jaw tighten.
I gesture to the pair of worn leather chairs in front of the desk. “Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”
They sit, closer than necessary, and for a moment I sense the electric field that arcs between them.
It’s not the typical co-ed drama that floats through these doors, nor the toxic, spouse-hating malice I get from most couples.
It’s a current, hungry and alive, but neither seems sure who’s the conductor and who’s the circuit.
This is definitely going to be interesting.
I fold my hands on the desk, posture open but composed. “Why don’t you tell me a little about what brings you here?”
The usual way is for the woman to start, and this is no exception. Stella glances at Hunter, as if for permission, then back at me. “It’s… complicated,” she says. Her voice is soft, a little hoarse from nerves, but determined. “We have a situation that’s, um, not ideal.”
“What kind of situation?”
She shifts in her seat, the blue dress catching on the curve of her hip. “A relationship that probably shouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it should’ve, but… it escalated.”
Hunter chimes in, low-voiced and unhurried: “It’s a mutual attraction. We acted on it. There’s some fallout.”
“What kind of fallout?” I ask, pen poised.
Stella looks at Hunter again, then sets her jaw. “We’re related,” she says. “Step-uncle and niece. Hunter’s my father’s stepbrother.”
I keep my face as neutral as granite. “But not biologically related?”
“No,” she says. Her shoulders drop, a sliver of relief at not having to defend it further.
I nod. “How long have you known each other?”
“All my life,” she says. “But it wasn’t like that until recently.”
Hunter’s smile is clinical. “Recently meaning that we didn’t make physical contact until recently. but it’s been exactly like that, Pastor, for a while. We just didn’t say it out loud.”
I let the line hang as Stella blushes fire-engine red. I jot a note, though I don’t need to. “So you’re here because…”
Stella hesitates, then finds the words. “We want to know if it’s… wrong. If it’s going to hurt anyone. And if it’s something we should try to stop, or… not.”
Hunter sits back, one ankle over his knee, his hand resting easy on the curve of the other.
He’s watching me with the patience of a predator, sizing up the terrain.
“I’m less worried about the morality, Pastor, and more about the psychology.
The consequences. Stella’s father is my stepbrother.
He’s conservative. We’re not interested in blowing up our family over a little fun.
And of course, I’m here for Stella,” he says with a searching gaze. “I want to do what she feels is right.”
The words land, and I’m struck by the unflinching confidence of them. Most men would be ashamed, or at least pretend to be. Hunter speaks like it’s a challenge.
I tap the pen, slow and even. “Is this your first time seeking counseling about the matter?”
Stella nods. “Yes. We didn’t want to go to a professional therapist because it just seemed so serious. Not that this isn’t serious,” she adds hastily.
Hunter’s smile is genuine this time, almost fond. “It is serious. We’re just looking for someone with a nuanced take because as parties to the attraction, you can see why we don’t exactly have an unbiased view.”
I allow myself a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’ve come to the right place.”
I ask a few more questions. Mostly for form.
How long, how intense, any feelings of guilt, any past trauma, any desire to end the relationship.
Stella’s answers are careful and measured, but I can read the tremor beneath each word.
Hunter’s answers are blunt, factual, at times almost tender in how he refuses to let her take all the heat.
It doesn’t take long for me to see it: they’re not a typical pair.
Whatever is happening between them is less about taboo and more about collision.
She burns bright; he wants to burn with her.
In another era, they would’ve run away together, gotten married at eighteen, started a dynasty or a scandal, maybe both.
But the modern world requires so much more explanation, and even more apology.
When the session winds down, I close my notes and offer the party line: “If you’d like, we can schedule a few more sessions. I find it’s helpful to give these things room to breathe.” I look at Stella, then at Hunter. “Would that be acceptable?”
Hunter nods. “Sure. My schedule’s flexible.”
Stella smiles, the first real smile I’ve seen from her. It makes her look even younger, but also less breakable.
I stand. They follow, rising as one. I shake her hand first. Her grip is warmer than before, lingering a beat longer than etiquette requires. Her big breasts sway, and I can hardly look away. I feel, for a dangerous second, the pull of her gravity.
Hunter’s mouth quirks because he understands what I’m going through. Hey I’m a man of the cloth, but I’m not blind. Nonetheless, he shakes my hand next. His palm is dry and strong, the kind that only gets stronger with challenge.
“Thank you, Pastor,” he says. “Until next time.”
“Right,” I reply, and see the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
They leave, the door clicking behind them.
I stay where I am, hand braced on the desk, the faint impression of Stella’s fingers lingering in my palm.
It’s only then that I realize how hard my knee is pressed against the bookshelf next to me, and that the line between spiritual advisor and man is as thin as a ribbon of violet light on a winter morning.
She was so fucking gorgeous. So fuckable, period.
I take a long, slow breath. The incense is barely there, but underneath it, the air now smells like vanilla and sweat.
The next session can’t come soon enough.