Chapter 3 Pancakes and Coffee

The bar had been packed all day. Storm repairs kept the fishermen at the shore the entire day. My feet ached so badly and my lower back screamed from doing the repairs around the bar. All I wanted was a hot shower and twelve hours of peace.

I shoved open the front door to my house, kicking off my shoes with a groan. I'll definitely have to call Mags to send me some ointments as mine got finished and I haven't even restocked yet. The living room was dark except for the blue glow of the TV. Some old black-and-white movie played silently. Who the hell watches black and white in this century?

Daniel sat on the couch. A book rested in his hands. Reading glasses perched on his nose. Typical priest.

Father Daniel wears glasses. Something about that small detail felt strangely intimate. I wonder who else has seen him in one.

"You're still up," I said.

He did not look up. "You are late."

"Yeah, genius. I had a long shift." I dropped my bag on the table. "Were you waiting up to tuck me in?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just once. "The door was unlocked."

"Ah. So you are my security system now?"

He finally looked up. "Someone needs to be."

The words should have annoyed me. Instead, they sent an unwelcome warmth through my chest. I moved toward the kitchen. I deliberately stepped between him and the TV. "Hungry? I could..."

My foot caught the edge of the coffee table. I pitched forward with a yelp. My hands slammed into Daniel's chest.

Time stopped.

His body was warm under my palms, solid. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and slow, beneath my fingertips. The scent of soap, something clean and woodsy, filled my nose. A priest who wears glasses and woodsy perfume. Well, waddyu know.

We both froze.

Then his hands closed around my wrists, warm and pulling me upright with careful precision. "You are exhausted."

I jerked back. "I am fine." I hated when people touched me. It brought back memories I didn't want. Something I didn't ask for. Of Jared's hands pulling me towards the bed to tie me up even when I told him I didn't want to.

His glasses had slipped down his nose. Behind them, his eyes were darker than I had ever seen. "Go to bed, Elena."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I fled.

After my shower, I told myself I was not snooping. I had only gone to leave his laundry outside his door, just being polite.

The door was not fully closed. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

On his dresser, facing away like a secret, sat a small framed photo.

I should not have looked.

But the Elena who made good decisions had clocked out hours ago.

The photo showed a younger Daniel, maybe early twenties. He stood in front of a sprawling stone building. A church, but not like any I had seen. His hair was shorter. His face is smoother. But his eyes. His eyes were the same. That intensity. That stare.

"Find what you are looking for?"

I turned around slowly like a deer caught in headlights.

Daniel stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.

"Your door was open," I blurted.

"So you came in."

"I was bringing your laundry." I thrust the basket at him like evidence. "You left your socks in the dryer."

A beat passed. Then another.

He stepped forward and took the basket. "That is Mont-Saint-Michel."

"What?"

"The photo. It is Mont-Saint-Michel. In France."

I blinked. "You have been to France?"

"I studied there. Before I took my vows."

A hundred questions pressed my tongue. Why there? What did you study? Who took the photo? The set of his jaw warned me off.

I backed toward the door. "Right. Well. Goodnight, Father."

His voice stopped me. "Elena."

I turned.

He was not looking at me. His fingers traced the edge of the photo frame. "Thank you. For the laundry."

It was not what he wanted to say. I knew it. He knew it. But it was all we had.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee again and something sweet. If I'm going to get breakfast for free every day made by someone else, I wouldn't mind that.

Daniel stood at the stove again. This time, he slid a perfect omelet onto a plate. Morning light caught the silver in his stubble and the flex of his forearm as he cooked.

I pulled the chair towards me and sat down. "You know most priests just pray for their meals, right?"

"Most priests do not live with heathens."

I choked on my coffee. Did he just? A joke. Father Daniel had made a joke.

I stared at him. "Was that humor? Did you just crack a smile?"

He did not look up. "Eat your eggs."

I took a bite. "Holy shit, these are good."

"Language."

"Make me."

The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them. The air between us went electric.

Daniel went very still. Carefully, he set down his spatula. "I will be at the church all day."

"Great." My voice came out strangled. "Me too. At the bar. Serving alcohol. And sin."

He paused at the door. "Try not to burn the house down."

Then he was gone.

Lunch at the bar was chaos. Storm damage had kept everyone ashore. Maggie cornered me. "So. How is living with the priest?"

I scrubbed a glass harder than necessary. "Like sharing a house with a brick wall."

"A hot brick wall," she corrected, grinning.

I did not argue.

She leaned closer. "Rumor is Mrs. Henderson called the diocese about you two."

I nearly dropped the glass. "What?"

"Apparently it is unseemly for a priest to live with a woman of questionable morals." She air-quoted the last part.

I snorted. "Tell Margaret if she wants my questionable morals, she is welcome to them."

"Already did." Maggie wiped down the counter. "So? Anything juicy to report?"

His hands on my wrists. The way his heartbeat felt beneath my palms.

"Not a damn thing."

I tried to focus on work. Every time the door opened, my stomach jumped. Every shadow in the corner of the bar made me think he had returned.

I could not stop remembering the way his body had felt. Warm. Solid. Controlled.

I could not stop remembering the photo. The youth he had carried before the vows. The life he had left behind.

I could not stop thinking about how close he had been, how careful, how human.

By the time the last customer left, I was exhausted, but my mind refused to rest.

Three weeks. Three weeks of this. Living under the same roof. I felt a mix of anticipation, dread, and something else. Something I could not name.

I poured myself a drink, trying to focus. Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the streets wet and shining in the late afternoon sun.

And somewhere in the house, Daniel moved quietly. The sound of his footsteps reminded me that nothing would be simple, nothing would be quiet, and nothing would be safe for my heart.