Page 30 of Property of The Grump

“What?” Tilly exclaims. “What do you mean you can’t say? You can’t drive me straight to the edge and leave me hanging.”

“I don’t want to make it weird for the person who wrote it, and I really can’t confirm anything. It could be anyone.”

“Or it could be exactly who you think it is. Plus, would I know this person?”

“No, but you’ll tell someone, and they’ll tell someone, and before anyone knows it, the whole state will know who wrote it.”

“If it’s that obvious, then maybe she wants everyone to know.”

“Maybe,” I say, wiping a Cheshire grin off my face as Father Anderson pulls into the driveway on his bike, the loud engine roaring as my clit throbs. “I gotta go, though.”

“Oh my God, I hear the man’s bike. You’re living Lotus Flower’s dream. I hope you appreciate that.”

“I’ll call you later. Love you.”

“Love you more,” she says, disconnecting the line.

“How was the nursing home?” I say, anchoring myself to the picnic table instead of wrapping my arms around his shoulders like I want to.

He nods once. “Good. I always love talking to the folks up there. I think I learn something new every time I visit. How was the volunteer group?”

“Oh,” I brush my hair back away from my face and stare down at my notebook, “it went great. I have six people coming tomorrow to paint the church, and Mary Thompson has a grandson who’s apprenticing with a roofer. He put new shingles on for her last year. He’s going to bring a small crew out on Saturday to replace everything.”

He drags his hand down over the salt and pepper beard, the cross inked on the back of it suddenly like a warning. “Where are we getting the shingles?”

“Yeah,” I say, standing from the table, “I left that part out. Umm… the volunteer group all chipped in a few hundred dollars. Mary said her grandson could get the shingles at a discount, so we have plenty to cover materials. After we get these projects squared away, we’re going to work on the windows. Your mom said something about the stories they used to tell. She showed me some of the old ones in the basement.”

“They’re beautiful, but they’re broken, and I think they’re too fragile to go back up.”

“Maybe… but I told her I’d call a glass restoration company and see if there’s anything they can do.”

He nods toward me, his stance wide, his gaze fixed. “I’m impressed.”

“With what? It’s the volunteers that made everything happen.”

“Yeah, because they like you. People like you. You’re magnanimous.”

My chest swells. “I think they did it for the church. They’re great people. Very invested.”

“But they hadn’t done anything until you rallied them.” He holds his hand out and I land mine inside of his, the calluses on his palm scratchy against my skin. “Thank you for all the work you’ve done. We’re lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to be here,” I say, my hand still resting in his. “Should we go to your mom’s house? She told me before she left to come around five.”

“Are you sure you want to go? She can be a lot. We could move some things around in the rectory and do a movie night, or something else to get your mind off everything. That assumes you don’t want to be alone. If you do, I could rent you a room at the local inn. It’s a nice little place.”

“No,” I say, heart hammering. “I’ve been looking forward to dinner with your mom. She’s sweet, and I’m excited to make her scones. Baking is an escape for me. It’ll be fun.”

He nods slowly and squeezes my hand in his, his eyes on mine like they’re on fire. “If you change your mind while we’re there, just blink twice or something. I’ll pick up on it and get you out immediately.”

“Thank you,” I say respectfully, forcing every thought of filth out of my brain as I stare at him.

He grabs the helmet off the picnic table and steps toward me. “May I?”

I nod, my heart racing the closer he gets, my clit throbbing the more I smell him, my thighs aching as his rough fingers swipe the side of my face.

I’m in serious trouble.

Chapter Eleven