Page 32 of Property of The Grump

“Actually,” Wren says, a smile on her face as we step into the kitchen where a pot simmers with bubbling sauce and half-finished garlic bread rests on the counter, “I’m not afraid of horror movies. I was just shocked apriestwas watching them.”

“So you like horror?” I lean against the door frame, trying not to look too interested in anything she’s saying, though I’m more and more interested every time she opens her mouth.

“Some of it,” she says, brushing her long, silky hair back. “I like the found-footage genre.”

“Oh God,” I groan. “That’s the worst genre of horror there is.”

“What?” She straightens. “Not at all. The shaky camera work, the first-person perspective, it’s the best.”

“If you say so,” I groan, readying my rebuttal when I see a red pickup truck pull up in the driveway. The sides are dusted with mud, and it’s got a bull bar fixed to the bumper and grille.It’s Michael Brewer’s truck, a member of the church who’s been using confession quite regularly. I can’t imagine why he’d be at my mother’s house. I didn’t know the two interacted.

“Oh, he’s here.” My mom smiles and grips Wren’s arm. “Don’t be mad at me… but I thought it would be fun to invite one of the singles from church. He doesn’t—”

“Mom,” I growl, more harshly than I probably should. “What are you thinking?”

Mom pauses and stares at me with that rabid raccoon glare she has, letting me know without a single word that she didn’t like my tone. “I’m a woman, Kade. I know what it’s like to go through a breakup, and I’m sure Wren is feeling extra lonely right now. It’ll be good for her to get a few compliments and see that there are other men out there that would treat her nice.”

I’m frozen. Frozen between the place where I already want to punch this fuck in the throat, and the place where I’m in my mother’s house embracing her kind but nosy heart.

Fuck.

Wren glances toward me as she follows my mother toward the front door, like this is normal and this is a plan she’s okay with.

Is she okay with this? Does she want to meet this man?

Why wouldn’t she? She’s newly single, she’s young, she’s beautiful, and she’s got her whole life ahead of her.

I hardly think some filthy shared dreams garner me any say in her life choices, especially since I’m her priest. A man who’s taken a vow of celibacy. A man who’s supposed to be guiding her, notwantingher.

I’m leaning against the counter when my mother, Wren, and Michael step into the kitchen. He’s a tall guy with a head full of hair and a muscular build, tattoos covering one arm like he didn’t have the balls to finish the other.

He glances toward my little lamb, the vein in his neck throbbing as though he’s nervous. “Mrs. Anderson tells me you like to bake. I missed church last Sunday, but she said you were there with a bunch of cupcakes that everyone went crazy for.”

I bite my tongue.

Wren nods, her arms crossed in front of her chest, inadvertently pushing up her breasts. I want to get her a sweater, cover her up, and hide every inch of her perfect body from everyone but me.

“Yeah, it was a huge success.” She smiles sweetly. “I’m always happy when people enjoy my food. Today, Father Anderson and I are going to make apple cinnamon scones. They’re my specialty. Someday, when I have my little bake stand, I’m going to make every version of scone imaginable. You’re welcome to join us.”

No, he’s not.

“Actually,” my mother says, wrapping her shaking hands around my biceps, “Kade is going to help me move some things in the living room. He has these big muscles. Best put them to use.”

I know what she’s doing and I hate it. I really hate it, but what can I do? I have no right to Wren. I am a man of God. My vows forbid me from touching her, from owning her, from being with her.

My chest tightens as Wren glances toward me. She’s mid-conversation with Michael about something I doubt she’s interested in, but do I say anything? I can’t make a scene. I can’t demand he leave. I can’t throw her up onto my shoulder and carry her out of here.

I have to grin and bear it.

“What has gotten into you?” my mother snaps the second we’re in the living room. “You don’t like Michael?”

“What?”

“Michael,” she repeats, louder this time. “You don’t like him?”

“I love all of God’s children.” The words are flat, and even I know they came out sarcastically.

“Cut it out right now and tell your mother why you’re acting like this.”