Page 26 of Dark Side of the Cloth (The Righteous 1)
Yasmine stared at the chalkboard, not really seeing the words written. She covered her mouth as she yawned. She hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after the nightmare and instead read some cheesy romance novel until the sun peeked through her windows. As silly as it was, she’d been scared to get up, her own memories and dreams making her a prisoner of her bedroom until there was enough sunshine to scare all the darkness away.
So now here she was standing in line to get a much-needed coffee to keep her eyes open. She’d spent the better part of the last three days either crying or working on the little girls’ funerals, and now she wasn’t able to close her eyes without seeing the girls’ faces or her sister’s face.
Great. Just what she needed, seven faces to haunt her dreams.
She was physically and emotionally wiped, never mind the fact she didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at Father O’Sullivan the same way again. She’d practically thrown herself at him…and the look on his face as he said he couldn’t kiss her.
Stupid, so stupid.
“What can I get for you?” the barista asked. Yasmine stepped up to the counter and looked at the daily features. This was the fanciest coffee shop for miles, and the number of flavors and options they had was exciting.
“Umm, can I have a Death by Chocolate latte, please? Oh, and add a shot of espresso and two sugars.”
“That will be on my bill, and can I get the same with whip cream and chocolate shavings?” The smooth deep voice of Father O’Sullivan sounded behind Yasmine, and she froze. Her heart picked up the pace, her body heating up even as she mentally berated herself. She couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or her libido this time. It could have been both.
“Coming right up, Father O’Sullivan.” The perky barista trotted off to fulfill their orders.
“You didn’t have to buy my drink, but thank you.” She glanced over her shoulder, wondering where the heck Dean had come from—he was like a freaking magician. Taking a deep breath, she stepped off to the side, hoping to put some space between them. Of course, as luck would have it, he followed her, and she was left staring at his shoes.
Yasmine wrapped her arms around herself and tried to think about something to say, anything that wouldn’t sound like she was in the middle of a stroke or that she’d lost all her marbles.
“Yasmine?” Dean’s voice was low and rough-cut through her thoughts. He took another small step toward her, and she took one step back. “Are you afraid of me?”
Yasmine sucked in a deep breath and looked up at him. She might as well face the music. He was the town’s priest, after all.
“Afraid is not the word I would use.”
Dean’s eyebrow shot up in question.
“Here you go,” the barista practically sang. “The muffin is on the house, Father. They are hot and fresh just the way you like them.” Yasmine refrained from groaning and rolling her eyes at the blatant display of flirtation. On the bright side, she wasn’t the only one prone to making an ass of themselves over this man.
Yasmine gave a weak smile to the barista, grabbed her drink, and quickly slipped by Dean as he thanked the barista, who was trying to engage him in further conversation.
Good. Keep him busy.
But he caught up to her before she made it out of the door. Instead, his large hand landed on the glass over her shoulder, putting him unbelievably close to her body as he pushed the door open for her. His masculine scent filled her nose—a mix of leather and pine.
“You didn’t answer my question. What did you mean that is not the word you would use?” Dean said as he marched down the street beside her. She refused to answer and kept walking, clutching her hot drink to her chest.
“Yasmine, stop walking away.” Her step faltered at the command in his voice. Steeling herself for the conversation, she whipped around to look at him.
“Father O’Sullivan, I’m not scared of you. I’m mortified by my ungodly actions toward you the other day. I’m embarrassed, and I’m sorry. I just… I need to get back and take some time to process what happened.”
Mortified, she turned to march off, but she only made it a few steps before she spun back around.
“And for the record, you were not very godly yourself, you… confuse me with all your…well, this,” she said, animatedly pointed her hands at his body.
And like a bad slow-motion action sequence, she watched in horror as her lid flew off the very hot drink she was still holding. The scalding liquid sloshed out of her cup and landed all over her hand.
“Ouch!” she squealed and dropped the cup. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“Stop waving your hand and let me see it.”
Was she waving her hand? Oh dammit, she was and stopped, allowing Dean to take her hand in his. She could see the bright pink mark already forming on her skin.
“It looks like a mild burn. I’ll walk you home and help you clean this up.”
Dean guided her up the street, his hand resting at the base of her back, stirring up all the same feelings as the other night. She had to stop this, or she needed to move. The Arctic might be far enough and cold enough to stop this insanity.
