REBEL PRIEST Page 2

  “You’re not asking,” I opened the door into my private residence and paused, “I’m insisting. The people of St. Mike’s take care of their own, if you don’t agree to use it for what it’s for I would be disappointed in my ability to tend God’s people.”

  She assessed me with an interested half-smile, eyes narrowing as she took me in. “That’s very holy of you.”

  My grin cracked, and her full lips spilled into a chorus of laughter that warmed every nerve in my body. “Well, let me show you your new home then. I’ll even get you a new set of keys made—right now the ones that unlock your cottage and mine and the church doors are one in the same—everything could use an update around here.”

  Her large round eyes darted around my tiny kitchen. Humble and retro were kind descriptors of my space—but I didn’t have time for things beyond cleanliness and orderly things. “St. Mike’s hasn’t changed since I was a kid, it looks exactly the same.” I watched her, eyes clinging to my personal items, worn prayer missals and holy crosses on the faded vanilla walls. Her eyes finally caught mine, long measured beats passing between us before she breathed, “Well, almost exactly.”

  I nodded, breaking her gaze as I felt riots of energy bubbling up in unfamiliar places. I shook my head, trying to shake the vision of how sweet she looked in my space from my mind, before turning back to the back door and thrusting it open, thankful for the crisp air on my skin to take my mind off of her.

  “You can call me Father Bastien, and if you’d like, I can put you to work with our volunteer daycare program, if you don’t mind working with kids—”

  “I love kids.”

  “Well, that’s settled then.” I paused when we reached the worn cottage steps. Her form was small and diminutive in the snow, winter jacket swallowing her as she looked up at me through snowflake-laced eyelashes.

  “And what can I call you?” I dared to ask.

  She grinned broadly and I felt the physical warmth of her smile inside my chest cavity. “Tressa Torrado.”

  “Well, Tressa,” I broke her gaze and slipped the key into the lock and twisted, “welcome home.”

  TWO

  Tressa

  The door crashed open, a burst of arctic air filling the room the very next day as a fine dusting of Philadelphia snow shimmering in Father Bastien’s dark hair. His eyes glinted in the dim light of his home as he ducked under the archway into the rectory and dumped an armful of wood next to the stove.

  “Weatherman says tonight will be colder.” Father Bastien shrugged off his coat, his shoulder brushing mine when he did. I’d been lucky to get this job when I’d landed on his doorstep—pathetically and pretty much literally. I hadn’t stepped inside a church in over a decade, but when life pulled the rug out, St. Michael’s was where I’d found myself. I went from sleeping in my car two nights ago to taking care of a little three-year-old boy named Hugo in the church daycare and working alongside a man of God.

  Call it divine intervention, or maybe just luck, but when I’d shown up on Father Bastien’s doorstep homeless and seeking shelter—he’d saved me.

  Bastien’s eyes penetrated mine for a brief second before he turned, the crisp cut of his broad shoulders pulling at the seams of his black button-down clerical shirt.

  The thing was, I’d walked into St. Michael’s expecting to find Father Martin.

  Instead, I’d found Bastien Castaneda.

  Father Bastien.

  I watched his broad form across the small room, bent to one knee and loading the kindling into the mouth of the stove. This storm had rushed in in the early hours of the morning, the furnace out since the first spray of rain froze on the limbs of the trees and took down power lines all over our neighborhood, along with the entire city of Philadelphia before dawn on my first night here.

  I’d spent all day at the rectory as Bastien delivered items to the parishioners in his neighborhood. The fire warm and the food was good enough when the small church family banded together. And sweet Hugo, his mom was required to go into work at the only service station still open with the help of giant city generators.

  I swallowed down the bite of emotion that tore at my throat when I thought of the state Bastien had found me in yesterday morning, unceremoniously dumped on my ass on the sidewalk in the early morning hours, angry tears leaking from my frozen eyelashes at the state of my hellish life. He hadn’t seen me yesterday morning huddled behind the wheel of my beat-up car, but I’d seen him. He’d paused on the church steps just after dawn, light snow dusted his dark hair, and with my heart heavy and last night’s dress still clinging to my form, I’d trudged through the fresh snow to find my way to his warmth.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise that I’d found myself in the old neighborhood—St. Mike’s was a present and looming figure over my shoulder in every over-exposed photo of my childhood. These walls were familiar to me, the stone steps I’d spent many nights on playing neighborhood games with my friends—but all of that was gone, and in it’s place was Father Bastien.

  I’d nearly frozen solid last night trying to keep the old-fashioned fireplace in the cottage stoked, but it was infinitely warmer than the night before stretched out in the front seat of my car—my meager belongings and failed scholarship admission papers stacked high on the seat behind me. The story was complicated, not something I cared to think about, but even without knowing me from Eve, Father Bastien Castaneda had taken me in just when I didn’t have a single other place to turn to.

  “I was thinking, if you’re not uncomfortable with it—” Bastien locked the door of the wood stove and stood “—you’re welcome to stay here tonight. There’s another bedroom upstairs that never gets used. I don’t even remember the last time I opened the door.”

  He must have taken my silence to mean something because he continued.

  “I’m more than happy to get the fire going again tonight at your cabin, but I just thought…collectively—” his eyes crossed the homey space of the church’s residence “—we work pretty well together.”

  I swallowed again, pushing my eyelids shut as I nodded. “Right. It’s so much work to ask you to walk through the snow to light my stove when we’re already here and warm, and there’s food.”

  Bastien’s throat cleared, dark-chocolate eyes narrowing a moment before he shifted around me and into the kitchen. “I’m glad you agree.”

  Had I agreed?

  I wasn’t sure about that.

  I wasn’t above YouTubing a video of how to light a wood stove. I was confident I could do it, but the idea of wasting wood with two stoves burning all night felt more than a little indulgent.

  I had worked off of my own stores of wood last night, but they’d been depleted pretty quickly, and not in my memory had we had an ice storm that killed the power for this long—it was usually restored within a few hours when I was a kid—and living on campus the last few years I’d gotten spoiled with the constant source of warmth and food, all paid for by my full scholarship ride.

  “Hugo!” Bastien interrupted my racing thoughts. “Your mama is here.” Father Bastien crossed the room, ushering her into the small rectory.

  “Mommy!” Hugo ran full tilt across the room to greet his mother, wrapping his arms around her legs.

  “Oh, Hugo, I missed you today.” Exhaustion laced her words.

  “We had fun. Hugo even helped me cook and store some meals for parishioners,” I offered positively.

  Her smile widened before she pulled the little boy into her arms. “I’m so proud of you, my beautiful boy.”

  Bastien had already gathered Hugo’s snowsuit, boots, and backpack, helping it on the little boy’s arms as his mom picked up the few toys he’d played with. “Thank you again a million times, Tressa. I don’t know what I would do without you. All these additional shifts are almost killing me, but the extra money can’t be beat. Hugo seems to love you,” she grinned down at the boy clutching at my leg.

  “I love him.” I meant it fully. “You have my
number from this morning. Text anytime you or Hugo need me.”

  Hugo’s mom, Tracey, mouthed the words thank you again, before locking hands with the little toddler and guiding him out of the side door and to the car. The way Bastien guided the tiny family to the safe warmth of the idling four-door sedan made deep corners of my heart swell.

  I tipped my head to the side, watching intently as he opened the back door for Hugo, helping the seat belt around his little body in the car seat.

  The thought struck me that it was too bad a man like Father Bastien would never have children—forbidden from the very dream, when he had so much love to give. Maybe that was the thing about a man like Bastien—called to fulfill something greater with all that love and patience overflowing.

  Bastien turned then, catching my eye in the frost-laced window of the kitchen. Wet snowflakes melted into his eyelashes, the quirk of a quick grin appearing before he bowed his head and ducked from my vision.

  He entered the tiny space a moment later.

  I felt him.

  The warmth surrounded him like an invisible curtain, enveloping everyone without really touching them as he crossed their path.

  I pressed my mouth closed, containing the sigh on my lips.

  “Ready for that upstairs tour?” His eyes cut across the room to hover on mine.

  “Sure.” I forced a small smile, locking my hands together as he gestured me out the kitchen and up the stairs. A wave of cold air nearly took the breath out of my lungs when we reached the top landing.

  “Huh.” Bastien pushed a hand through his cropped dark hair, a frown gracing his features.

  “This feels colder than my house.” I scrunched my nose from the chill.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” He breathed a small chuckle. “I have to confess: the last time anyone stayed here was my nephew Cruz this past summer when he was helping me install a security system, I had no idea how drafty the place was until now. I guess unless you want to lose some toes to frostbite, maybe camping out next to the fire would be best.”

  “I’m with you. And you have a nephew?” I asked as we walked back down the stairs.

  “My sister’s son. They live in Brooklyn, I’m afraid we’re not close in age, she’s eight years older than me, but we left Havana together before Cruz was born. She knew someone in Brooklyn, so we went there, but the church even back then needed me elsewhere, so I had to leave them. He’s grown now, in college and so smart and helpful. And she’s a great mother, it’s my greatest regret that I couldn’t be there to help her raise him more.”

  “I’m sure they felt your love from here,” I offered.

  “I hope you’re right,” his eyes averted to the fire as we entered the living area.

  He seemed to do that often. Letting his eyes linger while his thoughts ran away.

  I’d give untold stashes of money to be inside his head then, wading through all those saintly thoughts.

  I didn’t know why Father Bastien fascinated me so much—I’d been freezing my ass off half the night and consumed with thoughts of him—curiosities really. What’d brought him here, what he’d done before he was here. Maybe it was just his age, or the wisp of salt and pepper at his temples. Maybe it was because I’d never seen a priest with corded muscles that stretched the dark fabric of his shirt.

  “So,” I searched my mind for a topic to fill the silence. “Evolution—do you drink the Kool-Aid?”

  A hearty laugh filled the room and made me proud that I’d been able to coax the sound from him. “My—the pope’s—innermost thoughts on things like evolution and the Big Bang might surprise you.”

  He picked up the small prayer missal that sat on the end table, bathed in dim yellow light.

  “… And?” I breathed as he uncapped a small vial of holy oil, dampening the pad of his finger before making the sign of the cross in the air between us, a familiar gesture from my childhood, and one I hadn’t thought about until that moment.

  “My first anointing from the new priest…”

  His eyes glinted with dark mischief as he started the time-honored ritual. “Tressa…”

  His lips hissed around my name and I nearly choked.

  “You’re a rebel.” The thick accent on his r vibrated down to my toes as he swept the blessed oil across my forehead. His fingers on my skin set off sparks of desire inside me like the grand finale at a Fourth of July show.

  “Saint,” I accused.

  His grin cracked even further, another layer of the armor he seemed to carry falling away.

  “I wish more people could see you like this.”

  “This?” He stepped closer, eyes lingering on mine with amusement.

  “Funny.”

  He grinned, stark-white teeth cutting the warm pink flesh of his lips. My heart thundered inside my chest as he and his heavenly bubble of radiant warmth moved away, heading to the kitchen where he quietly tipped the lid on a pot bubbling away thanks to the gas-powered stove.

  “Do you always say whatever comes into your head?” Bastien’s smile deepened.

  “Always.” I confirmed.

  “That’s a talent, to be so honest.”

  I shrugged. “Most people hate me.”

  “The people of St. Mike’s never would. Join me for Mass in the morning?”

  “I never thought I’d go to a Mass again, but for you, Father, I will.” Father Bastien already had me hooked on whatever his particular form of Godliness was. He seemed the epitome of faith, a true living saint—and I couldn’t help the tiny whisper of rebellion that wondered if there was ever a crack in all of his pious moral armor.

  THREE

  Tressa

  Quiet moments fell between us as we sat near his tiny fire later that night. I didn’t really think of Father Bastien Castaneda as anything other than a man of God, but I guess, as a man, he would have desires framed outside of the Church. Bastien narrowed his eyes, leaning into me then. His soft lips parted, he uttered his thoughts anything but chastely. “You know, it’s your fire—that’s what scares people about you. You mistake hate for envy. You are a passionate rebellion, dear Tressa, and everything they want to be.”

  His eyes caged me, my fingers twitching before his gaze dropped down to my lips. I pressed them together, fire hurtling through every muscle in my body. Something about the way his eyes sliced through me, seeing to the core of every rebellious thought I’d ever had.

  “Are you ready to talk about it?” His voice speared the silence.

  “It?” I asked, thinking over the one of a thousand “its” I could confess to.

  “Confession.”

  My stubborn gaze finally landed on his.

  “Hardly. I’m not very good at opening up to people.”

  One dark slash of his brow shot up. “I had noticed.”

  I swallowed, my fingers itching in equal parts to kiss or maim his beautiful face. To say my nerves were raw was an understatement, I wasn’t sure why he rattled me so much, maybe it was the way he leaned into my space when he listened, acting so damn concerned about my feelings all the time.

  “To bear one another's burdens is to fulfill the law of Christ.” His voice always lowered an octave when he quoted scripture, and damn if I didn’t feel every word between my thighs.

  “No offense, but Jesus didn’t grow up in North Philly.” The joke didn’t land like I’d hoped, and the sympathy lacing his irises made my heart sink. “I’m not sure what it’s like in Cuba, but where I come from, family dinners and bedtime stories aren’t really a thing. I watched my mom’s best friend overdose on our couch. Asking my mom for a hug after the paramedics cleared out didn’t really feel like the right time.”

  “Is there ever?” His head ticked to one side, firelight highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw.

  “A right time? Isn’t timing everything? If there’s never a right time, then why are people always saying it’s all about timing?”

  “Nice deflection, but I’ll indulge you.” He leaned a little close
r, the brush of his shoulder against mine sending a thrill of sparks through me. “Timing may be man-made, but the universe is always orchestrating in your highest interest. Wouldn’t you say it’s fortunate timing that a position opened up at St. Michael’s for the first time in years right after you showed up?”

  “Is it fortunate you were here and felt bad enough for the poor college dropout that you created a position for me? Yes. But that wasn’t God or timing. That was your generosity.”

  His dark eyes held mine as he worked my words over. “And I couldn’t have done it without God and timing on my side. If you’d been here six months before, I wouldn’t have been able to make the day care work. Timing.”

  “Well…” I smirked, bringing our conversation back full circle. “I just don’t think the timing is right for my confession then.”

  Bastien’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe by Sunday, you’ll find the timing more suitable.”

  I thought of Father Bastien ducking into the confessional, listening to the secrets of all of St. Michael’s parishioners. I couldn’t imagine the weight he must carry on his broad shoulders, listening wholeheartedly to every wayward sin of a community. His level of selflessness in service to his God was inspiring.

  I’d never committed to anything as fully as Bastien committed to his faith.

  “Confession is a washing away of lingering swords left behind.”

  “Swords, huh?” I held his gaze, taking my turn to roll his words over in my mind.

  “When we can’t express our deepest fears, they lodge like invisible daggers in our spine.”

  “Poetic,” I breathed, desperate to veer away from this topic of conversation.

  I guess the thing about accepting the job at St. Michael’s was that it came with strings attached. Spiritual ones.

  Bastien left me thinking.

  A lot.

  Entirely too much for my liking.

  I’d been running in fast-forward for so many years, chasing a dream, fleeing from reality, I’d never really stopped to think about what truly motivated me and why I made a habit of surrounding myself with the misfits and broken toys.