Chapter Two
Curse that gorgeous barista. Curse her and her rockabilly wardrobe—the jeans with the rolled up cuffs and the tight little cardigans that she left half-unbuttoned to show off her cleavage, the snug rompers with the wide belts that emphasized the lushness of her buttocks and thighs, the pedal pushers that hugged the swells of her calves and hips.
Not to mention the cat’s eye glasses she wore sometimes that showcased her black-winged eyeliner and the dark green of her eyes. The kerchiefs she wound around her gorgeous hair that matched the band t-shirts she wore didn’t help. Her hair color couldn’t be natural but it fit her so perfectly maybe the good lord had made an exception for her.
That’s what color her hair was too—an exceptionally rich burgundy verging on purple, and it was in twin messy buns this morning because the woman was intent on sending him straight to hell.
He had so many things to think about today, and this woman shouldn’t be one of them. Even if the maroon lipstick she was wearing made him want to smudge it across her cheek before he messed the rest of her up and left her flushed, red-bottomed, and panting while sprawled across his bed.
Damn the woman.
Gideon pulled a little notebook from his pocket and looked at his list of things to do. He’d already said his morning prayers and gone for his run. After he was finished with breakfast, he’d go check in with Helen at the parish offices.
The church secretary was only just cordial to him even after two years. He didn’t think it was a matter of his behavior but of him still being the “new” priest. The only way to get through that was to keep showing up, doing his job competently and kindly, and hope she approved. And if not? He’d let God handle that.
Lunch with Cloris Symes who was recovering from a hip replacement, stopping by the youth group, then dinner with Father Andrew from Trinity Church in Springfield before evening prayers, and then working on his sermon if he hadn’t managed to get in some time on it before then. A busy but satisfying day.
But to start—
A saucer clattered softly on the table, followed by a plate being slid in front of him. His breakfast was here. And delivered by none other than his most and least favorite barista. Most favorite because she was vivacious and funny and the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen but least because the woman was temptation incarnate and she scrambled his brain in ways it was difficult to recover from.
Today was no exception.
He’d noticed the tight shirt she’d been wearing under her standard blood-red apron earlier, but hadn’t been able to see the rest of her ensemble. And thank God for that because he wouldn’t have been able to focus on…well, anything.
A black patent leather skirt clung to her hips and thighs and went down to her knees, and she had on incredibly impractical heels. How did she manage to work in those all day? Was that even safe? She could twist an ankle, and then where would she be?
Knowing her, carried on a litter by strapping young men, looking every ounce the queen she was. God in heaven, let him be able to get that image out of his head so he could concentrate on anything else today.
One of the capers from his elaborate bagel had rolled onto the table and the barista leaned across his plate to pluck it from the smooth wood with her black, perfectly manicured nails and then she looked at him—deliberately, with those purposefully seductive eyes and her faux-innocent expression—andate it. Popped that tiny pickled bud between her burgundy lips, swallowed, and then licked them.
He was going to perish. Right here, in the middle of a scandalously named coffee shop, he was going to expire from lust and that would be the end of him. His tombstone would read “Here lies Gideon Davies, Done in by his own lack of self-control when it came to a certain pin-up girl masquerading as a waitress.” It was his own damn fault.
At least it was over now. She would turn and go back behind the counter where she’d ring up more customers and he would pretend not to notice her by staring at but not seeing his notebook.
Except she didn’t leave. No, the coffee-scented siren put one of those nails to her bottom lip and pouted before saying, “Sorry, Daddy. I was bad.”
Fuck’s sake. Every ounce of desire in his body made a break for his cock and he wanted to stand up, push the barista over the table and shimmy that tight skirt up until it exposed her bottom, and then give her a very serious spanking. After which he’d love to fuck her from behind, grabbing a fistful of her gorgeous hair and holding her still while he rutted into her. That wasn’t even the most scandalous thing she’d said to him either but it cut to the quick.
Before he could croak, “It’s actually ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” which she damn wellknewif she was mocking him like that, the vampy little sexpot was sashaying away, leaving him famished. Not so much for the bagel he’d been very much looking forward to, but for her.