Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“I think those sapphire eyes of yours and dimples might have loosened his tongue a bit…but he’s too old for you.” There was a touch of snark attached to the last part of that sentence. It was masked under his charming priest persona, but it was definitely there.
Any other man, I would have accused him of being jealous. But this wasn’t a man who could get jealous. Right?
“I like older men,” I challenged.
Father Jude’s jaw flexed. A barely there twitch. Again, if one wasn’t as obsessed with his face as I was, they might have missed it. There was also a slight flare to his nostrils.
Then, he cut his eyes to me. “And why is that?” he asked, his voice just loud enough for me to hear.
Did he not want anyone else to listen in? An excited thrill coursed through me, reminding me how far from godly I was. I liked the thought. The temptation.
I licked my lips, careful to make each small flick of my tongue count. To keep his eyes on me, unable to look away. There was a woman in the Bible who was a temptress. I couldn’t remember her name, but I did remember hearing about her in literature.
“I loved a boy, Father,” I reminded him. “When I give myself in any way again, it’ll be to a man. Someone sure of what he wants. Mature.” Like Father Jude, I spoke softly. If someone else wanted to hear me, they’d have to lean in, make themselves obvious.
We arrived at the table to find the others standing back instead of forming a line. I started to do the same when Sibby waved out her hand at the food, as if displaying her artwork to an interested crowd.
“Father Jude.” She beamed at him.
He looked back at me as he continued to the table. “Come on, Saylor.”
My eyes glanced around at the others, who weren’t moving to get in line.
“Our guest always eats first—after Father Jude, of course,” Sibby said loudly with her large white teeth on display.
How very patriarchal of them, serving the priest first.
My eyes went back to his face, and I could see a slight pink color form on his tanned cheekbones. He knew I was judging, and it embarrassed him. What an interesting man he was. If only he knew what I had been born into. How the family that surrounded me was much the same.
If my sister had been a male, she’d have been leading the Mississippi branch of the family. Not that she’d have wanted to, but still it was a barbaric rule. Fia was the oldest of the children within our world. Locke Bowen was a year younger than her, and there had been a time when I thought they’d end up together. The way they fought made others think they hated each other. I disagreed. There was an energy between them. When she’d gone to live with the Davidsons in the Louisiana branch of the family to attend a private college there, it all had changed.
“This here is Lora Gail’s chicken potpie,” Sibby said in her too-loud Southern-belle accent. “Thank the Lord that we don’t meet on Friday nights. I think we’d all just cry.”
I stared at her while Father Jude scooped out the potpie into his bowl.
What did that have to do with anything? Did Lora Gail not cook on Fridays?
“It’s Lent,” Father Jude said under his breath.
I wasn’t sure exactly what Lent was all about, but I had a basic understanding. They gave things up for Lent. Something about meat. I’d Google it later.
Following the Father’s lead, I got my chicken potpie, a roll, and a small plate with a slice of carrot cake from the end of the table. Turning to face the room once again, I watched as Father Jude made his way toward the two tables meant for eating. Not sure exactly if I was supposed to sit beside him since he hadn’t mentioned it, I hesitated.
He glanced back over his shoulder, as if sensing my sudden predicament. A crooked smile not meant for a priest touched his lips. Then, he nodded his head for me to come on. I began moving again, and he continued on to the table closest to us.
When I arrived, Father Jude placed his things on the table and pulled out a chair beside him. It was chivalrous and not something I was used to. Not once in my life had Crosby done that.
“What would you like to drink? We have sweet tea, lemonade, and coffee.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Agnes makes the coffee, and it’s strong enough to keep you awake for twenty-four hours.”
“Lemonade,” I told him.
“Smart choice,” he replied, then sauntered off—well, maybe not a saunter per se. He was a priest. But if he were a normal man, it could have been described as a swagger.