Page 17 of The Unexpected

Hunter’s smile is genuine this time, almost fond. “It is serious. We’re just looking for someone with a nuanced take because as parties to the attraction, you can see why we don’t exactly have an unbiased view.”

I allow myself a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’ve come to the right place.”

I ask a few more questions. Mostly for form. How long, how intense, any feelings of guilt, any past trauma, any desire to end the relationship. Stella’s answers are careful and measured, but I can read the tremor beneath each word. Hunter’s answers are blunt, factual, at times almost tender in how he refuses to let her take all the heat.

It doesn’t take long for me to see it: they’re not a typical pair. Whatever is happening between them is less about taboo and more about collision. She burns bright; he wants to burn with her. In another era, they would’ve run away together, gotten married at eighteen, started a dynasty or a scandal, maybe both.

But the modern world requires so much more explanation, and even more apology.

When the session winds down, I close my notes and offer the party line: “If you’d like, we can schedule a few more sessions. I find it’s helpful to give these things room to breathe.” I look at Stella, then at Hunter. “Would that be acceptable?”

Hunter nods. “Sure. My schedule’s flexible.”

Stella smiles, the first real smile I’ve seen from her. It makes her look even younger, but also less breakable.

I stand. They follow, rising as one. I shake her hand first. Her grip is warmer than before, lingering a beat longer than etiquette requires. Her big breasts sway, and I can hardly look away. I feel, for a dangerous second, the pull of her gravity.

Hunter’s mouth quirks because he understands what I’m going through. Hey I’m a man of the cloth, but I’m not blind. Nonetheless, he shakes my hand next. His palm is dry and strong, the kind that only gets stronger with challenge.

“Thank you, Pastor,” he says. “Until next time.”

“Right,” I reply, and see the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

They leave, the door clicking behind them.

I stay where I am, hand braced on the desk, the faint impression of Stella’s fingers lingering in my palm. It’s only then that I realize how hard my knee is pressed against the bookshelf next to me, and that the line between spiritual advisor and man is as thin as a ribbon of violet light on a winter morning. She was so fucking gorgeous. So fuckable, period.

I take a long, slow breath. The incense is barely there, but underneath it, the air now smells like vanilla and sweat.

The next session can’t come soon enough.

7

ARE WE HAPPY WITH THE NEW PASTOR?

Stella

The dining table is twice as long as it needs to be, a slick, monolithic slab of antique wood polished to a mirror shine. Even with the leaf taken out, it runs nearly the entire width of the dining room. I sit at one end, cradling a goblet of Pinot Noir in both hands. Hunter is three seats away, the starched white of his shirt catching and splintering the light from the candelabra between us. The rest of the table is a wasteland of empty china and silver, candles burned down to stumps in their holders, a single thread of smoke rising from the wick closest to me.

It is, objectively, the weirdest dinner I’ve ever had in this house.

The cleaning crew left hours ago; the house is so silent you could hear a mouse thinking about cheese. The only evidence of last night’s bacchanal is the faint, sticky ring on the rim of my wineglass. The table has been set by ghosts: napkins in precise fans, knives aligned with the edge of the charger plate, food plated with the mechanical artistry of a hotel banquet. It looks like a painting, or a crime scene. I don’t remember ordering half these things. Maybe my father does it automatically—calls up the chef, tells her to plate two portions of every protein and vegetable just in case I have a friend or a date to entertain.

I can’t eat. Every bite turns into paste in my mouth.

Hunter is the opposite. He eats with the easy composure of someone who’s never once choked in his life. His knife glides through the steak—rare, perfect—and his fork collects a bit of asparagus, a pyramid of mash, a single roasted carrot, and brings it to his mouth. He doesn’t look at me as he chews. He rarely does.

When I finally push my food away, the motion is sharper than I mean. It rattles the fork on the plate, and the sound ricochets around the room.

Hunter’s eyes flick up, a blue so dark it’s almost black in the candlelight. He lifts his own glass, sips, and says nothing.

“Are you really okay with seeing the pastor?” I ask, breaking the standoff. My voice sounds thin, even to me.

He finishes chewing. Wipes the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, slow and precise. “You’re the one who wanted therapy, star girl.”

The nickname lands soft, but it still hits. I cross my legs, uncross them, then reach for the wine. The stem is cold, and my fingers are numb, but I can’t let go.

“I just—” I start, but the words catch. I take a long, bracing swallow. “It’s a weird thing. Isn’t it?”