Page 22 of The Unexpected

I consider it, biting my lip. Should I lie? But what would be the point of that? Pastor O’Toole a man of god, so I tell the truth. “Yes, I guess. He’s got this whole Nordic-Scandinavian thing going on. Blue eyes, gold hair, looks like he should be on a Viking ship. Why?”

Hunter smirks. “Just wondering how hard I’ll have to compete for your attention.”

I flush, heat prickling up my neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. Pastor O’Toole is a religious man!”

He stands, circles the island, and pins me with his gaze. “Religious men have eyes, and as far as I know, he hasn’t taken a vow of celibacy.”

I stare at him. “What are you saying? Are you saying that me and Pastor O’Toole⁠—!”

Hunter shrugs, his stance relaxed.

“I know you, Stella. I know how your mind works.”

He steps closer, so close I can feel his breath. “If you want him, you can have him.”

I look up, eyes wide. “Are you fucking serious? You are insane! One hundred percent certifiably insane! We’re going to see him because of the taboo attraction between us, and now you’re saying that I should date my pastor too? Have you gone crazy? Are you drinking too much?”

Hunter shrugs, unperturbed. “I’m just saying. I think you should have everything you want, Stella, and that man notices you. He had a hard-on for you while we were in his office.”

I gawp at Hunter, my eyes as round as saucers.

“You are definitely insane, and Pastor O’Toole did not have a hard-on for me. We were practically doing marriage counseling!”

“Except we weren’t,” Hunter says in an easy tone. “And he had a hard-on, mark my words. I don’t blame him. You’re a very beautiful young woman, and you have no idea of your appeal, Stella.”

I gawp again because this conversation has taken a massive left turn, and I have no idea how to reply. But my heart hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

He grins and cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “But for now, you’re mine.”

He kisses me, slow and thorough, then pulls away with a wicked smile.

“Finish your breakfast,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”

Then, Hunter strolls out of the kitchen, hands in his pockets while whistling a nonchalant tune. I’m left alone with my breakfast, my mind whirling as my pulse pounds. What the hell just happened? Did my step-uncle just insinuate that I should flirt with our pastor? Date him, even? Really? The one who’s doing couples counseling for us?

No way, the voice in my head says. This is not real.

But that’s the thing. This is real life, and my life has just taken a left turn so sharp that I’m dizzy and disoriented. Yet I want to see what’s there. Pastor O’Toole resembles a gorgeous Norse god, and I’d love to see what he can do with his massive tool.

Is that wrong?

Of course it is.

But still, if I’m ever going to experiment, then the time is now.

8

A DIRTY COUNSELING SESSION

Lachlan

You can tell a lot about people by how they enter a room. Stella Moreland slips through the office door first—slips, because that’s the only word for the way her hips move in that wrap dress, a blue so deep it could drown you. The fabric tugs at the swell of her chest, folding in a V that narrows to the fine bone at her sternum. I make a conscious effort not to stare, but every inch of her is a study in what happens when genetics and desire negotiate a stalemate. There’s a brief, arrested moment as her eyes find mine across the desk—cobalt under the office light, lashes heavy, the edge of challenge visible even through her uncertainty. She’s nervous, but not ashamed. Her hands smooth her skirt. The dress is a weapon, and she knows how to use it.

Her step-uncle follows close behind, one hand at the small of her back. He is not the kind of man who enters anywhere quietly; he fills the frame, shoulders squared, the calculated violence of expensive tailoring on full display. His hair is immaculate. There’s the hint of a five o’clock shadow even though it’s only just after ten. His grip on her is proprietary, not rough but not gentle either. He smiles at me, slow and humorless, the kind of smile men wear when they know a secret and can’t be bothered to keep it.

I stand to greet them, both hands visible on the desk, and modulate my voice to neutral. “Stella. Hunter. Good to see you again. Please, come in.”

They do, taking the twin leather chairs across from me, close together. The space between their bodies is measured in millimeters, but the air is already crowded with unspoken things. The stained glass above the window throws a line of color across the wood paneling—amber with a pulse of blue—landing, almost theatrically, on Stella’s collarbone. The incense burner, a cheap brass thing, leaks a slow spiral of Nag Champa toward the ceiling.