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Chapter Four
Cleaning up the café after a hard day’s work was one of Plum’s favorite things. Not that she liked cleaning—she didn’t—and not that she was looking for a way to burn off excess energy—she wasn’t, because she didn’t have any. She was tired and it was late and her feet and her back hurt. At least she’d changed out of her heels when she’d taken her errand break in the afternoon.
Now she had on some pegged jeans and cherry red chucks with a robin’s egg blue twinset that had milkshakes printed all over it. And she’d tied yet another kerchief over her hair to keep it out of the way and hopefully protected from some of the harsher cleaning agents. So at least she was comfortable and she had on some music—not her usual rockabilly but some of the softer, more romantic doo-wop from the fifties.
It was nice to have some time alone in the café because it was easy to forget in all the hustle and bustle and the orders and the invoices and payroll that this was all hers.
Not in the weight-of-this-world-rests-on-your-shoulders way—she knew that well enough—but in the polishing of the tables and counters, hanging up her regulars’ coffee cups, arranging things in the kitchen just so she was reminded that she had built all of this. From scratch. She’d made this place one of Clover City’s most popular coffee shops and she was proud of that.
She was about to toss the last wipe-down rag into the laundry bin and head upstairs to her apartment when she noticed a fork under the radiator.
It was tempting to leave it but she sighed heavily and slouched over, got on her knees to retrieve the wayward flatware and brought it to the large bin in the back hallway where customers put their used dishes. She was kind of a perfectionist but not so much that she wouldn’t leave a single fork for morning dish duty. Dustin was opening and he could handle an extra fork.
She was reaching to the back of her neck to untie her apron and at long last head upstairs when she felt a body behind her and large, male hands leaned on the countertop on either side of her.
What the actual fuck?
She sucked in a breath but before she could scream or fully panic, there was a voice in her ear.
“It’s me, Father Gideon. I—I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. I wanted to talk.”
Plum’s heart rate increased—sped up like it did when she’d had too many espressos during the post-lunch lull. Thepriest?
If she were a sensible woman—which she’d thought she was—she’d turn and give this creepy fucker what for, including the heel of her hand to his nose and a knee to his junk. But her fantasy life got the better of her and she set her hands next to his—not touching but close—and took a deep breath, closed her eyes. She could always gouge the asshole’s eyes out with the fork if he tried anything really untoward. This was inappropriate for sure but also dangerously enticing.
“Talk about what?”
Her voice came out breathier than she wanted it to, but he must know if she hadn’t screamed bloody murder or punched him in his stupidly handsome face by now that she was at least down to play his game, whatever the hell that game might be.
“I’ll take your name for starters,” he said, seeming completely at ease. And why shouldn’t he? He was the one who’d waltzed in here and cornered her. He was the one who knew what he was playing at. “Everyone else wears a name tag, but you don’t. Presumably because you’re the proprietress.”
Fuck his accent was sexy—that smooth, what sounded to her upperclass English, ease. Like the very best tequila or a finger of her favorite whisky that was yes, smooth, but burned with warmth all the way down her throat and as it pooled in her belly.
“I am,” she conceded. “You could’ve asked for my name any time. Why now?”
She thought she heard him mutter, “Making an old woman happy,” but before she could puzzle that out, he’d moved closer and she shivered at his nearness. His height, the heat radiating off his body, the sense that he could bend her over this counter and do terribly delicious things to her and she’d very much enjoy it was overwhelming.
“Does it bother you?”
“You’re apriest,” she sputtered, reaching for a reason to object. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Is that what’s troubling you? Funny coming from the woman who says the most provocative things to me, wears outfits designed to drive a man straight out of his head. Who just this very morning deliberately licked her lips and said ‘Sorry, Daddy, I’ve been bad?’”
Plum felt her cheeks flush. So he’d, um, noticed that, had he?
“Have you done those things, love?”
“Yes,” she choked, feeling her cunt clench and her breasts get tight and heavy, her nipples bead against the satin of her bra. For fuck’s sake, who was this man and what was he doing to her? This was not the same buttoned-up, humorless, and utterly predictable priest who came into her flamboyant establishment week after week. Or perhaps, it seemed, he very much was. But definitely not a side of Father Gideon she’d ever seen before. Apparently everyone had their secrets. Like,everyoneeveryone.
“You do those things on purpose,” he stated. “Because you think it’s funny to tease a man of the cloth, to mock his commitment to his faith. Am I correct?”
She swallowed and huffed a breath out her nose. When he put it like that it sounded awful and terribly disrespectful. She hadn’t meant to be an asshole, and she wanted him to understand.
“Not exactly…”
“Don’t lie to me, darling. The consequences for lying are rather severe.”
Plum couldn’t help the way her fingers curled on the counter or the way her knees got weak. Couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart or the way she was getting soaked between her legs. The way his mouth caressed the wordsconsequences,severe, dragged out and lingered over the sibilance made her wonder what else his tongue might be capable of.
