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The path steps down as I enter the courtyard. I breathe in the fresh, herby air, and feel some of the tension slip from my shoulders as I push through the overgrown—
Oh.
Oh.
My hand flies to my mouth.
A man floats on his back in the central fountain, spinning in lazy circles as the spray from the tip of Orpheus’ lyre cascades off his chiseled body. And what a man he is – probably in his early thirties, and built like a Greek god. Everything about him glistens, like his skin is dipped in gold. His smoky black eyes contemplate the heavens, and his strong jaw is relaxed, his lips falling open in silent reverie. A smattering of ink along his abdomen draws my eye down to that lickable V of muscle, and below that, to a package that any god would envy. Heat flares in my cheeks.
He’s so perfect it makes my throat hurt.
Beside the pool is a pile of clothes – a black shirt folded neatly on top of what looks like designer jeans and some chunky boots, and a white collar nestled on top.
It doesn’t take a true-crime podcaster to figure out this guy is a priest.
A very naked, very hot, priest.
Turn away. Just turn away and run back the way you came and he won’t even see you—
Too late. The man lifts his head, and his anthracite eyes widen as they see me. I expect him to flail about for something to cover himself, but he seems to sense it’s pointless. I’ve already got an eyeful of the goods.
Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up into an amused smile.
“Hello, there,” he says.
It’s the most anyone has spoken to me all day. His voice is rich and deep and friendly. It crackles at the edges, like a blazing, cozy fire. And that British accent…mmm…
Pity I’m about to be struck by a lightning bolt for having such thoughts about a priest.
I can’t speak. My face burns with fifty shades of get-me-the-fuck out of here.
The priest flips over and dog-paddles to the side, resting his hands on the edge. “I don’t suppose,” his voice is so perfectly British, all clipped and fictive and wonderful, “you’d mind terribly passing me that towel.”
I nod, still unable to form words. I pick up the towel from the corner and hold it in front of me like a medieval shield protecting me from the power of his peen. The priest pulls himself out of the water, swinging his legs as he dries his face. Holy father. Droplets roll down the Celtic cross tattoo over his heart, and my throat dries as I imagine licking them off.
Which is insane. That’s not a George thought at all. That’s something Claws with her three besotted boyfriends would say.
This must be what jet lag does to my brain.
“You came up today? You’re supposed to be at the orientation,” he says without shame as he rubs the towel in his hair. He has great hair, I notice. It’s longer than I’d expect from a priest, down around his shoulders, with a little curl. It’s dark like his eyes, and hopelessly disheveled. I’m a sucker for long hair.
And British accents. And sexy tattooed priests swimming in fountains.
I’m going to hell.
“I…I…”
He slides a pair of boxers over his hips. I’m transfixed by the material of his trousers as he pulls them on.
“The pool in the rec center is closed for renovations at the moment,” he says, which I think is supposed to be an explanation.
I nod, as if it’s totally normal to swim in a fountain instead of, say, going for a run instead. Maybe it is normal in England. I don’t know.
“I’m Sebastian Pearce.” He buttons his shirt, hiding away that beautiful ink. “I’m one of the dons here at Blackfriars. I believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my colleague, Father Duncan, at matriculation.”
I manage to choke out some words. “Was he the old man chanting the lyrics to a Cradle of Filth song?”
He laughs at this, his whole face crumpling with joy. “We do love dead languages around here. And religion. There’s a persistent rumor that a student will receive automatic graduation if they can recite the gospels from memory in their original Greek. And you are?”
