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Nerves danced up my spine that I was most likely pushing my luck, but after last night with the Father getting his way, I was going to show him I wasn’t such an easy pushover.
A small alcove, almost hidden, suddenly caught my attention to my right as I passed it. Pausing, I retreated to stare out at the natural morning light spilling in through the open glass doors, which lead to a deck. Beyond that, the landscape stretched out to an expanse of woods. The view was captivating, especially when I noticed a shadow of someone standing in the semi-shade on the deck.
Was it Father Logan?
I moved closer on silent footsteps, pausing in the open doorway only to find I’d been wrong. Father Mason stood by the railing, his gaze focused on the woodland in the distance, sipping probably hot coffee from his cup. A knot of apprehension curled in my stomach. Should I back away? Before I had a chance to decide, his words sliced through the silence.
“You know, it’s considered rude to linger in a doorway,” he said without turning toward me.
His words echoed in my mind, but I stood my ground.
He was an intimidating figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair neatly combed back. His robe draped over his body, giving him an air of authority, but it did nothing to reduce my attraction. Clearly, something was wrong with me.
He nursed a simple cup of coffee like any other man in the morning, staring out at his yard. Somehow, as a priest, he made it seem... natural.
Maybe my attraction to these Fathers was my being drawn to men in uniform.
“Stop lingering. Join me.”
I hesitated at first, then stepped out where the morning breeze curled through my hair and cooled my nape.
Father Mason turned to me, and those deep-set blue eyes under the morning light were spectacular. Yet they seemed to hold a world of secrets buried behind them.
Together, we stood in silence, staring into the ocean of trees that stretched up to the foot of the mountain and the old church that nestled at one of its peaks.
“Do you see them?” Father Mason said softly.
I squinted against the bright morning light, following his gaze to a doe leading two fawns through the tall grass, the thick foliage making them barely visible. They moved with grace, grazing, and I smiled and leaned forward against the railing.
“So gorgeous. I never see anything like this back hom.”
“They come every morning,” the Father continued, whisper quiet.
We watched the doe and her fawns move into the woods and vanish from sight, and those few moments of tranquility settled my nerves.
“Why are you here, Katerina?” Father Mason asked with a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was clear he found me being in the private section more entertaining than offensive.
“I was actually looking for Father Logan,” I confessed, shrugging.
A knowing smile spread across his face. “Logan’s out on his morning jog. You’re welcome to join him if you want. He leaves at five a.m. most mornings.”
The image of me, out of breath and struggling to keep up with the Father at the crack of dawn, had me bursting out laughing.
“I’ve never been much of a runner,” I admitted, shaking my head. The thought of it was comical—me huffing and puffing while trying not to show I was struggling in front of Father Logan. I was under no illusion that I would go out of my way to try to impress him. I was broken like that. “But maybe one day, I’ll try it out. Stranger things have happened.”
Father Mason chuckled—the sound screamed sexy, deep, and guttural—his head thrown back. He was the kind of man—priest—I could just watch for hours and never grow bored.
Resting a hip against the cold railing, he set his coffee mug on its wide surface. Those tempting blue eyes studied me, a question in their depths.
“Did you want to ask Father Logan or myself something?”
A rush of warmth crept up my nape. His question, coupled with the intensity of his stare, was slightly intimidating. Yet there was something else, a kind of magnetism that was making it hard for me to look away.
Should I ask him? The question I’d intended for Father Logan sat on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill out, but part of me felt foolish to accuse a priest if he was the real deal. Did that make me look paranoid? For all I knew, it could just be that Father Logan was a loose cannon.
“I’m fine.”
“You know, Kat,” he began, “you can open up to me about anything. It’s part of my job, after all.” His words hung in the air, a silent invitation for me to share my deepest fears, my doubts.
