Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Running a hand through my hair in frustration, I continued to watch the door of the Italian restaurant. Why, I wasn’t sure. What did it matter how long they stayed? What was I hoping to see? Them high-five and go their separate ways? I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity and started to turn when the platinum-blonde hair hit the sunlight.
My eyes were glued on Saylor Rice, as if her every move were important. This was sick. I needed counseling. Blue eyes and dimples should not have this strong of a pull on me.
She hugged him, but it wasn’t clingy. It was friendly. He didn’t try and grab her butt, which was something I’d honestly thought the guy would do. Stepping back, he said something, then threw his head back and laughed as he walked away. She didn’t go with him. The relief that came with that was not good.
I should stop watching her. There was no reason to do this. It was creepy.
Saylor looked both ways, then ran across the road.
You coming to see me, Dimples?
The immediate jolt of joy was back again, as was the stiffening of my cock.
Down, boy. Please, for the love of God, go down.
Not only was she giving me permanent wood, but I was now giving her a pet name. Fantastic.
She opened the passenger door of the pearl-colored Bentley she’d driven and took out something before closing it. Straightening her knee-length linen skirt and the sleeveless pink top she was wearing, she put what I could now see was a binder under her arm and then turned and walked up onto the sidewalk, then right into the front door of Threads of Love and Hope.
What was she doing there? I sat and contemplated turning back around and doing what I was supposed to be doing, which was work on my homilies for the rest of the week, instead of going over there to see her…again.
It was curiosity. She drove a Bentley and wore designer clothing. She didn’t need to get anything inside there. The binder she had been carrying—that was also interesting. As the priest, I should probably go see what was going on. See if she needed my help.
NO.
As the priest, I should sit here and write my homilies and not go chasing after a female who made my cock hard.
I stared down at my pen and battled with myself for several minutes. I couldn’t concentrate. I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate until I knew what Saylor was doing at the free clothes closet.
Standing up, I admitted defeat and headed for the door. I would be quick. Appease my concern and then return to do my job. I told Kevin, the office manager, that I’d return soon, and if Father Heisler—the parish’s parochial vicar—arrived, then he could tell him to go on into my office.
Eight
Saylor
Sister Mena wasn’t the friendliest person I’d ever met, but she wasn’t rude either. She wore a tight bun, and although she had very few wrinkles on her face, her hair was gray. The long-sleeved tan button-up top and khaki slacks she wore appeared as if she might need to go shopping for some items in here herself. I wasn’t sure whose sister she was or why she wanted to be called that, but I did it anyway.
The entire place was worse than the photos. Boxes and boxes of clothes with sizes written in marker on poster board taped to the front cluttered the place. The smell of unwashed laundry penetrated the air, and the piles of shoes weren’t helping the stench. Some of them didn’t need to be anywhere but a dump. I had a feeling the same could go for some of the clothes as well.
Sister Mena pushed up her wire-framed glasses, held together on the side by tape, and looked down at the ideas I had sketched for the display. When I had told her I wanted to volunteer my time, I hadn’t thought this was what she had in mind. Three times now, she had informed me this was not a paid position. It was solely charity. She must have thought I was either too stupid to understand that or I was hard of hearing.
“Other than me and Sister Helen, who rarely comes in due to her health, there is no one else who volunteers here regularly. This is an awfully big project, and quite frankly, I think it’s unnecessary. Those who need clothes don’t require this place to look like a department store. They’re in need. They are just thankful they don’t have to dig something out of the dumpster,” she told me, then straightened back up from where she’d been bending over the binder. “I appreciate the time and thought you put into this, Miss Rice, but it is just not something we can do with so little help and time.”