Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Behind the table, Father Carmichael stands, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms. He’s sorting through a pile of groceries, his hands moving with a calm efficiency, but he looks up as I enter.
“Well, hello there,” he says, his voice smooth and deep, with an unexpected warmth that settles over me like a blanket. There’s something magnetic in the way he speaks, a quiet confidence that makes my heart stumble.
For a second, I’m caught off guard. My brain latches onto the richness of his voice, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in ages. Raw, sexual appeal. Or maybe it’s been so long since I’ve had sex that I’m misinterpreting everything—mistaking his voice for something out of a fantasy where he’s the star and I’m… well, not sitting alone in a church.
I blink, trying to clear my head as I remind myself who I’m talking to. This is Father Carmichael. The priest. Not some character from a steamy novel. But still, his smile lingers a little too long, and my cheeks flush, heat creeping up my neck.
Oh shit.
"Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to intrude," I say quickly, the urge to slink back to the safety of my car overwhelming. My hands fidget with the strap of my purse, and I avoid meeting his eyes, hoping I can make a graceful exit before the awkwardness sets in.
“Don’t go,” Father Carmichael says, his voice gentle but firm, as if sensing my need to retreat. There’s a kindness in his tone, and regardless of my discomfort, it’s hard to ignore. “Can you help me box up the rest of these things?”
I hesitate, glancing at the table overflowing with groceries—fresh vegetables, canned goods, boxes of pasta, all neatly organized. My fingers twitch, and I nod, forcing a smile. "Okay. Sure."
As I step closer, the smell of warm bread and something sweet fills the air. My stomach clenches with hunger, and I can't help but eye the items on the table—fresh produce, bread, and jars of jam—things I could desperately use. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to push the thought away, but it lingers. The grocery bills are piling up at home, and I know how empty my fridge is right now.
As if Benedict—Father Carmichael—can read my thoughts, he glances at me with those sharp, observant eyes. “Did you want to take any of these things with you?” he asks, his voice soft, but there’s no judgment there, just a genuine offer.
I quickly shake my head, heat rising to my face. “No, I’m okay,” I lie, hoping the tightness in my voice doesn’t give me away. The last thing I want is for him to see the truth—that I’m barely holding things together. That I could use every bit of food on this table, but my pride won’t let me take it. I don’t want him to know how badly I’m struggling, how close I am to breaking under the weight of it all.
Father Carmichael studies me for a moment, his expression thoughtful, like he knows more than I’m letting on. But thankfully, he doesn’t push. Instead, he hands me an empty box, and I start loading the groceries inside, focusing on the task at hand, hoping it’ll distract me from the ache in my chest.
He gently takes my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “It isn’t for me to judge,” he says, his voice low and kind. “If you need help, then we’re here for you.”
I swallow hard, feeling a lump in my throat. There’s something disarming about the way he says it—like it’s okay to admit I’m struggling, like I don’t have to pretend I’m fine when I’m not. I glance at the groceries, biting my lip before finally nodding. “Maybe I’ll take a few things,” I say quietly, feeling the weight of my pride pressing down on me. “Just until I get paid.” Thank God for Greer’s brother hooking me up with that new job, I think. It’s been a lifeline, but I’m still so far from catching up.
The thing about bills is that no matter how hard you try, you pay one and three more seem to pile up. It's relentless, like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it. Rent, utilities, the car payment, groceries—it all just feels like too much sometimes. I feel like I’m constantly running on a treadmill, forever trying to catch up, and no matter how fast I go, it never feels like enough. I look at Father Carmichael, wondering how people like him seem to have their lives so neatly put together.
"It’s hard," I admit, my voice quieter now, almost like I’m confessing. “I don’t know how people manage to have it all together. I feel like I’m always just a step behind.”