I stride back behind the counter, ready to wrap up today’s shift. Just then, the diner door swings open and cold air rushes inside. I glance up and see two women stepping inside. From their side profiles, I can’t tell who they are, but they look oddly familiar. When they turn to face me, I realize I know them from church.
The door slides back shut behind them as they walk in my direction.
“Merry Christmas, honey.” The woman with dark hair greets with a big smile. “Do you have any Apple pies left—” She stops talking and her brows shoot up. Her eyes move to her friend with blonde hair and she whispers something. They both turn to stare at me.
What the heck is going on?
I paste a smile and say, “Merry Christmas. I’m closing up in a few minutes. Can I get you something?”
The woman with black hair clears her throat, no longer smiling. “Sorry. Do you have any Apple pie left?”
“Yeah. How many pieces do you need?
She eyes me up and down, her mouth pulling into a thin line. “Two pieces.”
I give them my back and start preparing the order. As I’m moving around I catch a few whispered words.
“Such a disgrace.”
“Is he back from Italy yet? I heard he’s no longer pursuing priesthood.”
There’s a sigh, then, “Of course he’s not. She ruined him.”
Blood rushes in my ears and my hands shake as I wrap the pies and put them inside a to-go box.
Last night while mom and I were talking, she told me that people knew the reason Sol left the seminary was because of me. And even though it’s been almost a year, they haven’t forgotten yet. They still gossip. Something like this takes a while to go away, unless another scandal happens. She chose not to tell me before because she didn’t want to worry me. I haven’t been to the diner since, well, before my trip to Europe.
“Well, he’s to blame, too. It’s not like she twisted his arm—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest. I spin around and stalk forward. Immediately, they stop talking and look up at me, looking guilty as hell.
I set the box with the pies on the counter, then meet their gazes head on. “Anything else?” I ask, pretending their words don’t bother me.
Dark haired woman shakes her head, then pulls out a twenty and drops it on the counter before grabbing her order. She mutters something under her breath, then links her arm with her friend’s and they leave the dinner without waiting for change.
My heart rate slows down to normal, and I try to shake off the gossip. It sucks, really. But what can I do? I can’t stop people from talking. At some point, something else will happen. The ‘Grace and Sol Scandal’ will be forgotten. Hopefully. Until that happens . . .
With a sigh, I finish up wiping the counter and clean the floor in the back. After turning off the lights and locking up the diner, I drive home, desperate for a shower to wash off my day.
I love Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. I love the peace, the quiet excitement, and the anticipation.
The church bell chimes just as I step out of my car in the church parking lot, the sound echoing into the December night.
I pull the hood of my coat over my head and grab my purse, then make my way toward the entrance, snowflakes floating around me.
The church is almost full. Illuminated with candles and smelling of incense, it feels like coming home.
Pulling down the hood, I shake off the snow before joining the small group of men and women waiting for their turn to light candles at the votive candles stand. So far, everything seems normal. No one’s looking at me suspiciously. In fact, most people are smiling and wishing each another Merry Christmas.
I breathe out slowly, feeling my muscles relax as tension leaves my body.
Behind me, more people join the line while others walk past me to sit in the pews.
After lighting up a candle, I walk down the aisle, my breath lodged in my throat, and take a seat in a pew. Halfway through Mass, the hair on the nape of my neck curls, awareness sending shivers down my spine. My body hasn’t reacted like this since . . . since—
No way. It can’t be . . . He can’t be here.
My heart stalls before picking up a fast beat. Blood pumps in my ears, drowning out Father Foster’s sermon. I crane my neck and scan around the church as much as my height allows, wishing, hoping, praying. I’m about to face forward when my gaze locks on a familiar pair of eyes.
He’s really here. Sol . . . he’s here, sitting in the pew next to the aisle across from mine. The sea of people around me fades, and he’s the only person I see. And he’s watching me like I’m the only thing worth looking at. The corner of his mouth lifts into my favorite smile, the half-smile that sends my heart and my breath colliding.
Biting my bottom lip, I look down at my purse on my lap and try to breathe through the shock, hope, love . . . God. I have no idea what I’m feeling right now.
When did he come back to Portland? How did I not know?
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, then exhale. When I finally muster the courage to look back at Sol, his gaze is still on me.
I force myself to look away because I’m having trouble breathing. And I desperately need to breathe. I force myself to keep my eyes trained on Father Foster, ignoring the way the side of my face warms from his gaze.
When Father Foster announces it’s time for the Sign of Peace, I turn, smiling, and offer my hand to the man next to me, then the woman. I shift around and gasp. Sol has somehow made his way to my side of the aisle, and now he’s staring down at me.
God, he’s all broad shoulders and sharp jaw, full lips, tousled hair and blue, blue eyes.
He offers his hand, and I just look at it for several seconds before glancing back at his face. He cocks his head, patiently waiting for me to meet him halfway. Around us, the process slows down, and everyone returns to their seats.
“Gracie,” he murmurs.
My name on his lips is my kryptonite. I shake his hand and ignore the way his large, calloused palm feels against mine—gentle, firm, familiar.
He exhales through his mouth as if he’s been holding his breath, his gaze roaming my face hungrily before locking with mine. His eyes, God, his eyes . . . they are no longer a window to his soul because his soul is in his eyes right now. Whatever he’s feeling is right there for me—and everyone else—to see, and it’s freaking me the hell out.
I want to run. Want to hide.
His mouth curls up on one side in a smile that seems to convey . . . something before he subtly nods and returns to his seat.
I spend the rest of Mass wrapped up in a Sol-induced fog, my hand pressed against my stomach to contain the mayhem his presence and touch evoke. And my heart . . . my heart is a drum, beating to a rhythm so familiar, so frighteningly intoxicating.
By the time I leave the church, I’m a mess. After slipping on my gloves, I glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sol. He’s talking to an older couple, who seem delighted to see him.
Look at me, I pray under my breath.
It’s pathetic, really, how much I crave it. His head lifts as if he heard my plea. His eyes lock with mine, and the impact knocks the wind out of me.
Shit. I need to pull myself together. I can’t afford to be weak or let him affect me like this.
The snow is falling faster now as I cut across the parking lot to my car.