But now, he thought she was probably a witch sent by some malevolent force to make him question his sanity.
Mostly he got through the whole celibacy thing with vigorous exercise and pretending that he didn’t have a dick. Sasha, with her sweet smell that reminded him of the summer during college he’d spent in Greece, silky brown hair, and doe eyes, definitely reminded him that he had a dick. More than any other woman he’d met since Ashley, she reminded him of the deep satisfaction that could come from earthly, carnal love. Every time he saw her, he had to pray that God would remind him of why he’d taken his vows. Christ’s love was assured and infinite, and it would never leave him.
Christ’s love survived death. And when he was a grieving and heartbroken twenty-one-year-old man, he’d found that so compelling that he’d committed his life to it.
He’d made a life inside it, and he was of service to his community and to God. What he did and who he did it for was important. Joining the priesthood had saved him—he owed his life to the Church.
Seeing Sasha, feeling the things she aroused in him—remembering who he’d been before—made him forget who he was supposed to be now. He couldn’t do anything with his attraction, so he tried to block out its source.
He would not waver.
But even with her back to him, it was impossible to ignore her. So he scrubbed the already clean bar that was older than him and had kept his belly full and his feet shod for over thirty-two years. He promised himself he would pour an extra-large draught of the good scotch his brother had given him for Christmas before bed. He might not be able to have a woman to keep him warm, but whiskey was permissible. The peat would scrub his nostrils of the sweet fig scent that Sasha had brought into the bar with her.
He tried desperately to ignore her presence while she was on a date in his bar with a man who looked entirely too appropriate for her.
But Sasha Finerghty made him feel helpless in a way he hadn’t felt for a decade. As soon as that slick guy had put his hand on the middle of her back, he’d wanted to leap over the bar and snatch it away.
He had no right to.
He had an obligation not to.
But he still wanted to.
Patrick was saved from unsuccessfully trying not to imagine Sasha’s date with a black eye by Jack walking into the bar. At that moment, he wanted to curse his best friend for bringing Sasha into his orbit, and so his greeting was probably a bit sharp. “What are you doing here?”
“Whoa, buddy.” Jack held up his hands. “Trouble in the God salt mines?”
Patrick sniffed and grabbed a glass to pour his friend his favorite beer. Jack sat down and glanced over his shoulder. “Or girl trouble?”
“I don’t have girl trouble.” That was a lie. Sasha was plenty of trouble. And he tried not to lie almost as much as he tried not to imagine how smooth the skin on Sasha’s thighs would be or what it would be like to be able to touch her.
“Sure.” Jack gave him a smile that said he didn’t believe him. Of course he would see it all; they’d known each other since Jack was born about a year after him. Their moms had been best friends, and now they were best friends. More like brothers, really. Jack would know what it looked like when he had a crush, and he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about it. That just wasn’t how their friendship worked—and Patrick usually appreciated it. But not now.
“I actually do have church problems that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Patrick’s role required him to be a counselor to everyone, but he didn’t feel like he had anyone to talk to—other than Sister Cortona. She was more likely to point out more problems when he needed solutions. But Jack could sometimes be a sounding board for him. Patrick hated to ask, but now seemed to be the time.
Jack took a sip of his beer. “Shoot.”
“We might have to close up the pre-K program at St. Bart’s.” Even saying it caused a pang.
“Seriously? Even after all that good publicity about the test scores?”
“Yeah.” Patrick let out a sigh and put his head on the bar. “And it’s not like the kids at St. Bart’s”—who were mostly Black and Brown—“will be welcome at any other Catholic schools nearby.”
Jack just snorted in understanding of the subtext of his message. Extremely helpful.
Patrick was about to turn and pour himself a whiskey when Jack said, “Maybe we can help.”
Jack was part of a “we” now. And Patrick was happy for him. He never thought he’d feel anything about not being part of a “we.” But now, with Sasha across the room—he’d never let her out of his line of vision, even when he was talking to Jack—and his best friend as a smug married, he felt something. Something he wouldn’t put a label on.
“That’s a big ask, man.” He’d just wanted to vent, not heap any obligations on his friend.
“Don’t even start, bro.” Jack gave him a “you’ve got to be kidding me” look. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be married to Hannah. Let us help.”
“It’s twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of help.” Maybe if he understood the gravity of the problem, Jack would back off. Damn, but Patrick hated depending on anyone else.
Jack just shrugged. “Hannah and Sasha raised that much money for some children’s charity last week. In one night.”
“I can’t afford to pay them.”
Jack shook his head. “They’ll give you the family discount.”
“I can’t afford to pay them anything.”
“The family discount is free.” Jack stood up. “And maybe this beer.”
Patrick wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was always floored when someone showed him a kindness, even though kindness and charity were sort of his things. “It’s too much, man.”
“No.” Jack looked him right in the eyes. “It’s not.”
Then, his best friend went over and talked to Sasha and her date for long enough that it was clear that Jack didn’t like the guy either. Otherwise, he would have left them to enjoy their drinks in peace.
CHAPTER THREE
HOW LONG HAD IT been since Sasha hadn’t dreaded answering her mother’s calls? It seemed like forever. She had to pick up by the third ring unless she wanted to be interrogated about what she had been doing that kept her from picking up promptly. This time, she answered from her watch before the phone started vibrating in her gym bag.
“What are you doing?” Her mother’s question sounded innocuous, but Sasha wasn’t new here.
“Walking.” The best strategy with Moira Finerghty was to give her as little information as possible. She hoarded information like weapons to be deployed at will.