Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I enlarge it. Red and orange flames engulf the church, lighting up the dark night.
Scrolling down, it says Father James was killed in the fire.
I look over the top of my cell at Cross as he moves, rolling onto his other side. My eyes go back to my phone. His wife and son were thankfully not there at the time of the fire. It doesn’t say how it started, just that it was accidental.
I clicked on the next article. Father James—beloved priest and member of the Three Wisemen—was a loving father and doting husband. Survived by wife, Genevieve James, and son, Hoyte James.
Hoyte? Cross fits him better. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a biblical name due to his father and religious background.
A passerby called 911 a little after two in the morning when they saw the church up in flames. The fire department arrived and entered the building. They retrieved the body of Father James, who was found in his office. The cause of the fire is still unknown, but no foul play was suspected.
“What are you doing?” Cross asks through a yawn.
“Nothing!” I answer, slapping my phone facedown on the sheets so he can’t see it. It was dying fast anyway.
He sits up and runs a hand down his unshaven face, yawning again. “What time is it?”
“Late,” I offer because I have no clue, and I’m not going to pick up my cell to look since I didn’t exit out of the article I was reading.
He throws the covers off and gets out of his bed, heading toward his adjoining bathroom. I quickly pick up my cell, exit out of the news article, and look at the time. Placing it on the nightstand, I get up too and walk into the bathroom. He’s standing at his sink, washing his hands in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
I walk up behind him and look over his back. I’ve never had the chance to really look at his tattoo. It’s a cross—it starts at the base of his neck and runs all the way down, the end dipped inside of his boxers. It spans from shoulder to shoulder. It’s outlined in black ink. Looks like any other cross, but it’s what’s around it that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Fire. His entire back is covered in red, yellow, and orange flames. As if the cross is burning. It reminds me of the cross that stood high on the spire of the church his father was found dead in.
Stepping closer to it, I squint to get a better look at it. Like the fine print you should always read before you sign something, there’s a story here. Or maybe it’s the fact of what Mitch said to me and the article. But I see something there. The outline of the cross looks to be running. As if the heat of the flames is melting it down. But that’s not what’s really catching my attention. It’s the scars that the tattoo hides. I spot one, two, three. They run up and down his spine.
Reaching out, I place my hand on his back to touch one, but he quickly spins around and grabs my wrist.
I jump and try to take a step back, but he doesn’t let go. “Cross …” My words die off as I get a look at him. His hard and muscular body is tense. His breathing has picked up, and his pretty green eyes are drilling holes into mine.
My heart pounds in my chest, trying to think of what to say. What to ask. “I …” The ringing of his cell phone in his room cuts off whatever bullshit I was about to come up with.
Letting go of me, I rub my wrists as he walks out of the bathroom to go get it. I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting out a long breath.
You’re being paranoid.
This is what every girl does when she starts falling for a guy—overanalyzes everything.
I’m not going to let Mitch get to me. What Cross and I have is a good thing. We sleep together yet still have our own lives. We’re not dating. We’re not living together. Just fucking. And now, he’s my employer.
I read the article about his dad, and it was clearly an accident. As for the scars? That doesn’t mean anything. Hell, I have them on my knees from when I wrecked my bike. The scars don’t mean they have anything to do with the church. The fire. The tattoos …
“Get dressed,” he orders, making me jump when he comes back into the bathroom. Walking past me, he marches toward his closet.
“Where are we going?” It’s like three in the morning.
Coming to a stop, he turns around and lets out a long sigh. His eyes no longer angry. They almost look sad. A darker green. “To Lucky’s. There’s been an incident.”