Page 11 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

Chapter

Eight

CORDELIA

I’m officially insane. If that definition truly is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, then so is Duke.

For the past hour, we’ve taken turns sneaking from an out-of-the-way hiding spot to the well to throw in a penny and wish for my original wish to be undone. We’re all out of pennies now. Duke’s change jar still has plenty of nickels, dimes, and quarters.

“We’ll keep wishing until we run out of coins,” he insists with unmistakable panic as he glances—with my freaking eyes—around the corner to make sure no one’s noticed us having a super suspicious meeting behind the closest building to the well.

It’s strange that The Flame is so old that it’s near the center of town. Stranger still that Utopia’s church sits on the opposite side of the town square. The juxtaposition of saints and sinners has always seemed odd to me.

These two buildings aren’t just on opposing sides of business.

They look like opposites, too. Utopia’s church boasts whitewashed clapboard, sparkling clean windows lining all sides of the building, and a welcoming front porch with potted flowers and a roof to escape the elements.

The lawn is always well-manicured, the sidewalk free of cracks and divots.

The Flame, on the other hand, is made of age-worn stone so old that it’s nearly black.

It was obviously built from the same material as the well.

The windows are sparse and crafted from thick, old glass that makes them nearly opaque.

No porch. No potted plants. No doormat. Just a nondescript, gouged wooden door that would normally send the message to enter at your own risk .

The promise of a good time must be just as attractive as the promise of salvation across the street, because these two buildings are some of the most frequented in all of Utopia.

Their respective stewards are as much opposites as the buildings. Wallace is tall, dark, and handsome. He gives off this strange, alluring cocktail of bad boy and daddy vibes. Father Michael, on the other hand, looks exactly like an angel brought down to earth.

He approaches from down the street and affably greets a passerby.

His golden blond hair sparkles in the sunlight, lending him an almost ethereal quality, like heaven is always smiling on him the way he smiles at everyone he meets.

Much like Wallace, he appears ageless. I couldn’t even begin to guess how old he is.

I’ve never noticed a single wrinkle on his face, even though I have the beginnings of crow’s feet around my eyes at the ripe old age of thirty.

If Father Michael’s face is a timeless work of art, then his body is a sculpted masterpiece.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I notice the preacher’s lean muscles beneath his plain white dress shirt and pressed dark-rinse blue jeans.

He’s just so perfectly proportioned, tall without being bulky, sturdy yet non-threatening.

The man could easily get me to confess all my sins.

I snap out of my odd daydream when Duke thrusts another coin toward me. “Here. It’s your turn.”

Father Michael disappears into the church. The happiness I always feel when I look at him dissipates. My current conundrum is still very much an unhappy reality.

“We’ve been at this for an hour already,” I remind Duke with a huff. “If we keep going like this, someone’s bound to notice.”

I’m still struggling to walk normally with his too-long legs.

This must be what wearing stilts feels like.

He keeps tripping over my stupid, tiny feet, as he calls them.

Separately, we’re being weird enough. If anyone in town sees us together in this state, they’re going to drag us over to the church for an exorcism.

Actually, that might not be a bad idea.

Father Michael—beatifically gorgeous though he may be—might not let me in the doors, though.

Unlike most of the good Christian people of Utopia, Granny and I never attended church.

It was just another way that I felt left out from all the other kids who participated in Christmas pageants and vacation bible school.

Whenever I’d ask her why we didn’t go, she’d tell me that nothing was holier than nature.

To prove it, she’d take me on a hike through the woods.

I didn’t have a normal childhood by any means, but I loved the woman who raised me. Everything she proclaimed was holy in my book.

“Do you think Father Michael is busy?” I ask. Maybe I can pop in there in Duke’s body. Surely, he won’t be turned away.

“I dunno,” Duke mumbles as he fishes through the large glass jar to make sure there aren’t any stray pennies left. “Why?”

“What if we’re barking up the wrong tree with wishes? It’s clearly not working. What if we need an exorcism?”

I’ve never seen my face when I look so thoroughly disgusted before. I’m slightly appalled by how grotesque I appear.

“You would believe in crap like exorcisms,” Duke mutters, sounding disappointed.

“I take it you don’t?” The only things Duke seems to believe in are making my life a living hell and banging women in bar bathrooms. “I hate to point out the obvious here, but I didn’t believe in body swapping yesterday. I’d be willing to give an exorcism a try if it’ll get us back to normal.”

He rolls my eyes before focusing on the change jar again. “More likely that Father Michael will drown us in holy water and make a bad situation worse. Church is for poor suckers who don’t know any better.”

I suck in such a sharp breath that it sends me into a coughing fit. How can Duke even say something so blasphemous? Since when does he have a problem with anyone else in town, let alone the idea of organized religion ?

Duke sends me a scathing glare, like I’m being overdramatic.

“But, but, but—” I’ve never heard Duke’s voice sputter like this in my life. “You’re a Castellaw .”

“So?”

“And you don’t believe in going to church? How is that possible? You’re practically royalty in Utopia,” I hiss.

Duke shakes my head, rolls my eyes, purses my lips, all familiar reactions to the sound of his voice. “Weird. Someone should tell that to the bank. They must keep leaving off a bunch of zeroes at the end of my checking account balance.”

I’m stunned for two reasons—number one, it’s unlike Duke to admit any weakness, especially to me. Number two— “People in town bow at your feet like you’re a prince!”

A prince of darkness.

He cracks a smug smile at that. “Because the list you made with Neveah is all wrong. I’m the prince of leaving women satisfied.”

Ugh. The nausea rolling through Duke’s stomach feels exactly the same as it would in mine. That might be the only thing we have in common.

“Here.” He thrusts a handful of change at me. My voice sounds strained when he practically begs, “Throw a bunch of them in at once and see what happens.”

“You’re an insufferable idiot.” I nearly trip when I turn away from him abruptly, but I manage to walk the entire way back to Granny’s homestead without falling on his face. I need a break from Duke’s bad attitude if I’m going to be able to think my way out of this one.

The first thing I do is slam the front door harder than I’m normally capable of and head straight for the bathroom. Maybe I can scrub Duke’s skin off.

The second thing I do is strip out of his hillbilly elite uniform. Then, I genuinely consider how I can possibly scrub my brain.

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” I whisper, staring down at the naked body I’m currently inhabiting .

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He’s supposed to be ugly beneath his clothes as befits his hideous personality.

He’s supposed to be as deformed as he is depraved.

He is not supposed to be a towering wall of rippling muscles and luxurious, manly chest hair.

It’s not even too much hair. He’s not a sasquatch. This is so much worse. It’s a just-right smattering of dark hair, the kind that accentuates his pectorals perfectly.

He has honest-to-God pecs!

I gasp as my gaze travels further south. And abs.

No! Why does he have a six pack? And a defined V of muscles bracketing that washboard. And more dark hair on a happy trail leading to…

If his penis isn’t tiny, wrinkly, and curved like a scythe, I’ll scream.

His eyes glide down, down, down.

I scream.