Page 7 of Crossed

His brows jump to his hairline. “Of course I am.”

Humming, I stand up, moving around the edge of my desk until I’m hovering close enough that he has to crane his neck to meet my eyes.

“I am a man of God, Monsieur Errien, which means I ammoresubject to reproach,” I say. “Despite the fact that I forgive many things a lesser person would not, for the sake of our future…relationship, I think we should establish boundaries.”

“I’d agree.”

“Perfect. I’ll start.” I smile. “It doesn’t matter how much money you throw around or how many others drop to their knees and worship you as some sort of false deity because of said money. I will not tolerate disrespect.”

Parker’s teeth grind together, loud enough for me to hear it. “Neither will I.”

I chuckle, leaning forward until my shadow looms over his frame. “Don’t come into my office, intoHisplace of worship, and flaunt your disregard, implying that my faith is something to mock. Here, in this house,Iam the power.”

“You’re only in this position because I wish for it,” Parker spits back. “You havenoidea what I’m capable of.”

Straightening, I run my hand down the front of my black button- down and lean against the lip of my desk. “That’s true. And the church is forever grateful for your more than generous donations. I know that you and Father Clark didn’t see eye to eye on cleaning up the streets of Festivalé, so I suggest you take a moment of reflection and search deeply for the gratitude you should be feeling, knowing I’ve heard your pleas and support your cause.”

He scoffs, but I don’t miss the minuscule way his shoulders slump, his arrogance cowering in the way false confidence usually does when hit with a strike of dominance.

“Do we understand each other?” I press.

He doesn’t reply other than a sharp nod, and a grin tips up the corners of my mouth. I let the silence thicken the air and puncture his skin until he shifts in obvious discomfort.

“Where did you say you were from again originally?” he finally asks.

“I didn’t.”

“And how long have you been a priest?”

“Long enough.”

The starched collar chafes around my neck at his question, and I clear my throat.

Parker hums, tapping his thick fingers against the wood of his chair, his eyes calculating in a way they hadn’t been before.

It was probably a mistake to be so harsh with him, but being here, in this town, has thrown me off- kilter. My temper is short and my fuse is lit.

“I have some ideas for your homily this Sunday,” he says, changing the course of our conversation.

My spine bristles.

“I’d expect nothing less,” I reply, waving my hand toward the door. “Unfortunately, duty calls and I don’t have time to hear it. If you require confession, you may speak to Father Jeremiah, the curate who’s taking them today.”

Parker shoots to a stand, buttoning his suit jacket before placing his palm in the air between us, ever the businessman. I stare down at it, but I don’t take the offering of a handshake. He’s insulted me, and I have no intention of letting him find comfort within these walls.

Not today.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he muses. “And regardless of the title you may hold here, Mr. Frédéric, I’d suggestyouremember why you hold it.”

“No need for formalities, Parker.” I smile. “Please, call me

Father.”

His jaw tightens but he nods. “Have a good day, Father.” And then he’s gone.

I let out a slow breath, moving my head to the side until a sharp crack rings in my ears, the tension morphing into relief. Maneuvering back around my desk, I sit down, picking up a pen and tapping it in a methodical rhythm against the wood, my eyes trained on the door where Parker just left. I shouldn’t have goaded him, should have bit my tongue and smiled, allowing him to think he holds the power.

But there’s something off about him. A darkness in his eyes that reminds me of my past. Of Sister Agnes when she’d beat me black and blue.