Page 54 of Divine Temptations

And then I saw him.

Sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing what looked like a whiskey neat and laughing at something the bartender said, was Jude Brooks.

I knew it was him before he even turned his head. The same face from the billboard, only more real. More dangerous. The kind of beautiful that made your stomach forget its job. He looked like a 21st-century Jesus who could rail you through a confessional and then read you poetry while you relaxed in the afterglow.

He wore a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing forearms that looked like they’d split firewood and then hold you after a panic attack. His hands were enormous, his smile was lazy. And his energy…

Well. His energy could punch a hole in your carefully constructed emotional walls without even trying.

He glanced up. Our eyes met.

Something zapped between us like static electricity before a storm.

“Shit,” I whispered.

Because of course the hot mountain Jesus I was here to investigate—the maybe-cult-leader, maybe-miracle-worker, definitely-cautionary-tale—was exactly my type.

And just like Madame Starlight said… I’d found the tall man with the beard who was going to ruin me.

Chapter Four

Jude

Every afternoon around five, like clockwork, I wandered into The Chalice & Cherry for my daily ritual: one cocktail, one conversation, and a moment of stillness before the rest of the world came knocking.

The air inside was always cool and dusky, lit by strings of little white bulbs that cast a soft glow over the worn brick walls and polished wood. The owner, Percy, kept it dim on purpose, said it made people behave. Or at least feel like they were behaving.

Percy, for his part, stood behind the bar in his usual uniform—black T-shirt, thick silver rings, and a face like he’d seen everything twice and was unimpressed both times. His salt-and-pepper hair was always a little rumpled, and his sharp blue eyes could cut through bullshit like a hot knife through organic, gluten-free butter. I liked him. Percy didn’t care about crystals or chakras or the fact that people sometimes cried when I touched them. He liked money, old movies, and gin. I respected that.

“…so I told her, ‘If your aura’s green, sweetheart, that just means you need more fiber.’”

I nearly choked on my drink, a smoky mezcal cocktail Percy had dubbed the “Holy Smoker.”

“That’s cruel,” I said, laughing into the rim of my glass.

“That’s honesty,” he said, wiping down the bar with one hand and flipping me off with the other. “And don’t pretend you’re above it, Reverend Sparklepants. You’re the one who brought the chakra mafia to town.”

“I didn’t bring anyone,” I said, swirling my drink. “They showed up. I just… didn’t ask them to leave.”

“You didn’t discourage them either,” Percy muttered, just loud enough to be heard over the low indie track playing in the background.

I was about to argue—gently, playfully, the way we always did—when something shifted.

It wasn’t a sound or a scent. More like a ripple, a change in temperature. The kind of change you don’t notice until it’s already pressing against your skin. I turned my head instinctively.

And saw him.

Tall. Sharp features. Tousled hair like he’d fought the wind and let it win. His black jeans were road-worn, and his leather jacket had scuffs that told stories, not fashion statements. But it was his eyes that held me still. Cool, steady, and scanning the bar like he didn’t quite trust any of it—especially not me.

God help me, he was beautiful.

And the worst part? He knew it. Not in a cocky way, not exactly. But in that quiet, dangerous way that meant he’d broken hearts without meaning to—and probably left a few people still thanking him for it.

My breath caught in my throat.

I, Jude Brooks, local miracle man, was speechless.

And I hated that.