Page 99 of Divine Temptations

I took it carefully, like it was more fragile than paper had any right to be. “Thank you, Father,” I said. My voice was steadier this time, though the guilt still pressed against my ribs. “And again, I’m sorry. For letting you down.”

I left the office with the envelope in hand, the echo of his typewriter still in my ears. The air in the hallway seemed different now—less oppressive, but not quite free. As I walked past Father Daniel’s desk, he gave me a curt nod, with no trace of the earlier judgment in his expression.

Out in the courtyard, the afternoon sun struck my face. I paused, feeling its warmth, and I smelled the faint scent of cut grass drifting on the breeze. The path ahead was unmarked, and I didn’t know where it might lead. I just knew it wouldn’t be here.

And for the first time, I let myself wonder—really wonder—what would happen to me next.

Chapter One

Noah

Song of Songs 4:9- You have stolen my heart with one glance of your eyes.

The parking lot at the Claremont School of Theology looked like a car commercial—sleek sedans, shiny hybrids, the occasional BMW that probably belonged to someone’s daddy. My car didn’t fit the vibe. A dented silver Toyota Corolla with a temperamental air conditioner and one speaker that only worked if you smacked it just right. I wedged it between a Tesla and a Lexus and killed the engine.

My phone buzzed.

Dad had texted.

Will you be joining us for Rosh Hashanah this year? It would mean so much to your mother. And your sister. Plus, your grandmother. And to me, of course, though I understand you are busy with… whatever it is you do these days.

Translation: Your absence will break the heart of every woman in our family and probably make God sigh heavily in your direction.

I rolled my eyes and shoved the phone into my bookbag before I could type something sarcastic like Sorry, can’t make it, I’m busy dancing naked for strangers while working on my dissertation about biblical smut.

I didn’t even know if I wanted to go this year. Rosh Hashanah started Monday, ended Wednesday, and my life wasn’t exactly holiday-friendly. I had class, shifts at the club, and zero desire to sit through hours of polite family tension where every question felt like a veiled critique.

A glance at my watch made my stomach drop. Crap. Running late.

I jogged toward the humanities building, my sneakers squeaking against the tile when I burst through the doors and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I slipped into the classroom, everyone was already there, chattering in little knots. I was the last one in.

Every seat was taken except for one near the back. I slid into it, catching a few curious glances before I dropped my bag on the floor and dug out my notebook.

That’s when I saw him.

A guy in the second row, broad shoulders outlined under a crisp button-down, dark hair falling just enough to make you want to push it back. His eyes—holy hell—green like the firstbite of a Granny Smith apple, sharp and unexpected. He was listening intently to a girl beside him, but there was this stillness about him, like he knew exactly how much space he took up and didn’t apologize for it.

My brain made a note: Danger. My body made a different note: Yes, please.

The door swung open, and in walked the professor, Dr. Scheinbaum.

If you told me she was the president of an artsy, left-leaning European country, I would’ve believed you. Platinum hair in a sculpted bob, severe black dress offset by a scarf that looked like it had been painted in a single stroke by an avant-garde genius.

“Good morning,” she said in a rich, precise voice that made you sit up straighter whether you wanted to or not. “Welcome to Sacred Eroticism: Interpreting the Song of Solomon. This is not a class for the prudish, the fainthearted, or those who believe the Bible is entirely about smiting.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“Eroticism in the ancient world,” she continued, pacing with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to control a crowd, “was not tucked into the shadows. It was celebrated, sung about, carved into temple walls. Song of Solomon—or Song of Songs, if you’re feeling poetic—was essentially an ancient playlist of love ballads, seduction poetry, and borderline graphic metaphors. You think Shakespeare was sexy? Solomon was the original thirst trap.”

A guy in the front row choked on his coffee.

“Now, don’t misunderstand me—this was not pornography as we know it. This was artful. Symbolic. A woman’s hair wasn’t just hair; it was like a flock of goats descending Mount Gilead. Which, granted, is not the compliment it used to be. I don’t recommend trying that one on your next date.”

More laughter.

I tried to focus. I really did. But my mind drifted. Mostly toward the green-eyed guy. The way his jaw flexed as he scribbled notes. The casual way his sleeves were rolled up, showing tan forearms dusted with dark hair.

Then he spoke.