Page 24 of Held-
“Sounds fun. Lead the way.”
I drop his hand and start walking toward the church, hyperaware of him following behind me. The side door is unlocked, and the familiar smell of lemon polish and furniture wax hits me immediately. It's the scent of my childhood, of Sunday mornings and youth group meetings. I glance back at Brayden, suddenly aware of how out of place he looks here,his leather cut and heavy boots a stark contrast to the polished floors and framed Bible verses.
“This way,” I murmur, leading him down the hallway toward my father’s office. My heart thumps against my ribs with each step, the same way it did when I was sixteen and slipping in after curfew.
We’re halfway there when Mrs. Whitaker emerges from the fellowship hall, a clipboard clutched to her chest. She stops dead when she spots us, her eyes going comically wide.
“Cecelia! What is—” Her gaze darts between Brayden and me, settling on his Heaven’s Rejects patch with undisguised horror. “What is he doing here?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker,” I say, summoning my most pleasant church-lady tone. “Mr. Cole is helping with the food box collection. We’re on our way to speak with my father.”
“I see.” She clearly doesn’t see at all. “Well, I was heading that way myself.”
Of course she was. The woman has a sixth sense for drama—probably circling the building all morning, waiting for a chance to corner my father. She falls into step beside us, her sensible shoes clicking against the hardwood, each tap a tiny hammer of judgment. I can feel Brayden’s amusement without even glancing at him.
“I was just telling Reverend Montgomery about the…concerns…some of the congregation has expressed,” Mrs. Whitaker continues, her voice pitched to carry down the hall. “About recent events.”
“Recent events such as feeding hungry children for Christmas?” I ask sweetly. “Truly shocking.”
Brayden makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Mrs. Whitaker's lips thin to a bloodless line.
“You know very well what I mean, Cecelia. The board is quite concerned about the church's reputation.”
“More concerned about its reputation than its mission, apparently.”
We reach my father's office door, which stands slightly ajar. I can see him at his desk, head bowed over paperwork, silver hair catching the morning light from the window. For a moment, I hesitate. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should send Brayden away and handle this myself.
But then he steps forward, his shoulder brushing mine in a quiet show of support, and I find myself knocking on the doorframe.
“Dad? Do you have a minute?”
My father looks up, his expression shifting from concentration to surprise to something far more guarded when he spots Brayden. “Cecelia. Mrs. Whitaker.” His gaze lands on Brayden’s cut, disapproval radiating from him with the force of a furnace. “Brayden.”
“Reverend,” Brayden says with a casual nod, completely unfazed by my father’s chilly reception. “Nice office. Very… biblical.”
He’s not wrong. Every available surface is covered with religious texts, framed scripture, or souvenirs from mission trips. The whole room feels more museum display than workspace—an exhibit devoted entirely to my father’s faith.
“What can I do for you?” Dad asks, deliberately ignoring Brayden and focusing on me instead.
“We need to borrow the church van,” I say, diving straight in before I lose my nerve. “For the food boxes. We're going to make a supply run.”
“We?” He raises an eyebrow that could cut glass.
“Brayden has offered to help with the food collection,” I explain, trying to sound as reasonable and church appropriate as possible. “Since the usual donations fell through, we needto purchase supplies in bulk. My car isn't big enough, and his...transportation options are limited.”
Mrs. Whitaker makes a small huffing sound beside me. “I must express my concern about using church property for this arrangement.”
“It's not an arrangement,” I say, perhaps a bit too sharply. “It's charity work. Which is kind of our whole thing, isn't it? 'Feed my sheep' and all that?”
My father looks pained, the vein on the side of his neck bulges as his exasperation grows.
“Cecelia, may I speak with you privately?”
“Actually, Reverend,” Brayden interrupts, stepping forward with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and purposeful—as though he’s reporting for duty. “This was my idea. Your daughter is simply trying to help feed families in need. If you have concerns about me using church property, I understand.”
But my father surprises me. As he studies Brayden’s face, something shifts in his expression. Not approval, exactly, but… consideration.
“Your aunt speaks highly of you.”