Page 1 of Preacher Man (Divine Temptations #1)

Chapter One

Ethan

G od help me, I was lying to myself the minute I crossed the Meadowgrove city limit. If I thought I was here to help people instead of escaping the gossip and threats I’d experienced at my last posting, I was kidding myself.

The town looked like something off a damn postcard.

Sweet little shops with hand-painted signs, hanging flower baskets drooping from every lamppost, a courthouse with an actual clock tower in the middle of the square.

All of it bathed in golden light like Jesus had curated it himself for maximum southern charm.

I hated it immediately.

My car wheezed like an old man climbing stairs as I coasted to a stop near a drugstore that still had a sign boasting “Soda Fountain Inside!”—as if that were a selling point in the year of our Lord whatever.

The AC in my car had given up somewhere outside Nashville, and now every inch of my shirt was clinging to me.

I wiped my face with the hem of the same T-shirt I’d slept in the night before and pulled out my phone to double-check where I was supposed to meet the deacon who’d hired me. Brother Thomas. Right. Meadowgrove Pharmacy, 3 PM.

I was two minutes late, but that felt fitting. I hadn’t been on time to a church function since before I stopped believing the Holy Spirit wasn’t just something we made up to keep the tambourine section busy.

The town was quiet. Too quiet. Like I’d stepped into a life-size snow globe with all the pieces frozen in place.

Something about it made my skin itch. I’d grown up in places like this.

God-fearing, gossip-loving, morality-policing little towns where you either fit in or you disappeared. And I’d done both.

I spotted a man in a dark suit standing stiffly in the drugstore’s doorway. Deacon uniform. Tie too tight, smile too wide. That had to be Brother Thomas. He waved when he saw me, and I braced myself.

“Ethan Carter?” he asked as I stepped out into the heat. His handshake was firm, but weirdly dry, like he’d been waiting in a freezer instead of the July sun. “You made it. Praise God.”

“Praise Him,” I echoed automatically, though it came out like someone who’d stubbed a toe.

“You find the place all right?”

“GPS doesn’t believe it exists, but yeah. I got here.”

Brother Thomas smiled, and it was the kind of smile that said “We’re glad you’re here,” but also maybe “We hope you don’t ask too many questions.

” A smile I’d seen too many times in church basements and prayer circles and Sunday potlucks where people were a little too excited to mention how “we don’t get many new folks ‘round here.”

He stepped aside to let me in, and the bell above the pharmacy door jingled.

“Meadowgrove’s a good place,” he said as we walked inside. “Small, but strong in faith. We’ve been praying for someone to lead us.”

That word— lead —made my stomach twist. I was supposed to be here as a guest preacher. Just a few weeks. Maybe a few months. Not a messiah.

I smiled anyway. That’s what I was good at. Smiling, nodding, pretending the spiritual scaffolding hadn’t already collapsed inside me. A few sermons, a few hallelujahs, and I’d be gone.

Except nothing’s ever that simple. Not when you’re trying to outrun a scandal. Not when you’re trying to forget what, or who, you left behind.

Brother Thomas hadn’t so much as glanced toward the lunch counter.

Which surprised me. Usually, when churches invited a new preacher, especially one they weren’t paying much, there was a little more hospitality.

A coffee, maybe a stale cookie from the prayer group leftovers.

At the very least, a question like “You eaten yet, son?” But Thomas was all business.

“We need to move quickly,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Long day, and I’ve still got the prayer circle at six.”

I blinked. “Oh. Uh. Sure.”

I watched him stride out onto the sidewalk, already digging in his pocket for keys, leaving me in a rush of awkward silence and air that smelled like bleach and peanut brittle.

“Well, he’s a ray of sunshine,” said a voice behind me, scratchy with cigarettes and sass.

I turned and found the woman behind the lunch counter giving me a look that split the difference between amused and unimpressed.

She looked to be in her seventies, hair like a helmet of pink-tinged curls, lipstick that matched the cherries in the countertop sundae display.

She wore a soda jerk apron over a floral blouse and was tapping her fake nails against the counter like a jazz drummer on a slow night.

“Can I get a cheeseburger and a Coke to go?” I asked, offering a polite smile.

“Sure, hon.” She moved like she’d done this a million times, but she kept glancing at the front window. “Thomas isn’t stayin’ long enough to eat, huh?”

I shrugged. “Guess not.”

She snorted. “Church folks are always in a hurry. Too busy saving souls to chew their food.”

I didn’t respond to that. Just smiled tightly and looked anywhere but at her.

The truth was, she reminded me of a dozen women I’d known growing up.

Tough, chatty, and able to smell bullshit from a hundred paces.

If I told her I was the new preacher, she’d probably have my life story dissected and catalogued before she handed me a ketchup packet.

A few minutes later, she slid the bag across the counter. “Here ya go. Burger’s hot, Coke’s cold. Just like me.”

I let out a weak laugh and reached for my wallet.

She leaned closer as I paid. “Careful with that one,” she said under her breath, eyes flicking toward the window. “The real crazy ones always wear crosses.”

I gave a small, polite chuckle, hoping it passed for ignorance. Didn’t feel like kicking off my first day with a confession to a stranger.

“Thanks,” I said, and booked it out the door like it might slam shut behind me and trap me in a Hallmark movie.

Brother Thomas was pacing next to a car that looked like it had rolled straight off the set of Jesus and the Fast & the Furious.

It was a dented white Impala with chrome bumpers and a flurry of bumper stickers slapped on the back like protest signs at a revival.

Honk if you love Jesus. God said it, I believe it, that settles it. My boss is a Jewish carpenter.

He glanced up when he saw me, sighed like I’d kept him waiting an hour instead of five minutes, and gestured impatiently. “Follow me.”

Then he got in the car, cranked the engine with a sound like the Second Coming trying to start up, and peeled off down the street.

I stared after him, then looked at my car, which was more rust than paint, sighed, and climbed in.

“Here we go,” I muttered, switching the ignition and hearing the engine wheeze like it was already tired of this assignment.

I followed the Impala down the sun-drenched street, past the flower baskets and the bakery and the frozen-in-time charm that made my stomach twist. I’d hoped for a soft landing. What I’d gotten was a town straight out of a storybook, and I’d never been much for fairy tales.

Not anymore.

* * *

I followed Brother Thomas as he made a sharp right off the smooth pavement onto a bumpy dirt road, the tires of his ancient Dodge kicking up a little dust cloud behind him.

The road was patchy—sand, gravel, and stubborn weeds cracking through the surface—like someone had forgotten to care for it in years.

After a minute, the small brick church came into view.

It wasn’t just a sanctuary. It had a few other attached rooms, probably for meetings or Sunday school, all pressed close, like they were holding on for dear life.

The brick was weathered, streaked with age, but the faded wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze made it clear: First Light Fellowship of Meadowgrove .

Something flickered in my chest. A tiny spark of hope, maybe. Hopefully, this place wouldn’t be like every other run-down church I’d landed in, stuck in some drafty shack. Maybe the parsonage would be decent.

Then I spotted it.

About a hundred yards past the church sat a single-wide trailer, crusted with peeling paint and dust like it had been parked and forgotten decades ago.

The windows were grimy, the steps to the porch rusty and sagging, and the “yard” was mostly sand, gravel, and dead grass. My stomach sank like a stone.

I should be focusing on the Word, not the sad trailer I was about to live in.

Brother Thomas’s car rolled up and stopped in front of the trailer. I parked beside him. He stepped out and handed me a jangling set of keys. One set for the church, and one for the trailer. The metal felt cold and heavier than it should.

“I can’t wait to hear you preach on Sunday,” he said, like he was trying to will me into believing it.

Then, just like that, he climbed back in his Impala, fired it up with a growl, and peeled away down the dirt road, leaving me standing alone by that trailer, the weight of what I’d agreed to pressing down hard.

The quiet stretched out around me, broken only by the gravel underfoot and the low hum of distant cicadas.

I popped the trunk and grabbed my luggage.

Two scuffed suitcases and a busted garment bag that had seen too many bad Sundays.

Being a preacher didn’t exactly come with a 401k or airline miles.

It paid just enough so my clothes looked presentable from the pulpit and I could afford to buy the occasional book.

I shut the trunk and stood there for a second, staring at the trailer like it might spontaneously combust and save me the trouble.

Then I sighed and trudged up the steps that creaked like arthritic bones, unlocked the flimsy front door, and stepped inside.

Lord have mercy.

It smelled like mildew, and something fried, maybe onions, maybe despair.

The carpet squished faintly under my shoes, and the blinds were half-bent, yellowed with time and God knew what else.

The little kitchen table beside the stove was covered in dust and sticky rings, like someone had left behind generations of forgotten drinks.

A lonely ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, clicking on every revolution like it was counting down to my inevitable breakdown.

I wanted to sit, eat my burger, pretend like this wasn’t my life.

But I couldn’t. Not here. Not with the grease and grime clinging to the laminate countertops and the faint, unsettling hum of something living under the sink.

I set my food on the counter and wandered the place in search of cleaning supplies. I searched under the sink, in the narrow hallway closet, even in the little bathroom with its salmon-pink tiles and cracked mirror.

Nothing. Not even a half-used bottle of bleach or a sponge hardened into stone.

I rubbed my face with both hands and sighed again. “Okay,” I muttered, “the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

Maybe the church had supplies. They probably used them to wipe down pews and clean up after potlucks and toddler meltdowns. It was worth a shot.

I stepped out into the blazing sun, letting the screen door slam behind me, and started walking toward First Light Fellowship. The cicadas were in full swing now, buzzing like a warning siren in the trees. I was halfway across the patchy yard when something stopped me.

Music.

Soft, delicate. Classical. Something piano-heavy and wistful. Chopin, maybe? It floated through the air like it didn’t belong here. Too beautiful for this dusty, broken place.

Then came laughter. Rich, full-bodied, male. A warm, effortless sound that curled around me and pulled me closer without permission.

I glanced up.

There was a man on the church roof, crouched down near the edge.

Shirtless. Tan skin gleaming in the sun, shoulders broad and sculpted like a Greek statue left out in the Southern heat too long.

He was wearing worn jeans that rode low on his hips, and a red bandana was tied around one wrist. His hair, black and wild, curled at the ends, damp with sweat.

There was a tool belt slung around his waist, and he moved with serene confidence, like he’d been doing this kind of work forever.

Oh no.

I stopped dead in my tracks, pulse stuttering like a bad transmission.

No, no, no. Don’t do this, Ethan. Don’t start this again.

But it was already happening. The heat in my chest, the clench low in my gut, the inexplicable sense that I’d just seen something dangerous and holy at the same time.

“God,” I whispered, “please. Not now.”

And I meant it. But prayer’s a funny thing. It doesn’t always work on your schedule.

Because right then, the man looked down and caught me staring.

His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but I knew he saw me. Knew it by the grin that spread across his face, slow and playful, like he’d just caught a cat sneaking into a fish market.

“Hey there!” he called, voice deep and twangy. “I’m Jake. Fixing the roof. Are you the new Preacher Man?”