Page 12 of Preacher Man (Divine Temptations #1)

Chapter Twelve

Jake

“I fucking hate Sundays.”

Bright sunlight poured through the gaps in my blackout curtains like it had something to prove, and I groaned, flipping onto my stomach to bury my face in a pillow that definitely smelled like sadness and old sesame chicken.

The Game Show Network was still playing on mute, the same damn rerun of Press Your Luck I’d watched three times in a row now. I didn’t even care who won anymore. I just needed the distraction.

At first, I thought it was something I did. That maybe I’d pushed Ethan hard, gone too far. Maybe asking him to love me in the daylight had been too much.

But then I heard one of the crusty old deacons at the church talking outside the sanctuary.

Something about the summer youth camp up in the mountains and Brother Ethan “praying and teaching the obedient children.” Something about how, “hopefully when he returns, he’ll be ready to lead the flock the right way. ”

That’s when the nausea set in.

He didn’t leave because of me.

He left because of them.

Because their hate was louder than my love. Because they still had their claws in him, twisting and pulling and whispering lies wrapped in Bible verses.

I lay in bed, face pressed to the pillow, trying not to cry again. My house smelled like french fries and regret, and the floor was littered with fast food bags and plastic utensils.

Normally, I was a neat freak. I hated clutter. Hated crumbs. But right now? I was living in a landfill and didn’t have the energy to give a single shit.

The kitchen sink was stacked with dishes I didn’t remember using. There was a dried-up chicken wing in the living room. My laundry was a pile on the floor that had become part of the ecosystem.

I hadn’t showered in… God, I didn’t even know.

I groaned and rolled over, forcing myself to sit up. My muscles ached from doing absolutely nothing, and my neck cracked like I was 85 years old.

“I gotta get out of the house,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I stood, shuffling toward the dresser like a zombie. Caught my reflection in the mirror above it and winced.

Jesus.

My hair was wild, like a raccoon had nested in it. My jaw was patchy with stubble, and my eyes looked like two bruises had taken up permanent residence beneath them.

I looked like I’d lost a bar fight.

I stared at myself a second longer, jaw tight, then sighed. “Get your shit together, Jake.”

But I didn’t know how.

I didn’t want to clean or shower or call a friend or go for a drive.

I wanted Ethan.

And I was so mad at myself for still wanting him.

But then something shifted in my chest—just a flicker.

A thought.

The church.

Yeah, I disagreed with almost everything the people in there stood for. But… maybe if I sat through a service, I’d feel him.

Maybe I’d hear something that would make this ache make sense.

Or maybe I was just desperate enough to look for scraps of Ethan anywhere he might’ve left a shadow.

Either way, I knew what I had to do.

I turned from the mirror and padded into the bathroom, turning on the faucet in the shower. Once the air grew thick with steam, I stepped into the shower, wincing as the hot water pelted my skin.

“Gotta get clean for church,” I mumbled.

* * *

I pulled into the church parking lot on my Harley like I was rolling into a damn war zone.

The engine rumbled low beneath me as I kicked down the stand and climbed off, tugging off my helmet and raking a hand through my hair. I was clean, technically. Showered, deodorized, and wearing the least-wrinkled black T-shirt I could find. Jeans with only one hole in the knee. Real classy.

God’s gonna strike me dead as soon as I step foot in the church. I thought dryly. Maybe I should’ve worn a lightning rod around my neck, just to speed up the process.

The front doors loomed in front of me like I was walking into a lion’s den, but fuck it. I didn’t come here for Jesus.

I came for Ethan.

I pushed open the heavy door, and the air inside hit me like a time warp. Stale perfume, old Bibles, and whatever cologne Brother Thomas probably bathed in. Something cheap.

I slid into the back pew as quietly as I could, though my boots still squeaked like I was trying to sabotage my own entrance. I sat down, stiff and awkward, like I was afraid the seat would burn my skin. I half-expected the wood beneath my ass to sizzle and catch fire.

But then it hit me.

That feeling. Like the sun through the clouds after a storm, or warm hands smoothing over my chest, calming my heartbeat.

Ethan.

Not the physical kind of presence—he wasn’t here—but something in the air vibrated with the memory of him. The ghost of him, maybe. The proper kind, not the spooky kind.

He’d sat in these pews. Ethan had walked down this aisle. He’d breathed the same air I was breathing now.

And even surrounded by all this holy bullshit, he’d been bright. Not dimmed or diminished. Not like these people who believed they were chosen by God just because they were loud and judgmental.

Ethan wasn’t chosen. Ethan chose. He chose compassion when they chose condemnation. He chose me.

Even if he couldn’t stay.

The organ creaked to life and the old lady up front, Sister something, started banging out the first hymn like it was a funeral march. Everyone around me stood up, all at once, like Jesus himself had whispered “Rise.”

I didn’t move.

I just sat there, hands on my thighs, watching them. Then the song ended, and everyone sat again in unison. The scrape of wooden pews echoed like creaky bones settling.

Then the real torture began.

Brother Thomas stepped up to the pulpit like a man with a mission. He smoothed down his tie, adjusted his mic, and launched into a Bible lesson so disturbing it made me flinch.

Genesis 22. Abraham and Isaac. The test of faith. You know, the one where God’s like, “Hey Abe, stab your kid for me, would you?” And Abraham’s like, “Sure, Big G, anything for You.”

What the actual hell?

The more he droned on about obedience and loyalty and sacrificing what you love, the more my hands curled into fists in my lap. The man sounded gleeful about it, like he couldn’t wait to be tested in the same way.

I almost stood up and walked out.

And then the church doors creaked open behind me.

I froze.

Then I turned my head, my heart pounding in my ears, a million thoughts crashing through my brain at once.

And there he was.

Ethan.

Hair a little messy, like he’d driven with the windows down. A denim jacket I hadn’t seen before clinging to his shoulders. His eyes searched the room until they landed on me, and when they did, the breath got punched right out of my chest.

Jesus.

He looked tired. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked like I felt.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t fucking breathe.

Because at that moment, I didn’t care about Abraham or Isaac or obedience or any of it.

All I knew was that Ethan was here.

And maybe, just maybe, he came back for me.

You could hear a pin drop.

The congregation turned like a wave, heads swiveling, gasps rippling through the pews like gossip at a Baptist potluck.

Ethan walked slowly down the center aisle, eyes fixed on the pulpit. On Brother Thomas.

I could barely process it. Could barely sit still. My entire body felt like it was thrumming with lightning, like every nerve ending had remembered what it meant to be alive.

And then I realized Ethan wasn’t just visiting.

He wasn’t here to say goodbye.

He was here to say something.

Brother Thomas sputtered into his mic, voice low and tight. “Brother Ethan, shouldn’t you be at the youth camp? I thought you were… ”

Ethan didn’t even slow his stride. Just glared. One of those sharp, soul-deep, don’t-fuck-with-me stares that said more than a thousand sermons ever could.

Brother Thomas stepped aside like he’d been shoved by the Holy Ghost himself.

Ethan climbed the steps and stood behind the pulpit, placing his hands on either side of it like he was steadying himself. Or maybe preparing to shake the walls with truth.

He didn’t open a Bible. Didn’t look down at notes. His gaze swept across us all, then he commenced speaking.

“God is love.”

His voice was calm. Clear. Strong.

“And if we don’t understand what that means, then we don’t understand God at all.”

Silence.

No one moved. Not a cough, not a whisper. Not even a fake church sneeze.

“Love isn’t a threat. It’s not a test. It’s not something to be earned with pain or shame or silence. Love doesn’t demand sacrifice. It demands honesty. Compassion. Connection.”

My throat went tight. My heart was pounding.

“God’s love doesn’t come with fine print or escape clauses. It’s not reserved for people who follow a script, or who perform the right way. God’s love is enormous. Messy. Infinite. And it includes all of us.”

I could see tears in his eyes now. But he didn’t break. He glowed. Like every word was setting him more and more free.

“I spent so long trying to be what this place wanted. I twisted myself into knots, trying to be the man you expected, hoping that I’d be enough. But I was always enough. Not because of this place. But because God made me to love.”

He looked right at me.

Dead center. Bullseye. Like I was the only one in that sanctuary.

“And God gave me you, Jake.”

My breath caught.

He turned back to the crowd, voice trembling now, but not with fear. With feeling.

“He gave me someone brave enough to love me, even when I couldn’t love myself. Someone who held up a mirror and said, ‘Look. Look who you really are.’”

Tears slid down my cheeks, and I didn’t care who saw. And then he said my name out loud, into the mic, like a gospel chorus.

“I love you, Jake,” Ethan said. “More than life itself. Jake, come up here.”

My legs moved before my brain caught up. My boots echoed on the floor as I stood, climbed the steps, and walked toward him.

Heart hammering. Hands shaking.

He reached for me the second I was within range, pulling me into the pulpit like I belonged there. Like this was our altar now.

He looked into my eyes and said, voice thick with emotion, “God doesn’t make mistakes. And loving you has been the most holy thing I’ve ever done.”

Then he kissed me.

In front of everyone.

The crowd erupted.

Gasps. Murmurs. A single sharp clap that turned into others. Someone shouted “Hallelujah!” A woman in a mint-green hat fainted right into her husband’s arms.

But all I could feel was him. All I could taste was Ethan, warm, real, and finally mine.

I pulled back just enough to look him in the eye and whispered, “I love you too.”

Then I said it louder, for everyone to hear.

“I love Ethan.”

The room was buzzing now. Half stunned, half joyful. One man stood to clap, and then others followed. Not everyone, but enough.

Enough to know the light was winning.

And I held him right there, in front of the cross and the crowd and the judgment and the love, and I knew…

This was our miracle