Page 13 of Preacher Man (Divine Temptations #1)

Ethan- One Year Later

I used to think “home” was something you inherited. A place tied to your past, passed down like a family Bible or a recipe for potato salad you don’t even like.

Turns out, home is Jake drinking his coffee shirtless on our porch while the sun rises over Mechanicsville and the cows across the road moo like they’re judging his bedhead.

And maybe they are. It’s impressive bedhead. He’s got that just-slept-like-a-saint-but-fucks-like-a-sinner look down to a science.

I stood at the screen door, coffee in hand, and offered up a silent prayer of gratitude.

Jake looked back at me and smiled, slow and easy. That smile still brought me to my knees, even if now I got to fall into his lap every day without fear.

“Morning, preacher man,” he said, voice a little raspy.

I rolled my eyes and stepped outside, curling into the chair beside his. “I haven’t preached in a year.”

He winked. “You preach at me every time I forget to rinse out my mug.”

I snorted. “That’s evangelism, babe.”

We sipped our coffee in silence for a minute, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

Mechanicsville was quiet in the mornings, just birds and wind and the occasional hum of an old truck in the distance.

The house was small but perfect. White siding, navy shutters, and a wraparound porch we built together the first month after we moved in.

I wanted to live in Richmond. I dreamed of the city, the bookstores, the bustle. But Jake liked the quiet. The space. He said it reminded him of who he used to be before life got so complicated. And I understood that. I wanted to be close enough to the city to thrive—but far enough away to breathe.

So we compromised.

We found a tiny house on the outskirts of Mechanicsville, close enough to the country for Jake to have room for his tools, bikes, and weekend projects, and close enough to the city for me to finally open my bookstore on Grace Street.

That place had been a Methodist church bookstore back in the day. A relic, mostly dust and forgotten pamphlets when I rented it. But the bones were good, and with a little paint and a lot of help from Jake, it became my dream.

Still Waters Bookshop.

People come in for the used paperbacks, stay for the fresh coffee and the shelf of banned books I keep proudly on display by the window.

Sometimes I catch teenagers sneaking peeks at the queer romance section like they’re doing something dangerous.

I always make sure to smile at them so they know they’re safe here.

As for Jake, he opened up his own bike shop just off the main road near our house.

It’s not flashy, but the locals love him.

Farmers. Vets. Hell, even some of the suburban dads who think they’re bad boys because they bought a Harley at forty-nine.

Jake treats them all with that same gruff kindness that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

We’ll never be rich.

But we’re wealthy in ways I never imagined.

People still ask us what happened after that day in the church. After the kiss.

The short version? They kicked me out of the fellowship before the choir finished their closing hymn. I didn’t even pack up my office. Just walked out, holding Jake’s hand.

He lost his maintenance job with the church the same week.

And I won’t lie, it was hard. Losing the job didn’t break Jake, but losing his house? The one his dad left him? That hurt. I remember the way he stood in the living room, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

“There’s no reason to stay,” I breathed. “We’ve got everything we need. Just not here.”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

Then he nodded.

We sold the house and packed up everything we had into a rented trailer. The town gave us a sendoff like we were heading off to war. Half of them crying, half of them proud. Of course, none of the church members said goodbye. Jobs were scarce, but kindness wasn’t. We carried that with us.

And now?

Now, we live a life full of simple, sacred things.

Like the way Jake kisses my shoulder every morning before I wake up. Or how he keeps a little bookshelf at his bike shop for “Ethan’s smutty recs.” Or how he proposed to me last month under the stars, nervous and serious and shaking like a leaf.

I said yes before he could finish asking.

The ring is simple. Silver. It catches the light when I hand someone their receipt at the shop, and every time I see it, I remember that moment. Jake kneeling in the dirt, with the dogs barking in the distance and his hands trembling as he said, “I want to grow old with you, Ethan.”

“You still thinking about the wedding?” Jake asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I smiled at him, sunlight hitting his face just right. “I was thinking about how lucky I am. But yeah… the wedding too.”

“Just tell me where to stand and what to wear,” he said, finishing his coffee. “I already got everything I need.”

I reached for his hand.

Pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“Same.”

This was the genuine miracle.

Not the church, or the sermons. Not even the kiss that shook a sanctuary full of sinners.

The miracle was surviving it. Choosing each other.

Every single day.

And building a life that looked nothing like the one we left behind,

but felt more like heaven than anything else ever could.