Page 2 of Preacher Man (Divine Temptations #1)

Chapter Two

Jake

T he new preacher looked like he just stepped out of a damn Calvin Klein ad, and he had eyes like he’d seen too much.

I was halfway through hammering a stubborn shingle back into place when I saw him.

Tall, buttoned-up, hair too nice for this humidity.

He stood out here like a piano in a pigpen.

One hand rested on his hip, the other shading his eyes as he stared up at me, squinting into the sun like he wasn’t sure if I was part of the scenery or a hallucination.

“Be down in a minute!” I shouted, setting the hammer down with a clunk.

He gave a brief nod, stiff as a fencepost.

I climbed down the ladder, slow and easy, making a point not to trip and bust my ass in front of the preacher. When I hit the grass, I dusted my hands on my jeans and took a few steps forward, trying not to make it weird. Which meant it was already weird.

The guy looked good. Like real good. Slim-fit slacks, pressed shirt rolled at the sleeves, skin just golden enough to suggest he got sun without trying. His jaw was firm and tense, like he was holding something back. Grief, maybe. Or temptation. Not that I was projecting or anything.

I stuck my hand out. “Jake.”

He took it after a second’s hesitation. His grip was warm, and his voice careful. “Ethan.”

“Welcome to Meadowgrove,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic. “We got one gas station, no stoplights, and half a church.”

Ethan gave me this polite preacher-smile like he was used to dealing with bullshit politely. “Thanks.”

We stood there for a beat too long, hands dropped, neither of us moving.

“So,” I said, rocking back on my heels. “You want the fifty-cent tour? I know this place better than the folks who worship here.”

He blinked. “You attend First Light Fellowship?”

I laughed. “God, no.” Then I cleared my throat. “Sorry. That came out real... Old Testament.”

His eyebrows ticked up, just enough to make me think he’d heard worse but still felt obligated to comment. “I take it you’re not a believer?”

I shrugged and looked toward the roof like it might offer divine cover. “Let’s just say me and the Big Guy have an agreement. I don’t bother Him, and he doesn’t smite me.”

Ethan didn’t laugh, exactly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

I opened the heavy side door and motioned for him to go in. “After you, Preacher Man.”

He hesitated like he was bracing himself, then stepped inside.

The sanctuary smelled like old wood, wax, and hymnals left out too long in the sun. The air was stale but quiet in that churchy way, like the building was holding its breath.

“It’s... charming,” Ethan said, glancing up at the cracked stained glass that let in strips of colored light.

“Charming if you’re into mold and mice.”

He ran a hand along one of the pews, looking thoughtful. “You said you don’t come here, but you know the place?”

I nodded. “Been fixing it since I was seventeen. Roof, plumbing, pew legs, busted doors. You name it, I’ve patched it.”

He looked at me then—really looked—and I saw the curiosity behind the calm. The preacher had eyes that didn’t just see, but searched. Like he was trying to figure out if I was a threat or just a smartass in a tool belt.

“You’re the caretaker?”

“Unofficially. They hire me under the table. Guess it’s easier than paying a real company.”

“And they don’t... mind your beliefs?” he asked, careful-like.

I smiled. “They don’t ask. And I don’t tell ‘em I hit up The Park in Roanoke twice a month, order whiskey sours, and tip the drag queens after a great show.”

That finally got a genuine reaction. Preacher man coughed into his hand and glanced away.

“Sorry,” I added, not sorry at all. “Too much?”

“It’s... enlightening,” Ethan said after a second. “Though maybe not exactly what I’d share in Sunday announcements.”

“Fair.”

I started walking toward the little raised pulpit at the front of the room.

The microphone was taped together, and the altar cloth had a burn mark from a Christmas candle incident nobody liked to talk about.

I glanced back to see him following, head tilted slightly, like he was trying to see the place with grace despite the rot.

“You preachin’ your first sermon this Sunday?” I asked, more curious than I meant to sound.

“Yes.”

“Well,” I said, leaning against the railing, “good luck. You’ll need it.”

He looked at me, unsure if I meant that as encouragement or warning.

And honestly, so was I.

I gave Ethan the rest of the tour, even though it was more “abandoned building vibes” than a house of the Lord.

Preacher Man stayed polite the whole time, like he was on a real estate tour of a haunted Airbnb.

I liked that about him. How he didn’t flinch at the grime or the faded wallpaper curling at the edges.

“This here’s the adult Sunday schoolroom,” I said, pushing open a door to a windowless little box with a warped whiteboard and mismatched folding chairs. “Used mostly by Sister Janice and her Bible study group, which I think is code for passive-aggressively judging the neighbors.”

Ethan chuckled, the tiniest crack in the polished surface. “How many attend?”

“Depends on the gossip that week.”

He said nothing, but I saw the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth again.

I motioned across the hall. “Kids’ room’s over here. Don’t worry, I checked last month for rats. Only found one. Dead.”

That finally got a laugh. Soft, a little breathy. I liked the sound of it way more than I should have.

I led him through a short hallway, toward the back of the church.

“This is the fellowship hall,” I said, pushing open double doors. The room smelled like every church potluck I attended as a kid. Lukewarm baked beans, macaroni casseroles, and generational trauma.

A long row of folding tables lined the center of the room.

Plastic chairs leaned against the walls like they were tired of standing.

The linoleum under our boots cracked and popped with every step.

The kitchenette sat in the far corner, all yellowing cabinets and a sink that hadn’t seen a proper scrub since Bush was president.

Ethan made a beeline for it.

He crouched and opened the cabinet beneath the sink, squinting into the shadows. A second later, he pulled out a half-used bottle of bleach, Lysol, a dusty roll of paper towels, and what might have been a sponge in the early 2000s.

“Is there a bag or a box I can put these in?” he asked, standing with his arms full of the sad supplies.

That’s when it hit me.

He’d seen the trailer.

Poor bastard.

“Lemme guess,” I said, leaning against the counter. “You walked into that deathtrap they call a parsonage and realized the congregation here loves a wonderful sermon, but not enough to keep the preacher in a decent home.”

His jaw twitched, just barely. He didn’t need to answer me.

I sighed and opened the top cabinet. Found an old paper grocery bag crammed behind a box of communion wafers. I shook it out and started dropping his finds inside.

“You don’t have to do that,” he mumbled, reaching for the sponge at the same time I did.

Our hands touched.

Nothing dramatic. Just skin on skin. But something about it made me freeze. My fingers curled slightly, like they wanted more. Like they remembered something I hadn’t had in a long damn time.

Warmth. Contact. The silent buzz of interest.

I looked up. Ethan’s eyes were already on me, wide and unreadable.

I cleared my throat, tried to play it cool. “Not a problem. Consider it my good deed for the decade.”

I dropped the last bottle of Lysol in the bag and stepped back like distance would help. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

“This way,” I said, walking toward the last door on the tour. “Let me show you your... luxurious office space.”

He followed, bag in hand.

I opened the narrow door and motioned him inside.

The room was barely big enough to fit the desk.

It was one of those heavy, ancient things with brass handles and scratch marks from someone’s long-dead cat, probably.

A single bulb hung from the ceiling. Old water damage and decades of bad sermons stained the walls.

“It’s... cozy,” Ethan said.

“Yeah. Cozy like a coffin.”

We both stepped inside and instantly realized our mistake.

Two adult men did not fit in this space without brushing shoulders.

I caught a whiff of his sweat—just faint, but clean and earthy and.

.. fuck, it was attractive. I rarely went for the buttoned-up type, but there was something about how tightly wound he was.

Made me want to see what would happen if he unraveled.

“This desk’s sturdy, though,” I said, knocking my knuckles on the surface. “You could probably survive a tornado under here.”

He arched a brow at me. “Good to know.”

I grinned. “C’mon, Preacher Man. Let me walk you back to your trailer. I’ve repaired enough of that place to know where the floorboards creak.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. Thanks.”

We stepped back into the hallway, and as I reached for the church’s front door, he added, “Perhaps... you want to put a shirt on first?”

I stopped mid-step.

Well, well, well.

Straight men don’t say that. Not with that tone. And definitely not with that look.

I turned to face him, fighting back the smirk. “Noticed that, did you?”

He said nothing, but his ears were pink, and he glanced away like he was mad at himself.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

When we got outside, I grabbed my t-shirt from the pile of tools and supplies where I’d tossed it earlier and slipped it on.

We walked in silence, the summer sun hanging low and mean behind us as we made our way down the dusty gravel path to the trailer out back. The silence didn’t feel awkward, though. Just... watchful. Like, the air between us had turned thick enough to chew on.

I glanced sideways more than once, just to steal a look. He walked with purpose, head high, shoulders straight, but I could tell his mind was somewhere else—processing everything, probably. The church. The town. Me.

When we reached the trailer, Ethan slowed. His hand hovered for a second over the rusted handle, then gripped it. The metal screeched in protest as he yanked the door open.

He flinched. Not a lot. Just enough for me to catch it.

He stepped inside first, and I followed behind him like I’d done it a hundred times. Hell, I probably had. I’d fixed the busted plumbing twice. Rewired the electricity once. Replaced two floorboards and the back screen door. The smell hit me right away, like it always did.

Neglect. Mildew. Forgotten sins. The place reeked of bad history and budget cuts.

Ethan didn’t comment, just walked toward the tiny kitchenette with that paper bag of cleaning supplies cradled in one arm like a sad housewarming gift. He didn’t complain, didn’t curse, didn’t even sigh. But the stiffness in his shoulders told me everything I needed to know.

He was too proud to say it. Too damn kind to admit he deserved better.

I pulled my business card from my back pocket. It was creased and smudged from riding around in my jeans for weeks, and held it out.

“If you ever need anything...” I paused, cleared my throat. “Anything at all, just give me a ring. You know. Repairs. Or, whatever.”

He looked at the card, then up at me.

The smallest smile ghosted over his face before he took it. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He looked down again, reading the name— Jake Bishop, General Contracting & Repairs —then said, softer this time, “Call me Ethan. Not Preacher Man.”

That made me grin. “Alright, Ethan.” I put just enough drawl in it to make it stick.

He glanced down, clearly trying to hide a smile.

I nodded toward the door. “Guess I’ll let you settle in.”

I turned and stepped outside, down the dented metal steps. The screen door banged shut behind me like it always did.

And I could feel it—his eyes following me the entire way as I strolled back up the gravel path toward the church. Watching me like he was still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Truth was, I wasn’t so sure myself.

But as I reached the ladder and looked back at that shabby little trailer with the holy man inside, I couldn’t shake one question from my head.

Had Ethan felt that spark too, or was I just fooling myself?