Page 3 of Preacher Man (Divine Temptations #1)

Chapter Three

Ethan

I t had been three weeks since I rolled into Meadowgrove with all my worldly possessions crammed into the trunk of my car and a stomach full of cautious optimism. Three weeks of awkward hellos, bland casseroles, and smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes.

People were polite, but polite in the way a small town could be when they didn’t quite trust you yet. Or maybe didn’t want to. Like a dog sniffing at a new collar, unsure if it wanted to bite it or allow it to be placed around its neck.

No one really saw me. No one except Jake.

Jake who kept showing up under the pretense of checking on a loose floorboard or a leaky faucet.

Jake with his dusty tool belt, sun-browned skin, and maddeningly kind smile.

He never stayed long. Just long enough to fix something, make a comment that left me flustered, and vanish again.

I told myself he was just being neighborly.

But neighborly wasn’t supposed to feel like temptation.

Today, I’d found him in the last place I expected.

The back pew of First Light Fellowship of Meadowgrove.

I spotted him the moment I stepped into the sanctuary.

There he was, lounging in the farthest pew like he was daring someone to ask why he was there.

One arm slung over the back of the bench, legs stretched out, sunglasses pushed up on his head like he’d forgotten to take them off before stepping inside. His eyes met mine.

And I forgot what I’d planned to say.

Brother Fred was at the pulpit by then, reading in his usual slow, gravelly drawl.

“The Lord is a jealous God, and vengeance shall be His...”

Fire. Brimstone. Blood.

Same thing every week.

Brother Fred had a face like a crumpled road map and the voice of a man who’d chain-smoked through two apocalypses.

His bible lesson wasn’t even his own today—just a reading.

A greatest-hits compilation of judgment, wrath, and endless damnation, delivered with all the flair of a doomsday prophet on speed.

The congregation nodded along like sheep at slaughter.

I sat there in the front row, fingers clenched together, jaw tight. This wasn’t what I believed. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

My Christ wasn’t a sword-wielding punisher. My Christ was the one who sat with lepers, broke bread with traitors, and forgave murderers.

Fred’s prayer was long. Too long. I think he was trying to beat a personal record. People shifted in their seats, muttering amen every few lines to stay awake. I stared at the pulpit, but I could feel Jake’s eyes on me like a heat source behind my shoulder.

Finally, Fred stepped down, and I climbed up to the pulpit.

The wood beneath my shoes creaked, and I set my folded notes on the lectern. I looked out over the congregation: families in ironed shirts, a row of elderly women in pastel, a scattering of teenagers trying to look inconspicuous, and Jake, still slouched in the back like a beautiful contradiction.

I cleared my throat.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

A few heads tilted. They weren’t expecting this.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

I paused, letting the silence settle over the room like a hush of wind.

“Blessed are the meek...”

I let the words wash over me. These weren’t just scripture, they were my mantra. A map. My anchor when everything else had cracked and broken.

The Beatitudes had saved me. Not from damnation, but from myself. From the version of Christianity I was taught. One built on fear, guilt, and control.

This was my Gospel. Mercy and grace. The trampled would be lifted up. The broken would be healed, and the quiet would be heard.

I glanced up from my notes, and my gaze flicked to the back pew. Jake remained motionless, his intense eyes fixed on me.

I took a breath and let the weight of the room settle around me.

The ceiling fans whirred above us in slow, sleepy circles.

A bead of sweat trailed down my spine beneath the collar of my shirt.

Not from the heat, but from nerves. From saying what needed to be said in a place that didn’t want to hear it.

“The Beatitudes,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “aren’t just some soft-hearted poetry tacked onto the front of the Sermon on the Mount. They’re the cornerstone. They’re the very heart of Christ’s message. And it wasn’t about fear, or control, or casting people out.”

I looked around. A few people shifted in their seats. One woman gave a polite smile, but her eyes were suspicious. A man in the second pew adjusted his tie like it was suddenly too tight.

“It’s about compassion,” I went on. “Real gut-level compassion for your fellow man. For the stranger. For the broken, and for the people we’re told don’t belong.”

Whispers tickled at the back of the room. Soft but unmistakable. I wasn’t na?ve. I’d heard them before.

“That preacher’s got a bleeding heart.” “He’s one of those Christians.” “All love, no backbone.”

I glanced up again and found Jake.

Still in the back pew. Still watching me. His elbow now rested on the bench, his knuckles pressed against his mouth like he was hiding a grin, or maybe just biting his tongue. Either way, he looked more alive than anyone else in the room.

“Love your neighbor as yourself,” I said. “That commandment doesn’t come with exceptions. It doesn’t say, ‘unless they’re different from you.’ Or, ‘unless they make you uncomfortable.’”

A few murmurs now. And one audible throat was cleared somewhere to my left.

I pushed on.

“And ask yourself, always, what would Jesus do? Would Jesus hate someone or throw stones? Would he cross the street to avoid someone struggling, or someone lost? No. Jesus would sit beside them. Eat with them. He touched lepers when no one else would. Jesus protected adulterers when the crowd had already picked up their rocks.”

My fingers curled around the edge of the pulpit.

“Even in Deuteronomy, we’re told to welcome the foreigner into our land. To treat them with the same compassion we’d want for ourselves. Because we, too, were once strangers. Because grace doesn’t stop at city limits.”

Another throat cleared, this time from Brother Fred. I didn’t look at him.

Jake tilted his head slightly. I could almost feel the smirk tugging at his lips. Not mocking. More like... impressed? Curious? Proud? It rattled me.

I looked back at the congregation.

Some faces were blank. Others, uneasy. One or two looked downright annoyed. But I saw a glimmer in a few sets of eyes. Young eyes, mostly. Maybe they weren’t used to hearing this kind of Gospel.

I stepped back from the pulpit, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been.

“Let us pray,” I said, folding my hands. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Voices joined mine. Some were confident, some were flat, and some were barely above a whisper.

“…Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

As the words echoed off the wood-paneled walls and weathered hymnals, I thought of every time I’d felt unwelcome in a church.

Every sideways glance. Every sermon about sin that danced around people like me.

And yet here I stood, behind a pulpit I wasn’t supposed to touch, speaking of love and mercy, with Jake Mercer watching from the back row like he knew every secret I’d ever held in my heart.

“Deliver us from evil. Amen.”

A beat of silence.

Then I looked out again.

“It is now time,” I announced, “for the Eucharist.”

* * *

The sanctuary emptied faster than I thought possible. One minute I was standing at the altar, stacking the Communion cups back on the tray, and the next… gone. Everyone. Just—poof. Vanished, like they’d been waiting for an excuse to escape.

Well, except Jake.

He was still planted in the same back pew, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms slung over the back like he owned the place. Watching me.

I didn’t know what to make of that.

Technically, it was potluck Sunday. Fellowship hall, lukewarm casseroles, and conversations I had no energy to fake my way through. I’d been dreading it since I saw the flyer tacked to the office corkboard, with its Comic Sans heading and clip-art of a chicken leg.

I knew I should’ve been grateful people were bringing food. Grateful they even had a potluck, considering how poor I was. But right now, it just felt like walking into a room where I already didn’t belong.

And judging by how fast they’d scattered, I had a sneaking suspicion they felt the same. My chest tightened, and I tried to shake it off.

Maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe I’d come on too strong with the sermon. Or not strong enough? Should I have picked something safer? Talked about gratitude or obedience or whatever that weird thing was about oxen in Leviticus?

I rubbed the back of my neck, then looked toward the rear pew.

Jake still hadn’t moved.

I gave him a small wave. “Hey.”

He stood slowly, stretched a bit. That flannel shirt he wore pulled tight across his chest and biceps, and I had to remind myself to breathe like a normal person.

“Do I smell like limburger cheese or something?” I muttered.

Jake’s brow rose, and I froze. Crap. Did I say that out loud?

A slow smile spread across his face, and he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Unless you’re damning someone or something,” he said, “these folks want nothing to do with it.”

I blinked at him. “Wait… you’re serious?”

Jake started walking up the aisle toward me. “Dead serious.”

We exited the sanctuary together, his boots clunking gently against the old floorboards as the doors creaked open. Outside, the light was too bright, the air a little too thick. I heard the faint sounds of chairs scraping and silverware clinking from the fellowship hall.

I didn’t move to go there. Neither did he.

“Your sermon?” Jake said, glancing sideways at me. “It was the best I’ve ever heard here. Not that I go all that often.”

I stopped walking. “Are you serious?”

His gaze flicked toward mine, and I instantly regretted asking. “Sorry,” I added. “That came out… wrong.”

Jake shrugged. “You’re not wrong to ask. Most people assume I’m just here to patch up drywall and change lightbulbs.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, then, before I could stop myself: “So… why were you here? Since you’re not a believer?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked down at his feet, one boot scuffing a dry patch of grass. He let out a breath, slow and careful, like the words needed a permission slip before they could exit his mouth.

“I came to see you,” he said. “See if you were like the rest of the Bible thumpers around here, and I’m happy I did.”

Oh.

I swallowed hard. The wind stirred the edge of my shirt. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped like it was trying to lighten the mood.

And yet all I could see was Jake.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and for reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, my eyes locked onto it like it held the answer to a prayer I hadn’t dared say aloud.

Why the hell couldn’t I stop staring? I blinked hard, forcing myself to look away.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

Jake just smiled. Not smug. Not knowing. Just… kind.

I hadn’t realized how rare that was.

We lingered just outside the sanctuary doors, the sound of laughter and clinking dishes drifting over from the fellowship hall like it belonged to someone else’s life.

Jake leaned against the railing of the front steps, one boot hooked over the other, his arms crossed.

I stood a few feet away, shifting awkwardly like a teenager waiting to be noticed.

He turned slightly toward me, head tilted. “You really believe all that? What you said up there?”

I blinked. “Yeah. I do.”

He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, but like he was… impressed? Or maybe just trying to figure me out. “Even the ‘love thy neighbor’ bit?”

“Especially that part,” I said. “Though I think half the people in that sanctuary thought I was trying to start an orgy.”

Jake laughed. Actually laughed. Low, warm, and easy, and I felt it settle on my chest like a weighted blanket. “Well, that explains the coughing fits.”

“I swear,” I said, lowering my voice, “one guy in the front row sounded like he was choking on his own judgment.”

Jake grinned, then gave me a long look, the kind that felt like a spotlight and a secret handshake all in one. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

“Is that good or bad?”

He shrugged, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Good. Definitely good.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The breeze picked up, stirring the hem of my shirt again, and Jake’s eyes dropped just slightly before he caught himself.

Or maybe I imagined that.

I did that sometimes. Made mountains out of passing glances. Built little castles of possibility from kind words and crooked smiles. Still… the way he looked at me. There was something in his eyes.

Jake glanced toward the hall. “You gonna go in?”

I sighed. “I probably should. If I don’t, they’ll think I’m snubbing them.”

Jake snorted. “Snubbing them would be the proper thing to do.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Jake…”

He cut himself off with a nervous laugh, raking a hand through his hair.

“Sorry. That was… rude.” Jake looked at me again, this time less guarded.

Like he was weighing something. His lips parted slightly, and before I could say another word, he stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder.

His thumb grazed the fabric of my shirt, and I swear to God, every nerve ending in my body stood at attention.

Then he asked in a low voice, “You ever been on a motorcycle before?”