His eyes drift over me.
Lingering.
Too long.
My shoulders tense.
“So, um, I understand things are a little different around here for some members of staff. Informal, if you will.”
I freeze.
Ah.
There it is.
He’s obviously talking about the article.
The gossip.
The judgment.
I set my mug down.
Slowly.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs.
“Just wondering what you had to do to get everyone to overlook that headline.”
My stomach drops.
Then comes the smile.
The one that makes my skin crawl.
“Maybe if you're free later, we could have a drink and discuss it.”
Before I can answer, he reaches out.
His finger slides down my arm.
I immediately step back—every nerve ending is firing at the wrongness of it.
“No, thank you.”
His smile widens.
“Come on.”
The room suddenly feels very small.
“Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds.”
The deep voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
Father Peter.