Beautiful Sinner: a standalone forbidden romance

by Sara Cate

  Now it’s my turn to wear the smug smile as I ascend the stairs with Bridget. She wasn’t going to make me move upstairs yet, since I’m still technically a guest, but I insisted. I'm ready to move on. I don’t want to wait.

  It’s not like I have anything to move with me anyway.

  “Don’t worry about my brother,” Bridget says with a smile as she flips on the light to the small room with a slanted ceiling. There’s a large window above the bed that looks out over the green field behind the hotel. The other side, Callum’s room, must look out over the ocean. One house...two totally different views.

  In the distance, I can make out a dirt road and a white barn. “I’m not worried about him,” I answer. And I’m not. Callum is one of those men who feels the need to assert his authority for no other reason than he thinks he has to. He puffs his chest and hides behind this layer of masculinity that ensures no one truly sees his real emotions.

  I know his type all too well. He’s basically my father. Callum has his collar. My father has his money. It makes them essential, guarantees that someone will need them…because underneath they are afraid no one really wants them.

  I despise my father. Always have. It was like I was born with a special pair of glasses that let me see through all the years of bullshit and lies. My little sister was a fool for his tricks. She depended on him so much that when he left, it broke her.

  I celebrated.

  “Callum just feels like he has to protect everyone all the time.” Bridget is taking a dusting cloth around the room, even though it looks nearly perfect to me. I mean, I totally plan on spicing it up with something, but for now, it works.

  “Well, he needs to lighten up if he’s going to have me around.”

  She stops what she’s doing and looks up at me. “Don’t hold your breath. Callum takes everything too seriously. You know,” she says, leaning against the white dresser. “If he wasn’t a priest, I think he'd be into you.”

  A laugh bursts out of my chest. “Ha. He is not my type.”

  Bridget sits on the chair and I plop down on the bed. This intimacy of girl talk makes me miss my sister. “What is your type then?” she asks.

  “Oh, gosh,” I say with a dramatic flair. “Let’s see...narcissistic, self-absorbed, manipulative, noncommittal....and hot. Always hot.”

  Bridget chuckles. “Aww...well, I know a few men around Ennis that you will love.”

  “No thanks. I promised my sister I’m focusing on me. No men.”

  She nods. “Good plan.”

  It doesn’t take me long to fall asleep that night. The residual hangover allows for me to fall easily into a deep slumber, that is until I hear footsteps on the stairs. There’s nothing in here to tell the time, no phone or alarm clock, but I’d have to guess that it’s at least one or two in the morning.

  The floor creaks with every step, and I quickly get up from my bed to take a peek out the door. The gentle squeak from the hinge makes the dark figure reaching the landing stop and turn back toward me.

  Bridget said they don’t use this floor for guests, so there’s only one person who should be swaying in the darkness in the middle of the night. Our eyes meet, lit only by the moonlight shining through the sky light. He doesn't say anything, but I see something sad in his eyes.

  He’s drunk, and I almost feel sorry for him.

  There’s a distant thought as we stare at each other that reminds me that this could be a dangerous scenario if he were anyone else. If he wasn’t a priest and maybe if he didn’t despise me so much, I’d open my door for him. What I said to Bridget was true: he’s not my type. He’s rude and cold and hasn’t shown the slightest interest in me.

  Suddenly, he’s taking long swaying steps toward me instead of toward his door on the opposite side. My heart thuds loudly in my chest as he steps so close to me that I can smell his whiskey-soaked breath on my face. Other than that, he smells good. So good, my mouth waters. Like smoke, cologne, and ocean air all mixed together.

  I try to hide the heavy way my chest rises and falls with each breath, and just as I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, he leans forward and presses one finger to his lips, signalling me to stay quiet.

  What is happening? My mind screams.

  With his bloodshot eyes leveled on my face, he brushes his thumb sloppily over my bottom lip. I pick up the bitter scent of cigarette smoke on his hands. I should move away. I definitely should not be letting him touch me or corner me in the dark, but I’m a deer in headlights. It’s surreal, too weird. I can’t look away. At the same time, I want him to see that he doesn’t intimidate me.

  Then, he leans forward, and I expect him to kiss me. If he does, will I let him? Will I kiss him back? Pull him into my room and let him between my legs?

  For curiosity’s sake, probably.

  But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead his mouth stops within an inch of my ear. His voice cuts through the silence, harsh and cruel, so loud in my ear I jolt. But it’s not just the abrupt volume that hurts.

  “Slut.”

  My breath stops. Heat floods my cheeks as I flinch, finally pulling away to glare at him. With a dead look in his stupid green eyes, he turns away and stumbles to his room, slamming against the wall on his way.

  That word hangs in the air while I stand in the doorway, looking around for anyone else who might have witnessed that. It’s almost too insane to believe. The guy barely says anything to me, and then he chooses to hit me with this? I mean, I get that he’s drunk, but I’m pretty sure he meant what he said.

  On instinct, I want to tell Sunny. She’s probably the one who would believe me that my boss, the mean priest, just called me a slut for absolutely no reason in the middle of the night while he was piss drunk.

  Instead, I shut myself in my room, climb into bed, and try to shake off the pain of that single word. This isn't even close to being the first time someone spewed that word at me, but it’s the first time it hurt. Maybe by his standards, I am a slut. Maybe he wants me to feel the shame of being who I am.

  And it’s not about the sex. I’m not going to apologize for loving sex, but fresh off the pain of being duped by Clint, I feel what he’s trying to tell me. I’m just a stupid girl who opened her legs for a stranger and got what she deserved.

  I want to scream into my pillow. I want to march over to his room and tell him that he doesn’t have the right to talk to me that way, but I doubt it would make a difference. He’s a stone wall, void of emotion. Besides, I’m not here for his pity. Like Sunny said, I’m tougher than I think, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to let that asshole get to me.

  Six

  Cadence

  “It’s here!” Holding the thin piece of plastic in my hand feels like having a piece of my freedom I didn’t know I’d been missing. The replacement credit card is just the first in many things that I need to replace since Clint the Cunt, as Bridget and I have named him, took everything I owned.

  It’s been seven days in the house, and already I feel at home. I’ve barely seen Callum at all since the midnight slut-shaming incident. He’s been eating and sleeping at the rectory since. There have been guests checking in and out everyday, so I’ve been spending my days helping Bridget and Daisy with things around the house. I like having new people in the house for breakfast, and I especially love the idea of this being the only thing I have to do around here. Maybe if he doesn’t come back, I won’t have to worry about those other things he said the job entailed.

  I’ve never stayed in a bed and breakfast before, so it’s weird to me that a hotel would include sitting around a table together with complete strangers, but it seems to be so normal here. They can sit in the parlor at the various other tables if they choose, but I think they come for the experience. As Bridget has told me, the house has been in their family for generations and comes with more stories and history than I’ll ever know.

  “What’s here?” asks a deep voice from behind me. Spinning around, I rest my back against the lobby c
ounter and stare into the emerald eyes of Father Fuckface, in his full black outfit with the white collar. Even the middle of summer is pretty temperate here, but still, he must be hot in all that black. He keeps his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, but I still wonder how it must feel under those thick black pants.

  “It's my credit card,” I answer proudly.

  “Going shopping?” There’s a quizzical turn to his brow as he stares down at me. He’s so much taller than me it’s almost intimidating. I normally like super tall guys, but they usually aren't trying to be so dominating.

  I’ve considered since that night that maybe he doesn’t remember what he said to me or how close he got to me, but even Bridget said it wasn’t like him to spend so long away from the house, so I assumed he remembered and was embarrassed.

  Which makes me wonder why he thinks it’s okay to talk to me like nothing happened now. I’m waiting for an apology that doesn’t look like it’s coming. Isn’t that a Catholic thing? Asking for forgiveness.

  Of course, I’d just tell him he could take his forgiveness and shove it straight up his ass.

  “Maybe,” I finally answer, looking anywhere but in those cold eyes.

  “Not today. We have work to do.”

  Inwardly, I groan. I’ve been getting along so nicely helping out inside the house with Bridget, but I knew I was dreaming. He’d be here to steal me away from all the joy and comfort any minute.

  “Bridget can let you borrow her work boots for now,” he says with a deep grumble.

  He brushes past me to head for the kitchen. “I’m going to show you how to clean Misty’s stable and feed her, which you’ll need to do daily. Once a week, she needs brushing, and once you’re comfortable with her, you’ll have to give her some exercise.”

  It takes me a moment before I realize he’s talking about a horse, and I feel my insides sour at the thought. It’s not the first time he’s mentioned a horse, but I was just sort of hoping we could avoid bringing it up again. I never even had a pet growing up, let alone a full-size horse. What’s the point, anyway?

  “Get dressed and meet me out in the van in fifteen minutes,” he says.

  “Are you working in that?” I gesture to his priest uniform, or whatever it’s called. I don’t know why I asked this or why I’m even entertaining the idea of a conversation with him, but the question slips out.

  Glancing down, he shakes his head, then turns to stomp up the stairs. “Of course not.” He scoffs like I’m an idiot. “We had a charity breakfast this morning.”

  A charity breakfast. Of course. He probably feeds the homeless and spoons oatmeal into the mouths of little old ladies to complete his bullshit holier-than-thou image.

  He’s in the van with the engine running when I emerge from the house with an old pair of boots and clothes from Bridget that are all a little too big. I need to buy work clothes, but I haven’t the slightest idea where I would even do that.

  As I climb in, I immediately notice the scent of his cologne, the memory of that night in the dark hitting me like a truck. Did he just put that on or does he always smell this good? I don’t ask, but I turn my head away and inhale it, savoring the smell. I’m obsessed with men’s cologne. Something about it just turns my gears, and I love how one scent can take you back. I can remember almost every man I’ve been with based on just their cologne.

  But Callum’s is different. It’s fresh with something ancient-smelling and earthly. Hell, maybe it’s frankincense from the church, but I kind of love it. Even if I can’t stand him.

  “I’ll show you around the farm today, and you can get started with Misty.”

  We take a gravel path that you couldn’t even call a road toward the barn in the middle of the field. I spot the black and white horse about halfway down the road. I watch Callum out of the corner of my eye as he leans against the open window and keeps that subtle scowl in his brow. It’s like he’s always thinking of ways he hates me.

  As we pull up to the barn, he throws the truck into park and hops out, shouting toward the horse who comes trotting up toward him. Something keeps me stuck in place as I watch the animal approach him, rubbing its nose against his chest.

  When he turns to look for me, I cower farther down into the van. “Aren’t you going to put it in the stable?” I ask.

  Callum ignores me and turns to the horse, gently stroking her nose and mumbling something to her in a way that is almost gentle. Carefully, I open the door and stand still as stone by the truck.

  “She’s gentle. Come here.” He holds a hand out toward me with one on the horse’s nose.

  The intensity in his expression and the way his accent creates a little flutter in my gut has me inching my feet toward him. For some reason, I actually take his calloused hand as he guides me toward the horse. She’s probably not the biggest horse, but she still towers over me. With a nudge to my arm, she breathes out, a gust of air through her nostrils hitting my chest.

  A high-pitched squeak comes out, and Callum’s grip on my hand tightens. “Relax.”

  He positions himself behind me, putting me between the horse and him. My heart is beating rapidly in my chest as he guides my hand down the animal’s nose then her mane. She barely reacts as I run my fingers through her long black hair.

  Slowly, I begin to relax. The warmth of Callum’s hands over mine is a complete dichotomy from the man who insulted me a few days ago. He has so much confidence with the animal, but exhibits a gentle but firm side that keeps Misty calm. Fuck, it’s keeping me calm too.

  That is until I feel Callum abandon me and I see him walking over to the barn, leaving me alone with the horse.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I gasp, forgetting my filter.

  He doesn’t answer, just turns back with a pail full of what looks like soft apples. Disappointment written all over his features—probably from my language—he drops an apple in my hand.

  He returns to his place at my back and he leans against me, pushing my hand to the horse's mouth.

  Goosebumps break out across my back as I take in his scent, close enough to overpower the horse’s less than appealing odor. Without letting him see, I swallow and bite my lip to keep from letting it hang open.

  His body is flush against mine, and I’m sure this has to be against the priest rules. I guess as long as he isn’t enjoying it, it’s okay to help a young woman feed an apple to a horse.

  Even if he thinks she’s a slut.

  Each time Misty takes an apple from my hands, I ease into a new level of comfort. Like he can sense it, Callum steps away. I risk a glance in his direction, searching for any sign that being so close to me had any effect on him, nerves or discomfort or stiff jeans, but he moves around the barn, picking up rakes and shovels looking a little too nonchalant for my liking. If I stood that close to any other guy, I’d at least notice something in him change.

  “Every morning, you need to come out here and make sure Misty has water and fresh hay. Every other day, her stall needs mucking. The floor needs sweeping, and she’ll need exercise around the yard.”

  “Okay.” I keep feeding apples to Misty like a robot. I’m afraid if I stop, she’ll start eating me instead.

  “Come here, Cadence.”

  As he turns and disappears into the barn, I let the sound of my name on his lips course through my mind again and again. The gentle way it rolls off his tongue makes me hate him a little more. I’d prefer he go back to calling me slut so that at least I can compartmentalize my feelings for him more clearly.

  Carefully, I step away from the horse and drop the bucket on the same box I saw him retrieve it from.

  He shows me the different steps to caring for Misty and cleaning her stable, tending to the small garden behind the barn and keeping up with the grass. It’s not much, and none of it seems beyond my abilities, but I know this is only half of it. I still have work to do at the house too. I wonder how long I’ll be working each day and how all of this labor is going to feel after a few days. I do
n’t work out much, and I certainly don’t do a lot of work like this.

  After we leave Misty, he takes me back to the house. There’s a small shed behind the house, and he takes me through the lawn maintenance I’m supposed to do there.

  By this time, it’s past noon, and my stomach is grumbling. I’m having a hard time focusing on what he’s saying, but he just keeps droning on and on with instructions, and I know that I’m not retaining any of it. I’ll get the hang of it when I actually do it. I can’t remember it all now.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  I look up from the ocean view to see his face, red-cheeked and sweat beading on his brow from the sun.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I ask.

  “We’ll eat after we go through this.”

  He catches me rolling my eyes at him, and I watch his jaw clench. Suddenly, I know for a fact that he remembers the night in the dark. It’s in the disappointed expression on his face. I like a child about to be scolded.

  “Please remember you’re here to work, not to mess around. This isn’t a game. This is our business, our home. If you won’t take it seriously, then I’ll be the first to put you back on a plane to California. Before your thirty days is done if I have to.”

  The air has grown stiff and awkward between us while I grovel, biting my lip and hating him like I used to hate my dad for talking down to me.

  And the same thoughts repeat in my mind, like a silent anthem to myself.

  You’re wrong about me. You’re wrong about me. You’re wrong about me.

  He thinks I’m a spoiled princess, a slut, a stupid girl who can’t do anything. A rich California millennial afraid to get her hands dirty. I refuse to be belittled and treated like an idiot. I won’t tell him what a jerk he’s being or how wrong he is.