“What are you doing over here? Shouldn’t you be all snuggled up in bed with Jesus?”

Søren watched her as she pulled out garbage bags from under the sink.

“I have company. I noticed the lights were still on. What are you doing here?”

“Cleaning.”

“Cleaning?”

Eleanor took the bags into the fellowship hall and started dumping plastic plates and paper cups into the trash bag.

“Diane’s been nice to me,” Eleanor began. “She’s sweet. Drives me places since I can’t get my license until I’m off probation. I couldn’t afford to get her a real wedding gift so I said I’d clean the hall up so her family wouldn’t have to.”

She balled up a paper tablecloth.

“What?” she demanded.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said.

“You’re staring at me, Father Stearns,” she said with sarcastic emphasis on his title.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I’m staring at you because entirely without intending to you’ve become a very kind and generous person.”

“You can shove kind and generous up your ass.”

“And I’m staring at you because you are stunningly beautiful.”

Eleanor dropped the bag on the floor.

“Søren. Seriously.” Her stomach churned. She wanted to cry and scream and kiss him and kill him all at once.

“When you aren’t trying to look beautiful, you look beautiful. When you are trying to look beautiful, you are stunning.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe not, but I’m trying to.”

“I don’t blame you, Little One.” He stepped closer and Eleanor fought the urge to retreat.

“So we’re back to this now?” she asked, sitting on the edge of a table and crossing her arms over her stomach.

“Back to what?”

“Back to us being honest with each other? You snap your fingers and the past year goes away just like that?”

Søren held out his hand and snapped his fingers by her ear. She flinched at the sound.

“Just like that,” he said.

“You’ve been acting like I don’t exist for months. Why tonight?”

“Two reasons,” he said. “First, there is something you need to know. Second, I have an entire bottle of wine in me.”

Eleanor gaped at him.

“You’re drunk?”

Søren raised his hand. An inch separated his thumb from his index finger.

“That much?”

Søren slightly widened the gap.

“That would be slightly more accurate,” he said.

“Great. It’ll be easier to seduce you, then,” Eleanor said, seeing how much she could push him.

“Later. We should talk first.”

“You talk while I clean.” So what if he was drunk and here and gorgeous and she’d missed him so much her hands were shaking from simply speaking to him again? She had a job to do.

“Can I help you?”

She picked up her bag.

“This is my gift to Diane, not yours. I have to do this myself or it’s cheating.”

“I feel useless simply standing here.”

“You are useless.”

“Is there anything I can do to be less useless to you?”

“Fuck me on the gift table?”

Søren glowered at her so hard she laughed.

“Fine.” She pointed to the corner of the room. “You can put on some music.”

“This is a job I can do.” The DJ, otherwise known as the bride’s cousin Tommy, had left all the equipment and music behind. He’d come by in the morning to haul it all away. “Or not.”

Eleanor watched him as he flipped through stacks of CDs.

“What’s wrong?”

“The music selection is shameful. What is this?” Søren held up a CD with a familiar-looking cover.

“Dr. Dre.”

“Is he a licensed medical professional?”

“He’s a rapper.”

“And this?” he asked.

“4 Non Blondes. Obviously you would not be allowed in that band.”

“I didn’t want to join their band anyway,” he said in a tone so dry her face hurt from swallowing her laughter.

Søren dug through a few more CDs.

“How does anyone dance to any of this music?” He sounded horrified.

“It’s drunken reception dancing, not waltzing.” She knew it was a weak defense, but she didn’t have it in her to defend modern music tonight. Not when she’d been listening to the classical station every night in bed trying to learn something about the music Søren played so lovingly on piano. The last CD she bought had been a collection of baroque pieces.

He held up a CD.

“Finally,” he said. “Decent music.”

“What did you find? Bach? Beethoven? Vivaldi?”

“Sting.”

Eleanor burst out laughing.

“You like Sting?”

“Who doesn’t? He’s a musician’s musician.”

“I can’t believe you’ve even heard of him.”

“I spent ten years of my life in seminary, Eleanor, not in a cave.”

The music started and filled the room with cool blue sounds and Sting’s arching voice that always managed to speed up her pulse and lower her blood pressure simultaneously.