The old wooden church in the sleepy town of Willow Creek had seen better days, but on Sunday mornings it still filled with the scent of polished pews, hymnals, and unspoken desire. Reverend Elijah Kane stood at the pulpit in his crisp black suit, white collar gleaming under the stained-glass light. At thirty-eight, he was younger than most pastors in these parts—tall, broad-shouldered, with a deep voice that made the Bible sound like sin itself. His dark hair was always perfectly combed, his jaw sharp, and his eyes… those eyes could pin a woman in place from across the sanctuary.
I was twenty-six, newly divorced, and back in my hometown after a messy breakup in the city. Every Sunday I sat in the third row, legs crossed, wearing dresses that hugged my curves just a little too tightly for
