She shook her head. “They help with certain disorders,” she said softly, glancing at his trembling hand. When used with just the right spell…
“Well, thank you. Should I add marigolds to my garden, then?”
“No, no. I have plenty in pots.”
His eyebrows shot upward. “I don’t need ’em more often dan when we share tea?”
She canted her head, ready to tease to get him off the subject of the flowers. “If you’re angling for me to come more often…”
He laughed. “I know you’re a busy woman. I thank you for brightenin’ my Friday afternoons.”
She smiled and nodded her head. Giving her cup a swirl, she gazed down at the yellow flower floating in the cup and wished the father continued good health.
“Somethin’s different, cher.”
Blinking, she raised her face.
His dark gaze was studying her expression.
She couldn’t help it, another blush filled her cheeks with heat.
“Dat young man always hoverin’ ’round—he finally make his intentions known?”
She cleared her throat. “You mean, Sigurd?” she asked, trying to don her flighty mask.
The father arched one brow. “You know well which young man I’m talkin’ ’bout.” He sat back in his chair. “He gonna marry you?”
Alarm rang through her. “We’ve just started…seeing one another…”
“You been seein’ one another for months.”
Surprised at the heat in his voice, she didn’t know how to respond. “Um, he says he loves me,” she said, her voice smaller.
“Better put a ring on your finger—that’s all I’ll say.” He gave her sharp nod.
Which had her nodding right along with him. “Yes. Um, maybe…” She bit her lower lip. “There’s a complication or two,” she mumbled, more to herself, but his sharpening gaze had her realizing the priest expected her to continue. “I can?
??t have children,” she whispered.
“Can’t or won’t?”
Which struck her as an odd question. “Both…?”
Father Guidry sat forward in his chair and reached across to place his hand atop hers. “Your gods will plague you—as will your own conscience—if you deny your nature, Aoife. Trust in yourself. And in him.”
Distracted by the warm hand squeezing hers, she wondered idly if she meant “him” as in Sigurd or “Him” as in the Christian god? And had he really said “your gods”? She guessed her coven hadn’t hidden their activities or inclinations as well as they’d thought. Something she’d have to mention to her sisters.
Knowing she should remove her hand from beneath his, because it had lingered too long, she was reluctant to lose the connection. Of all the people in the town, he was her favorite. The father figure she’d always craved. “I should go,” she whispered, staring at his gnarled, spotted hand.
“Finish your tea, cher. Don’t let those marigolds go to waste.”
At last, he withdrew. The topic of conversation turned to Vindlér Construction and the new complex Ethan and his partners were putting up near the town. Construction crews had already broken ground, and many of the townspeople had been hired, with promises of jobs later when the complex was complete.
Aoife couldn’t help the little smile curving her mouth. If only the father knew demons were responsible for Bonne Nuit’s new prosperity.
Suddenly, a feeling swept over her. One she couldn’t name. But she knew she had to leave. Now. She pushed up from her chair. “I have to go.”
The priest stood. “Thank you for the flowers, dear. And for the tea.”