Love Anachronism

Jude Vanderhall

Blurb: At her sister's dinner Chris meets James, a sinfully sexy priest. She tests her limits as he tests his faith. But "love" in the 21st century was anachronistic, right? Especially between a romance skeptic and a priest.

chapter one

I was a cliché. "Love", what was that supposed to mean? I had been through my fair share of breakups and hang-ups and found myself in the rueful decision of giving up. I guess it wasn't so much that I gave up, rather the whole notion of love and romance had given up on me. Now I was always a little disillusioned with the canon heroines in chick-lit who were so self-absorbed and successful and beautiful that the idea of love and all that it entailed would register no meaning to them until it had come and left. Then she would have a reunion with the one guy that had made her realise she had been a fool. I wasn't one of them, because that would have to imply that I was beautiful and successful. I could admit though that I was self-absorbed, moody and selfish but then again who wasn't?

So love, it was outdated, antiquated, something you read about in bodice ripper Harlequin romances. I had reconciled with the fact that there was no such thing, no such thing at all and for all the Gone With The Wind purists, there was no Rhett Butler that would come and manhandle you no matter how much your fantasies went in to overdrive those long hours you spent at one of your sister's dinner parties. Parties full of "smug couples" as Bridget Jones had so aptly put it. Then there were the single losers such as myself, and the odd bachelor or two that were too good to be true because they were gay. It was always the gay ones.

It was 7 o'clock on a Saturday night and rather than prowling the clubs and bars for prospectives I was on my way to one of my sister's famous dinner parties. I had stopped long ago with the nightlife. It was never my scene anyway, and somehow I always ended up with my panties on a foreign bedroom floor and not quite remembering how they ended up there and why I wasn't wearing them.

My sister was married happily with two kids. I was the eldest, the one that my parents had always said would never achieve anything in life - because I was the failure in the family. Of course they never said it out loud, only you knew that they were thinking it and were it written down would have brackets around that particular clause. It was an unspoken truth and a truth that I learnt to live with.

Some time in high school my parents had given up on me all together and focused on Heather the golden girl. They probably decided they would use all available resources on something or someone they knew would succeed; and my sister did, she succeeded. She was a very successful accountant. At twenty-seven she was a junior executive accountant of the building company Land Co. and her husband was the contracts manager of News Corp. at thirty-one. Their children, my nephews Robert and James inherited their parents' brains and good looks. I didn't envy my sister, in fact I was happy for her. But I knew she was worried for me.

They lived in the nice bit of town in a double story house, a life that most people would consider as good or ideal. I stood in front of their door anxious and just a little jaded wondering what loser my sister had picked out for me this time. She pretended that she wasn't trying to set me up, and no matter how much I know that she's only "trying to help" I still reject every reject she's attempted to wave in front of my nose.

I rang the doorbell of their home taking notice of how the air was still nice and warm considering summer was winding up and the school year just beginning. I could hear the chatter inside and wondered how many people she invited. I looked down at my cocktail dress, she had told me to be smart-casual and make myself pretty for the night. In other words she had invited someone she deemed would be worthy of my company, unfortunately a majority of the time she was slightly off base. I pressed the bell again getting slightly impatient and was about to press it yet again when the door opened and a sight I was definitely not expecting greeted me.

"Hi." I muttered, caught unaware. Maybe my sister had got it right this time.

"Hi, you must be Christine." He said huskily, dark brown eyes and a tantalizing scruff of hair that was so unruly, so bed head, so beautiful.

"Um yeah, just call me Chris."

He smiled, one that went to his eyes. He wasn't exactly outrageously gorgeous however there was something that oozed out of him, raw sex appeal and when I let my eyes linger down to view the full package, he was also unattainable; Mr. Nice Eyes was a priest.

"I'm James, come in." He moved aside and I mentally slapped myself knowing that coveting just about anything was one of the Ten Commandments, especially a clergyman and I had no doubt in my mind that any intention of pursuing this should stop before the fantasies began, or else I was going to hell. Thou shalt not covet thy sister's sexy priest. Thou shalt not covet thy sister's sexy priest. Though shalt not covet thy sister's sexy priest. . .

"Chris, finally you're here." I looked up to my sister radiant in a yellow sundress. "I see you've already met Father James, he's the priest at our new church." I looked awkwardly to Father James smiling in his black trousers and shirt, his white collar a reminder that he was out of bounds. His suit was tailored quite nicely, as if it was cut while he was standing in it. I daresay that the body hiding beneath it couldn't possibly be god-given. . . or could it?

"Yes I have."

"Please just call me James." With that he walked away and began talking to Heather's husband. I looked after him wondering what they did in ecclesiastical school and whether he was an anomaly of the seminary. I definitely didn't remember my old minister to be so aesthetically pleasing. In fact I remember distinctly that Father Jones wouldn't even allow us to call him by his first name and he was pink and old and didn't breathe, rather he wheezed. I wondered obliquely where my former priest was now; probably still making endless sermons on the evils of the flesh.

Heather nudged me following my line of vision. "Chris, off limits. Besides I'd like you to meet someone." I groaned.

"I told you not to set me up. I'm not looking, I don't want to look. I'd much rather die alone than live my life with a loser." I walked with her as we approached a man who resembled Jon Lovitz. Now I had nothing against short, bald men only the difference between Jon Lovitz and the look-alike was that Jon Lovitz was wealthy and could be forgiven for his unattractiveness, look-alike however was not fabulously wealthy enough for me to bother with. Even in my dire state, I still maintained my standards. Very shallow standards.

"Chris I'd like you to meet Phil Miller, also from accounting at Land Co. and Phil this is my sister I was telling you about."

"Hi." I said putting on my fake smile, he returned with a grin of a most sleazy manner. I was about to ask my sister to rescue me though as I turned I found she had already left me with look-alike. Curses, I was to endure this on my own.

"Why hello there Christine, I must say you're a very attractive lady and I find I have no words to say in your prescence." He took the outstretched hand I intended for him to shake, and kissed it. I mumbled a little laugh.

"Thank-you." Then when I had my hand safely back with me I proceeded to wipe it on my dress. "I'm sure you're a nice guy."

"Yes, Heather has told me much about you, and you are much better than I expected."

"Right, thanks. I'm just going to go get a drink." I needed one.

"Let me come with you."

"No! I mean, no that's okay it won't be necessary."

"Oh but I insist." He said and proceeded to follow me as I walked to the table where the champagne bottle and glasses were.

"Oh, well if you insist." When I arrived at the table, look-alike in tow, I debated as to whether to take the whole bottle now or discreetly finish it in two-minute intervals. I poured myself a glass and sculled it like the man I could be, or the desperate single in an uncompromising situation that I was.

"Why I must say, you like your alcohol."

I offered a weak smile. "That I do."

"Would you like to dance?" He asked gesturing to the open living area where Joss Stone was playing in the background. "You know men equate dancing to sex, and I daresay you look like you might be crazy on and off the dance floor." He waggled his eyebrows lecherously that I had the sudden need to barf, but I held down my insult and bile, instead I took the champagne bottle and cradled it. It was going to be a long night.