Beautiful Sinner: a standalone forbidden romance (Beautiful Series)
Beautiful Sinner: Chapter 5

THERE’S an empty room on the third floor that they don’t use for guests. The first floor on the far back of the house is where Bridget and Daisy sleep. The second floor is strictly for guests with a small sitting room and a circle of doors around the staircase in the middle. On the top floor, there is a spare room for Callum when he chooses to sleep in it over the rectory at the church.

Then there is my spare room. It’s an overflow room, Bridget says, but since their business has been down, they haven’t put anyone in it in over a year. Still the staff keeps it clean. It’s just next to the third floor bathroom which is small with a shower full of men’s body wash and shampoo. No Irish Spring, to my disappointment.

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.

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