It was her fault entirely.

That's what he was going to go with. That's what he'll say.

As much as Peter hated to lay the blame on Assumpta – as if there were blame to lay – this was the only line that he suspected the Parish Priest would buy.

He was wrong.

"I have eyes Father Clifford. I see things. There were two of you up there – two of you… fornicating."

"It was in the script"

"So said the Director to the starlet, Father but that most certainly was not in the script."

Peter felt his patience unfurl. "I had to kiss her."

"Yes but I think that's another matter entirely." Father MacAnally's face darkened. "At any rate, you've embarrassed yourself which means you've embarrassed the Church and that is simply not acceptable."

"What would you have me do, eh?" It was now the younger Priest's turn to be incensed. "I kissed her, sure. But it was a stage kiss. No… flourishes."

"What I saw was no stage kiss."

"But then," he continued somewhat tetchily. "Assumpta decided that the scene required more gravitas – you know what these actresses are like – and she, well… I think you saw the rest."

"Quite." The elder curate rubbed his chin carefully, as if thinking up an adequate penance to issue to his errant novice.

"I have no doubt that last night's display of gross indecency was the brain-child of Ms Fitzgerald, Father but you still participated" he began. "With enthusiasm, I might add."

Peter opened his mouth to speak but soon closed it. Now wasn't the time to argue.

"Nevertheless, what's done is done. All we can do now is damage control."

"Damage control?" Father Clifford felt a lump in his throat rise.

Father MacAnally seemed to revel in what he had to say next. "You're not to step foot inside Fitzgeralds until this blows over."

"Excuse me?"

"The pub," Father Mac reminded him derisively. "I think it would be wise for the town not to see you and Assumpta Fitzgerald together for a while."

Father Clifford furrowed his brow. "Won't that seem a bit… conspicuous?"

"I don't care how it seems," commented the elder Priest. "I do care how the parishioners perceive their curate, however. And at the moment they see you more like Rudolph Valentino than a man of God."

At the sight of Peter's crestfallen face, he continued, "This isn't a punishment, Father Clifford – "

"Could have fooled me…"

" – and as much as you might miss those afternoon assignations at Fitzgeralds ." Father Mac raised his eyebrows, goading his younger to disagree "my mind is made up."

Like a judge ruling his final verdict, Father MacAnally stood up following his closing words. Peter soon followed suit, albeit reluctantly, and shook the old man's hand, as if casting the agreement in stone.

"Just think," Father Mac began as he escorted the young curate to the door. "All of this could have been avoided if that man, Enda Sullivan hadn't injured his ankle."

Father Clifford nodded non-committedly. "I suppose."

The Parish Priest paused as they reached the doorstep and added distractedly. "They make a strong couple, don't you think."

"Enda and Assumpta?" he answered dubiously. "I-I suppose."

"Don't suppose he's Catholic though," he uttered regretfully. "Oh well, you can have it all."

With those parting words, the door closed behind him.

Peter breathed a sigh but it wasn't with relief exactly. He wouldn't be allowed to go to Fitzgeralds again. He couldn't see Assumpta again!

Since they agreed to do the play, seeing Assumpta was all that Father Clifford seemed to want to do. The high point of his day – of any man's day, he'd wager.

She had this way about her – a quality. She could soothe your woes and raise your blood pressure, all in the same instance. She was infuriating! But Peter had decided long ago that Assumpta was also one of the most genuinely thoughtful and gentle creatures God had made.

She loved her friends – and although she'd never say it, she cared about her neighbours also. She surprised him.

Constantly.

He could never anticipate her mood. Every day, Peter's lived in fear of yet another of the landlady's outbursts. Indeed, every time he so much as looked at her, his heart would threaten to beat right out of his chest.

No. No. That wasn't the reason why.

She was beautiful. She improved every room just by being in it. How was that even possible?

Peter couldn't help but let his mind wander back to the night of the play. The kiss that had landed him in so much trouble. He must have thought about that moment more than a hundred times since it happened.

They had to do it – it was in the script. The whole play rested on that scene; they needed to do it justice. When Assumpta hesitated – oh, why did she hesitate? – Peter had no choice but to improvise. To kiss her.

Her mouth was impossibly soft when he touched it – and sweet. Like confection. Peter had made a fist to stop his hands from shaking, clasping so tightly that he still had indentations from his nails hours later.

He'd pulled away after the initial closed-mouth kiss. Just as he should have. Like he was supposed to. But, in truth, Assumpta had drawn him in like some kind of Siren.

He sniffed. Praying Mantis, more like.

She demanded more of the Priest than he was willing to give. She always wanted more. And Peter had slipped. He had slipped. Given into the desire that he'd spent so long resisting.

Peter stopped walking suddenly and leant his head against the cool brickwork of an abandoned tenement.

He could still taste her perfume. He could still taste her. His lips buzzed infuriatingly as if hers were still underneath. Distractedly, he touched the lower one gently with his tongue as he remembered how hers had felt there. Tugging at his mouth. Tasting his saliva. Devouring him from within.

Oh, God…

Father Clifford too four deep breaths, as he always did when his thoughts of Assumpta became too much.

One. You're a Priest.

Two. She wouldn't be interested anyway.

Three. You're a Priest.

Four. You're a Priest.

At Breath two, Peter realised a crucial inaccuracy in his mantra.

She wouldn't be interested anyway.

Something inside him now knew that to be false. That look. That electricity in the moments that followed. She knew. Assumpta felt it too. There was more between them than they'd allowed for. More than either of them knew.

Peter felt his mouth tingle again like jolts of dull electricity. Distractedly, he wiped lips against the rough brick in an attempt to feel an alternative sensation. He did it again. And again. But still the pins and needles persisted.

Please, God. Why?

He tried again, this time drawing blood from his lower lip. The pain eclipsed his former feelings immediately. Now all he could taste was a faint metallic sweetness from his seeping mouth. But his relief was immediately superseded by shame.

What am I doing?

Father Clifford wiped the excess blood with the back of his hand and continued on his journey. A quick cursory glance around revealed that thankfully he hadn't had an audience.

This time around, at least.

Realising that for once perhaps his superior had been correct with his directions, Peter slipped into one of the pubs in Cilldargen High Street for his lunchtime pint.

It wasn't as welcoming as Fitzgeralds – in fact, it was pretty dire. But the absence of a certain raven-head publican meant that it was perfect. Or at the very least, it would certainly have to do.

A/N Thank you for your lovely comments guys. I feel inspired to finish this one! And Happy Trotting Elf, I expect some more lovely chapters from you sometime too please

Oh, and Bridget - of course this story could never be a K+... I don't know what I was thinking picking that advisory rating! Expect it to go up shortly.. :)

Feedback is, as always, my main motivation for getting these chapters posted. So, if you'd like to leave a comment, I'd love to read it!