The possibility that Assumpta returned his affections was too much for Peter to process.

His thoughts of her seemed to metastasise. He began to perceive his fantasies of her as real possibilities. If he were to catch her at the pub after hours, would they end up making love against the optics? If he kissed her – just kissed her, right now – would she return it in kind?

His stomach ached in an anticipation that could never be realised.

He was a Priest. A Priest! He couldn't keep entertaining these thoughts. His unconscious hours were one thing but his waking, quite another. Peter needed to get this under control – now. He needed to rid himself of all things Assumpta.

"What are you talking about, Ryan's Daughter needs you. You're the leading man!"

Padraig was tinkering under the bonnet of Peter's automobile when he delivered his response to the curate's resignation from the play.

"I'm too snowed under – you understand, surely?"

"Oh sure, it'd not like I don't have a business, a teenager and a production to manage. Can't imagine what stress is like!"

"Padraig – "

The mechanic sighed. "Can't you do something else? Not the lead, sure but maybe something behind the scenes? Can you direct again?"

"I thought you were the Director?"

"Nah, Brendan and I can't decide which of us should do it." Padraig admitted. "Not worth the arguments to be frank.

Peter looked at his car, lost in thought. Behind the scenes wouldn't be so bad. At least this time he wouldn't have to kiss Assumpta?

Someone else would.

Peter shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. Maybe even Enda…

As much as he was trying to be good, he certainly didn't want anyone else to have her – least of all him.

"I'll do it," he announced. "On one condition..."

"What do you mean we can't have Enda Sullivan as the Major? He's the reason I'm backing this. Again."

Brian Quigley was fuming into his stout at his usual spot in Fitzgerald's. Never one to relish being undermined, the fact that it had happened twice now, in two different plays, was almost too much for the businessman to bear.

"What can I say?" Padraig held his hands in the air. "Father Clifford made it his expressed condition. Said that a rock star wasn't a good role model for the parish."

"Role model?" Quigley spluttered. "He's playing a philanderer who eventually kills himself. I don't think they'll be making action figures of him."

Assumpta listened carefully to the conversation at her bar as she feigned cleaning shelves. So Peter Clifford has taken Enda off the play? She wondered casually if he'd made this decision before of after she'd told him about her date with the musician.

"Who does he want instead then? Himself again, I suppose…" Brian gave the woman behind the bar a pointed look as he said this.

"Actually no. Father Clifford wants to stay behind the scenes this time around."

"Naturally," he replied gruffly, still keeping his focus on Assumpta. "Fine. Sullivan's out. What's next?"

While the men continued on with their discussions, Assumpta allowed her mind to wander back to where it had always invariably liked to go. To Peter – and to their kiss. To the question of what it meant for their relationship going forward?

Assumpta wasn't stupid – she knew that the likelihood that it meant anything to Father Clifford was naïve at best. But his jealousy over Enda… now that was something. Wasn't it?

What's more, they were flirting. Flirting! His parting words at the cottage ignited a whole new kind of discourse for the pair. Totally worth it. The nerve of the man! But still her every joint went weak when she remembered those words and his mouth as he spoke them. Inches from hers and just poised to do… something.

She had to know – no, she demanded to know what was going through that brain of his. Did Peter think of Assumpta as often as she thought of him these days? Or was this entire confusion just in her head?

As her mind did its best to provide answers to these questions, she was vaguely aware of being asked something by Padraig.

"So, how does that sound eh, Assumpta? Okay for us to go ahead and book him?"

"Fine" she responded quickly, still preoccupied by her original train of thought.

"That's grand, then" the mechanic lifted his eyebrows in welcome surprise. "I'll ask Liam today."

The publican's brown wrinkled. "Wait, ask Liam wha – " she began only to be interrupted by a ringing phone in the distance. "Hold that thought," she warned him, making her way to the booking desk.

"Fitzgerald's"

The voice on the other end of the line was immediately recognisable. "I'm still waiting for an answer, you know."

Assumpta felt her cheekbones flush. Enda. "Answer to what?"

"You know all too well, Ms Fitzgerald" he replied. "Are we going out or what?"

"Well, don't you know all the best ways to woo the ladies?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Actually," the publican sighed, "I don't think I would be."

She heard him smile into the receiver. "So, dinner? Tomorrow, at that little Italian place over in Cilldargen."

Assumpta held the receiver between under her neck and laced her index finger through the spiral cord as she considered his proposition. A few days ago her answer would have been simple. In fact, a few days ago, when Enda first posed this question, her answer had been a reluctant yes of sorts – in her head at least.

Now? So much had changed.

And yet nothing at all.

"One condition," she heard herself say. "I'll drive."

Enda's smile was audible. "Fair enough. More wine for me."

"I'll see you tomorrow, then. 7 o'clock."

"It's a date," he agreed before the line went dead.

The publican replaced the receiver to its nook and tried to remember to breathe. This is how adulterers must feel, she imagined. But she wasn't married! Least of all to Father Peter Clifford.

As if on cue, the telephone rang again. Without even answering it, she knew who it was. Fate had ordained it. She took a laboured breath and picked up the receiver.

"I was thinking" Peter began, a slight tremor in his northern lilt. "Since I'm barred from coming to Fitzgerald's, the least you can do is offer a carry out service."

"Carry out?" she replied, warily. "You know that all I offer is sandwiches and stout?"

The line went silent, as if the Priest had just rethought his rebuttal. "Sandwich and a stout, then" he said instead. "Can you bring it to me?"

Assumpta stuttered over her next words. "To the Church?"

"I'm at home, actually."

Once more, there was an uneasy silence on the line. The publican's mind raced. Was he really asking her to come over?

"There'll be a cover charge," she found herself replying, only half seriously. "And you'll have to wait. Niamh doesn't get here until seven."

Peter released what seemed like a sigh of relief. "I can wait," he told her. "I'll wait."

"Fine."

"Okay, then."

They shared yet another unquiet quiet before the publican hastily hung up the phone.

What had she just agreed to?

The ridiculousness of what had just passed in the last seven minutes was not lost on her. From having no dates in two years, she now had two. Within twenty-four hours of each other.

With a Rock star and a Priest.

Assumpta laughed half-hysterically to herself. If cupid existed, it was good to see that he had a sense of humour at least.

"Something funny, Assumpta?" Brian eyed her suspiciously as if she was about to infringe on one of his pending patents.

"Nothing," she assured breezily, weaving her way back to the bar. "Nothing at all. What can I get you?"

As Quigley recited his order, Assumpta felt her mind wander back to her predicament – as if any predicament existed at all. Peter had never invited her over up until this point. He'd never even called her on the phone.

She sincerely doubted that the Priest wanted just sandwich and a stout. But he was a Priest for goodness sake – what else could he possibly want?

A flood of images tumbled through her brain.

Breathe, Assumpta. Just breathe. So she did. And for now at least, it was all she could think to do.

A/N Thanks for the such lovely feedback, peeps. Prepare for things to heat up in the next few chapters...