Peter steadied himself against the brushed-oak sideboard. What had he just done?

He'd asked her to come over. He'd effectively placed a booty call. Did Assumpta know it was a booty call? Did she even know what a booty call was?

Did he?

The curate held his jaw between his thumb and forefinger and sighed, loudly. It had been an eventful afternoon that much was certain. His mind still reeled from his final Confession of the day. Aileen O'Hara, Enda Sullivan's nanny had been reluctant to speak at first. She'd stayed silent for a full half a minute before Peter had managed to coax it out of her – to hear her Confession.

She'd broken the seventh Commandment. She'd committed adultery with another woman's husband.

Father Clifford's ear's pricked.

Did she know that this man was married?

No, Aileen had maintained. No. But it doesn't forgive her sin. She knew that this man had been married. She knew that he had a child. Aileen had just assumed that maybe… she'd thought that perhaps – but no, she knew. She'd known deep down what was true.

Enda Sullivan wasn't the type to go through the hassle of a divorce when he didn't have to. Not when he was already getting the milk for free….

At this point, Aileen thought herself past forgiveness. A stout Catholic, even the sin of sex before marriage seemed to weigh heavily on her.

The Priest tried to absolve her as best he could. The heart wants what it wants. There's no provision for that. But Aileen knew as well as he did the extent of the gossip that surrounded her relationship with the musician. This fresh development would all but ruin what was left of her reputation.

She was beyond reprieve.

His thoughts immediately turned to Assumpta. If she agreed to even just one date with Enda, surely her reputation would suffer also. She'd be tarred by the same brush.

What's more, it'd be even more damaging for the publican. She had a business to run which relied as much on people's good opinion of her as it did on their thirst for drink.

He needed to tell her and he needed to do it today. Phone call absolved, then.

Peter glanced at the clock. 6.45pm. She'd be here in 15 minutes. 15 minutes. And then what? He paced nervously, catching his reflection in the hallway mirror. He'd neglected to change into his civvies when he came in and still wore his black shirt and dog-collar.

Peter considered changing now but would that convey the wrong idea? He was providing Assumpta counsel as her Priest – as her friend. It was only right that he wore the uniform.

He then realised something else.

Father Clifford was revealing someone else's confession. He was breaking a holy vow. It had to be done; there was no doubt in his mind of that. But could he in all good conscience do that looking like a Priest?

You are a Priest, Peter.

A voice not unlike the publican's resounded in Peter's head. Dog-collar or none, he was still and forever would be an ordained curate. He had to make peace with that. Stand by his decisions as a Priest. Always a Priest.

A knock on the door snapped Peter from his reckonings.

He glanced at the clock. She was early.

Haphazardly, he removed the white card from his collar as he reached for the door. Compromise, he wagered.

"One cheese and ham on sour dough and a bottle of stout for the curate?"

Assumpta stood just short of the doorstep as if undecided whether to come in. Peter took the paper bag in her proffered hand eagerly and beckoned her to follow him inside.

Try to remember to breathe….

Without speaking, the publican followed him in to the kitchen and leaned against the kitchen counter. She watched with feigned disinterest as Peter searched for something – a plate, perhaps – and absentmindedly pulled herself on the counter.

"Got another one of those," she asked presently, gesturing to the glass of stout he'd half-filled for himself.

"Have this one," Peter volunteered only half-embarrassed to have forgotten his manners. As he passed her the glass, their fingers brushed momentarily sending an involuntary shiver through him.

Pretending not to notice the tremor, the publican took a sip from the tumbler. "Thanks" she whispered carefully.

"What do I owe?"

Assumpta caught his eye. "Excuse me?"

"The beer – and the grub?" he patted his pockets theatrically as if searching for his wallet.

"Don't worry," she told him with a sigh. "I'll put it on your tab."

He nodded gratefully and looked a little embarrassed. It seemed that the Priest's vow of poverty was the only one Peter didn't have any trouble keeping these days.

His mind immediately turned to the other vows he'd been breaking the lately and notably, the vow he'd planned on breaking today.

"You know, I had an ulterior motive for getting you here today" he began in earnest.

"Is that right?"

Father Clifford avoided her close scrutiny. God, she was beautiful. "I – er, I found out something today. Something that I think you should know. Something that might affect you."

"Might affect me?"

"What I'm about to tell you was told to me in confidence… in Confession – "

Assumpta flinched. "And you're about to tell me? Do you really think you should…?"

"I have to," he maintained sombrely. "You need to know the truth."

Assumpta studied the curate. As ulterior motives go, this was not what she'd had in mind.

"Go on, then?" she conceded, her voice barely audible.

"Enda is still married."

The publican waited for more but when none came, wrinkled her brow and clarified: "Enda Sullivan?"

Father Clifford nodded slowly and continued, "Aileen O'Hara, Fergal Sullivan's nanny – have you met her?"

Assumpta cast her mind back, vaguely remember Padraig's Kevin bringing his friend Fergal – Enda's son – into the pub one day. Was his child-minder there too? If she was, she was easily forgettable.

"Anyway," Peter continued when the silence continued too long. "Aileen and Enda, well – they'd been having a relationship of sorts when she found out that he'd never got a divorce. He's still married to Fergal's mother."

The publican kept her voice level. "Are they still having a relationship – Aileen and Enda?"

As responses to fairly big revelations go, the Priest wasn't expecting this. "No, not anymore, I don't think."

"And Fergal's mother?" she continued. "Is she still in the picture?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like where this was going. "Not as far as I'm aware."

"So this information – this news. How might it affect me, exactly?"

Although her voice was calm, Peter could tell that the publican was anything but. "You mentioned that you might be going on a date with Enda… I thought that you deserved to know – "

"Deserved to know that he's separated? Deserved to know his sexual past – Peter, why on earth would you break that poor girl's Confession over something so trivial? Did you think it'd put me off?"

"I'd hope that it might…"

At this the curate's visitor propelled herself off the work surface. "It's none of my business and it's surely none of yours."

"Assumpta, wait – "

Peter followed after her to the hall where she held one hand against the doorjamb.

"Just what is it to you who I decide to become involved with? Why are you so interested?" she enquired eagerly, only half-expecting an answer.

She certainly did not expect the one that came.

"I care about you, Assumpta."

It was the second time that she'd heard Peter make this pronouncement but it still made every hair follicle stand on end.

She'd avoided his eye line the first time he'd told her. She'd escaped the ensuing awkwardness with a flippant, 'I know' but not now. Not today. It took every ounce of fortitude to steer her, but eventually Assumpta replied, still not quite managing to meet his eye.

"Is that all it is?"

Peter immediately took a step back. "What?" he responded. "What do you –?" He searched her eyes for some respite. He looked for a way out. But his endeavour was fruitless. By now, the publican was well and truly fired up.

"You care about me? You care… what does that even mean?"

"It means what it's meant to mean?" he stuttered nervously. "It means that we're friends… it means we're supposed to – "

"That all we are, Peter?" she asked under her breath.

The curate narrowed his eyes with incredulity. She was really doing this? Now?

"If we're such good friends, why does it feel this way when I'm with you?" Assumpta brushed an invisible tear from her cheek. "Why do I feel this way…?"

She stopped abruptly and finally met his searching gaze. "Why am I always thinking of you?"

Peter gripped the wall for support. His mind raced. Realising that she was eyeing him expectantly, he took a laboured breath and began, "I – I didn't think..." He paused momentarily, still digesting what had been said. "You think about me?"

"More than I should" she told him in a quiet voice. "More than anyone should, about a Priest, I mean…"

He tried to keep his tone professional. He attempted to save face. "Assumpta, I am a Priest."

Her face darkened. "You think I don't know that? You think that I'm not aware?"

"I don't know what to think." Running his hands over his face, he asked again. "You think about me?"

Assumpta began to tire of this inquisition. She couldn't be the only one who was in this. "Don't you, about me?"

At this, Father Clifford backed away into the kitchen. Facing the stove, he held the Aga for support. Every day, he wanted to tell her. I think about you every day. But the words stuck in his throat like a bitter pill.

"I swear, I'm losing my mind," he told her instead, burying his face into both hands. "Who knows, maybe I'm not getting enough sleep."

"I wish I were," she muttered.

Peter considered his next words carefully. After a couple of false starts he began, his voice thick with emotion. "I do think about you Assumpta. Much more than I should. More than anyone should, least of all a Priest, but Assumpta – "

"I know." The publican took this as her cue to approach him. "You don't need to tell me. I know…"

"This can't happen" he said anyway.

Their eyes met and with the stare came a shared understanding. Easier said than done.

Peter attempted an apologetic smile but it couldn't quite reach his eyes. The publican responded in kind with no more success.

Their shared look began to linger. Peter's gaze fell briefly onto her mouth, her clavicle, making him realise how much he wanted to kiss it. To kiss her.

He wondered what that would feel like, to kiss her again. Would it be urgent like the first time? Would she still taste like Parma Violets?

His stomach tugged in anticipation. Do it, a voice told him. Do it now. He leaned in half an inch. He parted his lips slightly…

"It was that damned play…" Assumpta's pronouncement brought him back to the here and now.

"Sorry, what?"

"It brought everything to the surface," she explained slowly. "For me, at least."

Peter conceded with a nod. "Me too, I suppose."

Assumpta paced the kitchen slowly as if trying to align her thoughts. "Or perhaps that's not it at all," she offered eventually, half to herself.

"What?"

"Maybe," she continued. "Maybe these feelings aren't genuine at all. Maybe we're still coming down from the performance. Maybe we're just getting carried away with the illicitness of it all. The romance."

Peter tried to hide his disappointment. He knew his own feelings well enough but did she feel the same? Was this even a possibility for her?

"Is this even real?" she asked him without expecting an answer.

Her mouth was still agonisingly close. "How can we know?"

Assumpta looked at him defiantly. "Kiss me," she commanded.

"What?"

"Kiss me," she asked again, arching her body towards his.

Conveniently forgetting that he was mere seconds away from doing that earlier, the curate immediately refuted her suggestion. "No!"

"Please, Peter…"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. She was willing to rest this whole situation – the entire scope of her feelings on one physical act. One kiss. "Assumpta – "

The publican held a trembling hand to the side of his face. Her voice dropped an octave. "I need to know".

"What?"

"I need to know that it was just a good kiss. Nothing more." Her forehead carefully brushed against the top of his. "Don't you?"

Peter tried to form a reasoned thought – an honest rebuttal of sorts – but all he could feel was the softness of her skin against his own. The sweet warmth of her breath…

He leaned in almost indiscernibly.

"Please…" she begged heavily.

The world began to fade. With a ragged breath, the Priest closed the ever-decreasing space between them and held his mouth against hers for all but a second before pulling away again.

It was a carbon copy of the kiss he'd attempted to give her in the play – chaste and polite; full to the brim with a yearning he was still afraid to show.

And just as with the stage kiss, it wasn't enough for Assumpta. She caught his mouth with hers immediately as he pulled away, goading him to continue, bringing him back for more.

After a split-second hesitation, Peter complied unreservedly, just as he'd done on that faithful opening night. But today there was no audience of astonished parishioners; there was no script. All they had was each other and this kitchen. All they had was this kiss.

And the inescapable truths that came with it.