Slowly and stubbornly the world began to emerge. First there was light, eclipsing their shadow, illuminating all of their sin. Next came sound: the hum of the refrigerator, a siren in the distance.

Then came their reality.

"It wasn't a good kiss then."

Assumpta's solemn decree, made into the crest of his neck gave Peter cause to fidget awkwardly. "Sorry?"

"No – I meant," she continued shyly, smiling into his shoulder, "it wasn't just a good kiss."

"Oh."

She pulled away and held his gaze as if expecting an answer. "So, we have a problem?"

"I guess we do."

Still trembling from their embrace, Peter gradually began to come to. He accounted for their position, half on the kitchen table with both feet thankfully on the floor. Soon after, he noticed with alarm that some clothes had come undone – a few buttons on his shirt and the strap of Assumpta's dress.

The publican seemed to realise their state of undress just as he did and bashfully pulled her cardigan back over her shoulders.

"Guess we should be thankful Padraig put the lights off when he did." Assumpta joked nervously.

Peter smiled and shifted awkwardly, attempting to disguise the third and most revealing totem of their misconduct.

If his visitor noticed, she was polite about it.

"I should go," she announced suddenly when the awkward silence had continued too long.

The curate nodded.

"I'll see myself out," she offered before he had a chance to get up. "You… stay."

With all the gratitude in the world, Peter told her "Thank you."

Assumpta struggled with the buttons on her cardigan, realising soon after that she'd lost a few in the struggle. Hiding her blushes, she wrapped it around her best she could and set about straightening her hair in the hallway mirror.

No one better see her like this…

As she approached the door, Peter had finally regained enough composure to open it for her. His frame loomed over hers and seemed to make every inch of her body dance with gooseflesh.

"What now?" he asked her croakily.

"Now?" she managed. "Now we go back to normal, don't we?"

Peter nodded rationally but he wasn't satisfied. "But what about us? What about... this?"

Assumpta considered his question, considered the implications of what they were doing and couldn't help but feel a tingle of excitement course through her. "I haven't the foggiest," she admitted with a smile.

The curate laughed out loud once and after just a moment's hesitation, held her cheek with the warm palm of his hand. "Oh boy, am I in trouble."

"You and me both."

He opened the door a crack before thinking better of it. If it was a sin, there'd be no repeating it, or so the line in their play had prophesised. In all likelihood, this would be his only chance to do this again.

Without even considering it further, Peter seized the moment and kissed her again, fiercer this time, against the dark panelled wood of the door.

Assumpta returned it more than willingly, as if this kiss too had been on the forefront of her mind. Gripping handfuls of the curate's hair as she allowed herself to be lifted and pinned against the solid mahogany, she immediately felt everything that he'd been hiding – both literally and figuratively.

His now very evident arousal seemed to send shudders through her body as it rubbed against the thin layers of material that separated them. The most burning thought that plagued them both was just how easy it'd be – just how easy. A small shift here, a movement there and he'd be inside of her, exploring from within.

The intoxicating allure of this prospect gave the Priest cause to hook his thumb on the waistband of her skirt. It even made him tug a little. But no. There was such a thing as too easy and this – whatever this was – would not cheapen so readily.

Reluctantly, they parted once more, as frustrated as they felt elated. "I'll see you," Assumpta promised weakly as she backed quickly out of the door, no longer caring about her even-more dishevelled appearance.

Peter, for his part, remained slumped against the front door for some time afterwards. To say this was unchartered territory for the curate would be the understatement of an understatement. He had no idea what he was doing.

But it sure felt good.

He smiled involuntarily into the crook of his elbow and stood, reluctantly, and set about clearing up the overturned chairs and broken glassware in the kitchen. Fixing what he could of tangible mess they'd made.

Assumpta Fitzgerald was not known for having her head in the clouds. As a teenager, her school report seldom included the phrase and when it did, it was always written in her Theology professor's illegible scrawl.

But today was different. Today her head had well and truly taken leave of her shoulders – and leave of her senses.

I swear, I'm losing my mind

The only thing Peter Clifford had freely admitted to without coercion. His declaration. Hardly the stuff of romance novels, but even just the memory of those words sent shivers down her spine.

There was what happened after too of course.

An involuntary flush spread across the publican's face, which she tried to hide by burying her head in the wine fridge.

To no avail… "Something the matter there, Assumpta?" Siobhan flashed her a knowing smile. "Wouldn't be thinking about a certain former co-star would we?"

Assumpta's blush broadened. "Who... what?"

The vet nodded towards the ostentatious arrangement of flowers that adorned the back bar. "Those from him, are they?"

"Enda?" An audible sign of relief escaped her throat. "Oh yeah. Arrived this morning in fact."

Siobhan grinned shrewdly. "All in time for the Big Date tonight then. Something tells me he's done this before?"

"Aren't I the lucky one then?" she deadpanned to the Vet's amusement.

The date. Yes, the date. A knot in the pit of Assumpta's stomach began to tighten. It was too late to cancel of course – too conspicuous – but the idea of spending an evening in the company of one man when all she could think about was another seemed like pure hell.

She'd already quietly decided to wear her most conservative outfit – no need to lead Enda on anymore than she already had. There was even a chance that she could turn the whole evening into a type of business dinner. Talk over the possibility of Enda becoming Fitzgerald's resident musician? It was worth a shot at any rate.

So, that was one romantic crisis dealt with. Just how she was going to solve the other was quite another thing…

The flush began to creep back onto her cheeks.

Lord help me.

On the other side of the village. Father Clifford was suffering no less than his cohort. His guilt over their kiss was palpable but no more than his longing to do the same thing all over again.

Peter shook his head in protest and attempted to focus on the task at hand, balancing the Church's books. But still, his mind wandered.

He'd never had a kiss like that before. It wasn't really saying much, his sexual history was sparse at best, but his encounter with Assumpta had easily surpassed anything he'd done prior to taking his vows.

With every movement, every graze of her mouth, she'd goaded him – she'd ensnared him. Peter held the back of his index finger to his mouth, subconsciously trying to recapture the exact pressure – the exact feel – of her lips, but to no avail.

He sighed audibly. It was a one-time thing, he'd promised himself and his God. It wouldn't happen again – it couldn't. But then, how come chaining himself to his desk was all he could do to keep him from going over to the pub and doing it all over again?

Peter tried to concentrate on the numbers in the balance book.

"£125.36 minus £37.45 plus £22.05… "

Focus, Peter. Focus.

"…carry the nine."

No. It wasn't any good. He had to see her. He had to go over there. As much as he'd tried, Peter was about to break yet another holy order and de-bar himself from the pub.

His hand lingered on the door handle for all of fifteen seconds while he gave himself the chance to reconsider. By the time his heart had caught up with his head however, he was gone.

By the time Peter reached Fitzgerald's, it was already a full house. Every seat in the place was taken leaving the Englishman to hang back by the reservations desk and question his decision to come in.

"Father, over here!"

Immediately spotted by Brendan, Peter weaved a path through the crowds and found a vacated stool between the schoolteacher and Siobhan.

"I've never seen this place so full" he commented, gesturing for a pint from Niamh.

"We're all here for the show," Siobhan commented cryptically to the group's amusement.

"The show?"

Just as Father Clifford asked this, Niamh delivered his pint of lager and informed him in a happy sing-song voice, "Assumpta's got a date tonight."

The knot in Peter's stomach began to tighten exponentially.

"Those," the barmaid gestured conspiratorially to the huge bunch of azaleas behind the bar "are from him."

"Enda?" he managed to sputter eventually.

"Word travels fast I see" the barmaid commented. "Speaking of the man – Enda! I'll just fetch her ladyship for you."

Peter hunched his shoulders and kept his attention on the azaleas, unprepared as of yet to face the man he'd so recently detested.

Unfortunately, it wasn't his decision to make.

"Father Clifford, how are you?"

The Priest turned begrudgingly and flashed Enda a counterfeit smile. It was all he could do to keep from punching the would-be adulterer right in the face.

Before he was forced to do any more, Assumpta appeared from behind the bar, dressed demurely in an ankle-length dress and cream linen blazer.

She could have been wearing knee-highs and suspender belt for all Peter saw of her. Eyes buried in his pint, he tried to regulate his breathing. After everything – everything – he'd said to her, everything they'd done, she'd agreed to this date with Enda?

He was so angry, he couldn't see straight.

Assumpta shared a few perfunctory words with Niamh before she nodded to the musician that she was ready.

If she'd noticed Peter – or if she were in the least at all bothered by his presence – the publican didn't show it. It was only when she walked past him that she acknowledged him with a muted, "Good evening Father."

Concerned by appearances, Peter replied with more of the same as he finally raised his eyes up from his glass and watched her leave, his gaze remaining on the closing door for far longer than was necessary.

As he tore his regard back to the bar, Father Clifford was alarmed to discover that all eyes had now fallen to him. Were his parishioners really that perceptive?

He took a large mouthful of beer and was relieved when the conversation resumed and the eyes gradually fell away.

All pairs of eyes bar one…

Father MacAnally seemed to materialise out of thin air. "Father Clifford" he growled by way of a greeting or a warning. Peter couldn't determine which.

The younger curate cursed silently into his drink as his superior edged closer, posed to speak again.

"You can see me tomorrow," he advised cryptically before leaving the bar area and resuming his place in the corner booth with Brian.

Peter nodded curtly before finishing what was left of his pint and signalling for another. Something in the way Father Mac had greeted him had unnerved the young Priest.

It was almost as if Peter's presence in the embargoed pub wasn't the only thing that bothered Frank MacAnally. Could he know what had transpired a mere 24 hours ago? Was it even possible?

As he mulled this over, Peter realised that he was already most of the way into his second pint so he asked for another.

Niamh brought it over with an air of surprised disapproval that only she could manage.

Great, the Priest thought. Another thing to atone for.

With the manner of a scorned man, Peter started on his third pint, quickly realising that no dinner and a head full with emotions meant that tonight he was going to get very drunk. Very drunk indeed.

A/N Thank again for all of the lovely feedback this story has been receiving. We've a few chapters ahead of us yet so I hope you'll all stick with me... there'll be plenty more P&A action if you do ;-)