Unlikely Hero. Marta Perry

with fists.”

      “But controlling, just the same.”

      Much as she hated to admit it, he might have a point. “Okay. I guess I get that. How did you get so smart?”

      “Painful mistakes, believe me. Some things they can’t teach you in seminary. You just have to stumble through on your own.” His fingers tightened on hers, and his gaze grew suddenly serious. “I don’t want to involve you in anything over your head, Claire. If you need to step back from Stacy, I won’t argue.”

      Here was her chance. All she had to do was say regretfully that she couldn’t handle it.

      “I’ll see it through.”

      What was she saying? She wanted out, didn’t she?

      Maybe Brendan’s idealism was contagious. Either that, or she just plain couldn’t say no to the man.

      Chapter Three

      “What on earth are you doing? You’ll hurt yourself.”

      The sound of Brendan’s voice startled Claire so much that she nearly slid off the stack of folding tables she’d found in the closet off the church’s social rooms. She steadied herself and then turned carefully to look at him. Faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt made him look younger than she knew him to be.

      “I won’t get hurt unless you scare me into falling. Now you’ve made me lose count.”

      “Lose count?” For a moment he looked confused. “Tables? I can tell you how many tables we have. You don’t need to kill yourself to find that out.” He held out his hand to her. “Come down, please.”

      “I can get down myself.” But when she took a step, the table that had seemed so secure began to slide.

      Brendan braced the table with his hip, grabbed her by the waist, and swung her free of the stack. For a moment she leaned against him, her hands on his arms. Her breath caught.

      No. No. She didn’t feel anything. She straightened, trying to think of something breezy. “You’re pretty strong, for a minister.”

      He let her go, leaning back against the door frame, and gave her a quizzical look. “Is there some rule I’m not aware of that says ministers are supposed to be weak?”

      “No.” She felt unaccountably embarrassed. “I mean, I don’t know. I suppose a strong minister just doesn’t fit my image.”

      “You mean the stereotype of the guy who went into the ministry because he couldn’t be successful at anything else? The person who only has to work an hour a week?”

      “Something like that.” He’d made her feel foolish, and she didn’t like that. “I don’t know enough about ministers to say whether that’s a stereotype or not.”

      He gave her the look that seemed to probe beneath the surface. “I take it you’re not a churchgoer, Claire.”

      “Me?” She dusted off the knees of her tan slacks. “Not likely.”

      “Why not?”

      The direct question put her on the defensive. “Haven’t you ever heard that you’re not supposed to ask people about their religion?”

      His answering smile was easy, but his eyes were serious. “I’m not interviewing you for a job, so that hardly applies, does it?”

      “I don’t know why you think it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t go to church.” If he wanted blunt, she could do blunt.

      “I’m a minister. We’re interested in things like that. Didn’t you ever go to church?”

      She shrugged, brushing past him. The storage closet was too small for conversation, especially with someone who didn’t seem inclined to respect her boundaries.

      “I went when I was small. My mother took me. After she died, no one bothered with that.” She shrugged. “I haven’t ever seen the need for it. Sorry if that’s not a polite thing to say to a minister.”

      “It’s honest. I’d rather hear honesty than the excuses some people come up with.”

      He followed her out of the closet. He was still standing too close, and his gaze was too intent on her face. She’d already decided she wasn’t going to let Brendan get that close, hadn’t she?

      “Well, that’s my story,” she said briskly. “Now, how many tables did you say you had?”

      “Twenty-four, counting the ones in the church school rooms.” He accepted the change of subject. “Why do you need to know?”

      Maybe she should have mentioned this little problem to Brendan before now. They were supposed to be working together, after all.

      “I’ve been trying all week to find a place for the reception. No luck. We don’t have enough time. Everything decent is already booked for that day.”

      “So you’re thinking of having the reception here.” He glanced around the social room.

      She nodded, frowning at the combination of beige carpet and beige concrete block walls. “It doesn’t have the ambience I’d hoped for, but it will have to do. If that’s all right with your schedule, that is.” He could throw a spanner in the works if it wasn’t.

      “That’s not a problem. What do Gabe and Nolie think about the idea?”

      She shrugged. “They want a celebratory meal with family and friends. They don’t care where it takes place.” She looked around again. “So we’ll have to make this room into something special.”

      “We?”

      “You’re cooperating with me on the wedding arrangements, remember?”

      Although if she were going to follow through on her resolution to stay clear of the Reverend, she ought to let him off the hook, shouldn’t she? For a moment the mix of feelings confused her.

      She shook her head. “Look, you don’t have to do anything. Stacy and I can handle this.”

      “Oh, I’ll help. I don’t know how to make centerpieces, if that’s what you have in mind.”

      He’d probably back out if she told him everything she had in mind.

      “That’s all right. The florist will take care of all that.”

      “We have a florist?”

      “Of course. You can’t have a wedding without a florist. Where do you think the bouquet comes from?”

      That lock of chestnut hair had fallen on his forehead again, making him look about sixteen. For an instant, her fingers tingled with the impulse to brush it back for him.

      “Believe it or not, Nolie and Gabe would be just as married if there were no flowers in sight.”

      “Maybe so, but they’re not going to be. Now, what about folding chairs?”

      She spun away. It was safer to look at the expanse of beige carpet rather than Brendan’s face.

      “Enough for eight at each table, with maybe a dozen extra. We used to have more, but they get borrowed for events and then don’t come back.”

      “That should do.” She scribbled the information down in the notebook she’d started with wedding arrangements. After the week she’d had—trying to juggle work, Stacy, and the wedding—if she didn’t make notes of everything she’d go crazy.

      “Tell me something,” Brendan said.

      She glanced at him and found he was watching her with a frown.

      “What?”

      “Why didn’t you just ask Siobhan for the information about the tables and chairs? She knows everything there is to know about the church.”