Page 16 of The Unexpected

She is followed, or maybe shadowed, by the man. The contrast is immediate. If she is lush femininity, then he’s alpha potential: all mass and momentum, the stillness of a loaded spring. He fills the doorframe without even trying. Dark-haired, eyes sharp and unreadable, jaw set in a way that says he’s used to getting his way. He wears a tailored suit, but the shirt is open at the neck, a calculated carelessness. There’s a hint of stubble, not enough to look unkempt, just enough to look dangerous. If I had to guess, I’d say ex-military, or maybe just the kind of billionaire who needs to remind people that he’s not soft.

They hover a bit, unsure of what to do next. I rise and extend my hand. It’s a little thing, but it matters—most people don’t know if they should shake a pastor’s hand. I make it easy for them.

“Welcome, I’m Pastor O’Toole but call me Lachlan,” I say. “You must be Stella.”

She nods, her hand small but not weak in mine. Her perfume is vanilla, edged with something sharper—maybe cedar, maybe the shampoo she used this morning.

“Yes, thank you for meeting us on such short notice, Pastor O’Toole. We appreciate it.”

I turn to the man. “Hunter Roberts, correct?”

His handshake is strong, the kind that dares you to match his grip. “Correct, Pastor. Again, appreciate you seeing us on short notice.”

I wave it off, settling back behind the desk. “Not at all. I know you asked to see Pastor Pamela, but her schedule is—well, ambitious. She’s limited her appointments to regular congregants for the time being.” I offer a small smile. “But as an assistant pastor, I had an opening. And you mentioned it was urgent.”

I watch Stella’s face at the word urgent. A pink rises in her cheeks, blooming fast, and my pulse trips. If I could, I’d bottle that blush, send it to all my lapsed congregants as a reminder of what confession used to feel like.

Stella nods, but doesn’t elaborate. She looks at her clasped hands. Hunter’s face doesn’t move, but I see the muscle at the edge of his jaw tighten.

I gesture to the pair of worn leather chairs in front of the desk. “Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”

They sit, closer than necessary, and for a moment I sense the electric field that arcs between them. It’s not the typical co-ed drama that floats through these doors, nor the toxic, spouse-hating malice I get from most couples. It’s a current, hungry and alive, but neither seems sure who’s the conductor and who’s the circuit. This is definitely going to be interesting.

I fold my hands on the desk, posture open but composed. “Why don’t you tell me a little about what brings you here?”

The usual way is for the woman to start, and this is no exception. Stella glances at Hunter, as if for permission, then back at me. “It’s… complicated,” she says. Her voice is soft, a little hoarse from nerves, but determined. “We have a situation that’s, um, not ideal.”

“What kind of situation?”

She shifts in her seat, the blue dress catching on the curve of her hip. “A relationship that probably shouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it should’ve, but… it escalated.”

Hunter chimes in, low-voiced and unhurried: “It’s a mutual attraction. We acted on it. There’s some fallout.”

“What kind of fallout?” I ask, pen poised.

Stella looks at Hunter again, then sets her jaw. “We’re related,” she says. “Step-uncle and niece. Hunter’s my father’s stepbrother.”

I keep my face as neutral as granite. “But not biologically related?”

“No,” she says. Her shoulders drop, a sliver of relief at not having to defend it further.

I nod. “How long have you known each other?”

“All my life,” she says. “But it wasn’t like that until recently.”

Hunter’s smile is clinical. “Recently meaning that we didn’t make physical contact until recently. but it’s been exactly like that, Pastor, for a while. We just didn’t say it out loud.”

I let the line hang as Stella blushes fire-engine red. I jot a note, though I don’t need to. “So you’re here because…”

Stella hesitates, then finds the words. “We want to know if it’s… wrong. If it’s going to hurt anyone. And if it’s something we should try to stop, or… not.”

Hunter sits back, one ankle over his knee, his hand resting easy on the curve of the other. He’s watching me with the patience of a predator, sizing up the terrain. “I’m less worried about the morality, Pastor, and more about the psychology. The consequences. Stella’s father is my stepbrother. He’s conservative. We’re not interested in blowing up our family over a little fun. And of course, I’m here for Stella,” he says with a searching gaze. “I want to do what she feels is right.”

The words land, and I’m struck by the unflinching confidence of them. Most men would be ashamed, or at least pretend to be. Hunter speaks like it’s a challenge.

I tap the pen, slow and even. “Is this your first time seeking counseling about the matter?”

Stella nods. “Yes. We didn’t want to go to a professional therapist because it just seemed so serious. Not that this isn’t serious,” she adds hastily.