Page 13 of Robbin’ the Rich

Unfortunately, the effort failed almost immediately. Because good lord, the priest costume should’ve been cheesy. Objectively, it was cheesy. But something about the contrast worked way too well on him. Black button-up sleeves rolled to his forearms. White collar against his skin. Blond hair slightly messy beneath the stage lights, like he’d already run his hands through it a dozen times tonight.

I wanted to do that for him instead, which felt concerning.

“It’s been a while since you looked at a man like that,” Mel observed casually.

I narrowed my eyes on her. “You’re very invested in this.”

“I deserve entertainment.”

Honestly, it had been a while.

If I had to label myself, pansexual was probably the closest. My sexuality had always landed somewhere in the general category of hot people are hot. I was attracted to all genders and body types, as long as they had that certain something. But men required a level of trust and emotional energy I usually didn’t feel interested in offering. Too many of them moved through the world like entitlement was a personality trait.

This one though… This one looked at people carefully, like he actually saw them. Which somehow made him more dangerous.

“Who even is he?” Belle asked.

“Micah,” Mel supplied. “He fills in with Derek’s band sometimes.”

Micah. Okay. That fit him annoyingly well.

On stage, he adjusted his bass strap and laughed at something the guitarist said into the mic. He had an easy smile and relaxed posture. It was the kind of confidence that didn’t feel performative.

Then his gaze flicked toward me again. Heat curled low in my stomach.

Jesus Christ. No wonder churches got people emotionally compromised. The man looked like temptation wrapped in a guitar strap.

“Robin,” Belle said slowly, “you’re spiraling in real time.”

“Shut up. I’m being totally normal.”

“You just stared at his mouth for a full thirty seconds. I was counting.”

Mel burst out laughing.

I flipped both of them off without looking away from the stage. Because the problem was that Micah kept looking back too. The little glances between songs did something to me. His eyes caught mine through the crowd. These tiny moments felt weirdly intimate despite the packed bar around us.

And every single time it happened, my pulse kicked harder. At one point he smiled mid-song while looking directly at me and nearly knocked over a mic stand with the neck of his bass. That’s when I realized something delicious.

I was getting to him too.

A slow grin spread across my face as I leaned back against the bar.

Across the room, Micah noticed. His fingers stuttered briefly across the strings, an obvious mistake pounding through the large speakers.

Belle made a strangled noise beside me. “Oh my god, you almost killed him.”

“Good.”

“You’re trouble."

“I’ve been told that before.”

But if he was going to wink at me dressed like a six-foot-tall religious crisis, he deserved consequences.

The rest of the set dissolved into shameless mutual distraction. Eye contact across flashing lights. Smirks hidden behind drink glasses. Micah trying very hard to focus on playing while I watched him unravel in real time. And honestly? It was the most fun I’d had in weeks.

By the time the band stepped offstage for their second break, I had reached a very important conclusion… The hot priest was becoming a problem. A blonde, very handsome, bass-playing problem.