Page 13 of Property of The Grump

“There’s another two dozen in my car. Half pumpkin spice, half apple cinnamon. This tray is apple cinnamon. They’re my specialty.”

“Well,” I nod, every muscle in my body tight as I try not to ogle this woman like a piece of meat, “I’ll be sure and buy one. Thank you for donating. The church is hoping to save enough to put a new roof on this year.”

“A new roof,” her brows narrow, “with cupcake money? You’re going to need about fifty more trays.”

“Well, I’m hoping the donations will cover the cost of materials. I can do the labor.”

She pauses and drops her gaze like she’s shocked. “A biker priest who fixes roofs?”

“You heard I ride?”

“I saw it online when I was looking for volunteer stuff. I’m impressed. I think I imagined you as a balding man in pleated black slacks with an abnormal amount of chest hair, a penchant for crossword puzzles and bird watching.”

“Hey,” I narrow my brows playfully, “don’t knock bird watching, and you have no idea what I’m hiding under this collar. It could be a full-on forest under here.” I laugh and take the tray from her hands. “You came a long way for a donation. Are you staying for mass?”

“Mass?” She drags in a deep breath. “That’s the singy-dancy thing, right? The part where we praise the Lord and do the clapping?”

I grin. “Yeah, that’s the one, though I’ve been told my sermons could use some more life, so you might be disappointed if you’re expecting singy-dancy.”

“He’s not kidding,” my mother calls from behind, her voice light with playfulness.

“Hey,” I glance back to see her walking up the aisle toward me, “you just told me how much you love my sermons.”

“Of course I do, honeybun.” She kisses my arm as she reaches toward Wren, her shaking hand outstretched as though she wants to say hello, though we both know she’s being nosy. My mother is the kindest woman in the world, but she’s also the biggest snoop. “I’m just saying they could use a little spunk to keep the younger crowd interested.”

Younger, like this woman in front of me that I haven’t been able to take my eyes off. Maybe my mother noticed the way I’ve been looking at Wren and she’s sending me a message that extends beyond my sermons.

Wren pays none of the conversation any mind. Instead, she steps forward with a bright smile on her face as she greets my mother like she’s known her for ages. “He doesn’t seem to like jokes much, does he?”

Apparently, everyone is ganging up on me now.

“This boy has been a stone since the day he was born.” My mother winks. “He’s a little honeybun deep down, though.”

“So, you’re the biker priest’s mom?”

“Biker priest? That’s great. He should get that tattooed. He’s got everything else.” Mom holds onto my arm as she talks. “Are you new to the area? They said on the news we might be getting some new folks settling soon, given that big shippingfacility they’re putting on the outskirts of town. It’s supposed to bring a bunch of new jobs, which we really need.”

A strand of dark hair falls into Wren’s vision, and she sweeps it away quickly. “No, I’m from the Springs. Well, from Rugged Mountain originally, but living in the Springs. My husband is Zane Harlow—”

“The guy that’s running for mayor out that way. Yeah, I’ve heard of him. What brings you out here then? Is he doing some kind of community work?”

“Well, yes.” Wren glances toward me but looks away quickly as though she’s nervous about something. “My husband thought it would be a good idea to do some outreach in small towns neighboring the Springs. We have a lot of commuters that live out here, and he wanted to give back.” She spins back toward me, breasts bouncing slightly as she moves.

Why the hell did I notice that?

“Which brings me to the roof,” she continues. “How much do you need to get that fixed?”

“Thank you,” I nod, “but I prefer to do things the old-fashioned way.”

A crack of a beam settling somewhere rings out with perfect timing. “Which is why it’s taking so long to get everything done,” my mother presses. “You don’t take big donations, and the church doesn’t get fixed. You know ten thousand cupcakes won’t raise enough money to fix this place up like it needs to be.”

I know that, she knows that, but I’m not taking money from this woman or her husband.

“That’s not true. We had plenty of donations from the bake sale last year. Enough that we were able to get the plumbing in the bathroom redone, and we had enough left over to put in the pot for this year.”

My mother gives me the same look she’s given me since I was a kid. The one that sort of looks like a cross between arabid raccoon and a confused squirrel. She doesn’t have to say anything for me to know exactly how dumb she thinks I’m being.

“Well,” Wren says sweetly, “think about it. My husband is all about donations right now, and I’m sure if I go back and give a cute little report, he’ll write you a nice fat check for whatever you need.”