minister.” She sighed the admission. His latent sensuality was too unnerving for her.
His low chuckle vibrated over her tingling nerve ends. “Let’s see … what would laymen expect a minister to look like?” he mused. “I imagine there are different categories. The intensely pious should be pale, ascetically slender, with deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, and a fervid voice. There’d be the benevolent father figure—white hair, a round face, and a kindly air. And you have the thunderer, preaching about the wrath of God and pointing out the sinners with a long accusing finger. He’d have a beard, be very tall, with beetle brows.” Seth paused to send a mocking glance across the table. “How am I doing so far?”
“I guess I’ve been guilty of type-casting,” Abbie admitted with a faint smile.
“Everyone does it,” he assured her. “Now, my idea of a legal secretary is a woman in her forties with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She’d wear wire-rimmed glasses and tailored business suits.” His glance skimmed her again. “Funny, you don’t look like a legal secretary.”
She laughed naturally for the first time. “I promise I won’t say it again, Reverend.” Inside, Abbie knew she’d think it each time she referred to him by his professional title.
“I’ve finally made you laugh.” His gaze focused on the parted curve of her lips. She felt them tremble from the look that was oddly physical.“We’ve cleared the first hurdle,” Seth murmured enigmatically.
“To what?” Her voice sounded breathless.
“To becoming friends,” he replied.
“Oh.” For some reason, Abbie was disappointed by his answer. She ate a few more mouthfuls of salad but found it tasteless. She couldn’t stop being conscious of the warmth of his leg against hers, and the rough texture of the denim material brushing the bareness of her calf. It became imperative to keep a conversation going. “Are you all moved in to the parsonage?”
“More or less. I still have a lot of boxes of books to unpack.” There was a rueful slant to his mouth as he glanced at her. “Have you ever been in it?”
“No.” The slight shake of her head swayed the ends of her pale copper hair.
“It’s a rambling monstrosity. There’s more rooms there than I’ll ever use. I’ll probably close up half of the house.”
“I imagine it was intended for a family to live in rather than a single man,” Abbie suggested.
“It’s practically an unwritten rule. A man is supposed to have his wife picked out
before
he graduates from the seminary and is assigned to his first church.” Seth didn’t appear troubled that he hadn’t followed the rule.
“But you didn’t.” She stated the obvious.
“No, I didn’t,” he agreed, and let his gaze lock on to hers.
Her throat muscles tightened. “I guess it is the expected thing—for a minister to be married, I mean,” Abbie finally managed to get the words out. “How long have you been in the ministry?” She guessed his age to be somewhere in the range of thirty-five.
“Thirteen years. I spent four of those years as an air-force chaplain.” He dropped his gaze and began slicing off a piece of steak.
“Where was your first church?” She gave in to her curiosity and began delving into his background.
“This is my first church,” he admitted.
“You mean, you were always an assistant pastor before?” A slight frown of confusion creased her forehead.
“No. I worked in the national offices of the church. My work was more business-oriented than anything else.” There was a sardonic curve to his mouth. “For a variety of reasons, I requested to be assigned a church in some quiet little community. I guess I’m taking something like a sabbatical.”
“I see,” she murmured.
“I doubt it.” He showed a bit of cynical skepticism, then hid it. “But it isn’t important.” His glance suddenly challenged her. “Why is it that
you
aren’t married, Miss Scott?”
Her
His low chuckle vibrated over her tingling nerve ends. “Let’s see … what would laymen expect a minister to look like?” he mused. “I imagine there are different categories. The intensely pious should be pale, ascetically slender, with deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, and a fervid voice. There’d be the benevolent father figure—white hair, a round face, and a kindly air. And you have the thunderer, preaching about the wrath of God and pointing out the sinners with a long accusing finger. He’d have a beard, be very tall, with beetle brows.” Seth paused to send a mocking glance across the table. “How am I doing so far?”
“I guess I’ve been guilty of type-casting,” Abbie admitted with a faint smile.
“Everyone does it,” he assured her. “Now, my idea of a legal secretary is a woman in her forties with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She’d wear wire-rimmed glasses and tailored business suits.” His glance skimmed her again. “Funny, you don’t look like a legal secretary.”
She laughed naturally for the first time. “I promise I won’t say it again, Reverend.” Inside, Abbie knew she’d think it each time she referred to him by his professional title.
“I’ve finally made you laugh.” His gaze focused on the parted curve of her lips. She felt them tremble from the look that was oddly physical.“We’ve cleared the first hurdle,” Seth murmured enigmatically.
“To what?” Her voice sounded breathless.
“To becoming friends,” he replied.
“Oh.” For some reason, Abbie was disappointed by his answer. She ate a few more mouthfuls of salad but found it tasteless. She couldn’t stop being conscious of the warmth of his leg against hers, and the rough texture of the denim material brushing the bareness of her calf. It became imperative to keep a conversation going. “Are you all moved in to the parsonage?”
“More or less. I still have a lot of boxes of books to unpack.” There was a rueful slant to his mouth as he glanced at her. “Have you ever been in it?”
“No.” The slight shake of her head swayed the ends of her pale copper hair.
“It’s a rambling monstrosity. There’s more rooms there than I’ll ever use. I’ll probably close up half of the house.”
“I imagine it was intended for a family to live in rather than a single man,” Abbie suggested.
“It’s practically an unwritten rule. A man is supposed to have his wife picked out
before
he graduates from the seminary and is assigned to his first church.” Seth didn’t appear troubled that he hadn’t followed the rule.
“But you didn’t.” She stated the obvious.
“No, I didn’t,” he agreed, and let his gaze lock on to hers.
Her throat muscles tightened. “I guess it is the expected thing—for a minister to be married, I mean,” Abbie finally managed to get the words out. “How long have you been in the ministry?” She guessed his age to be somewhere in the range of thirty-five.
“Thirteen years. I spent four of those years as an air-force chaplain.” He dropped his gaze and began slicing off a piece of steak.
“Where was your first church?” She gave in to her curiosity and began delving into his background.
“This is my first church,” he admitted.
“You mean, you were always an assistant pastor before?” A slight frown of confusion creased her forehead.
“No. I worked in the national offices of the church. My work was more business-oriented than anything else.” There was a sardonic curve to his mouth. “For a variety of reasons, I requested to be assigned a church in some quiet little community. I guess I’m taking something like a sabbatical.”
“I see,” she murmured.
“I doubt it.” He showed a bit of cynical skepticism, then hid it. “But it isn’t important.” His glance suddenly challenged her. “Why is it that
you
aren’t married, Miss Scott?”
Her
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