Chapter 4

Meeting Ana

Photo by Brands&People on Unsplash

Soulé

“Why the hell am I here?” I groaned, gripping the steering wheel.

Traffic was murder, and the last few minutes of the drive were a blur of late turns, honked horns, and me cursing Stanley’s entire bloodline. I hadn’t eaten, worked out, hadn’t had tea, or even taken a stretch. This Sunday was already on my hit list.

Shaggy’s Church Heathen blasting my speakers made it all a bit more... tolerable.

Stanley waited outside the church as if he weren’t the reason I was committing emotional self-harm by showing up at church, of all places.

The choir’s voices spilled out through the open doors, which meant I wasn’t too late to make an entrance.

“I swear, if she isn’t get-on-my-knees-to-lick-her-toes gorgeous, you owe me a year’s worth of protein,” I bit out, stepping out of the car, slamming the door shut.

Stanley blinked at me. “What are you talking about?”

“What am I—Stanley!” I snapped. “You dragged me to church. You could’ve told me where she hangs out regularly. I’d have shown up dressed better and less... obvious.”

“She’s always home. Never goes out, unless it’s with me,” he said. Then, he dared to smile. “Anyway, this way’s more organic. I’m setting you up for a divine encounter.”

As we approached the double doors, two ushers glanced us over with expressions I knew too well. Their eyes narrowed at the fit of my slacks, the firm line of my jaw, the compression vest under my shirt flattening what biology insisted I carry. I didn’t blame them. I wasn’t what they expected.

I walked like a man. Dressed like one, too. But everything between my legs said otherwise.

I had worked my ass off for this body. Seven years of heavy lifting, late-night cardio hell, and protein-fueled rage. Chest presses to smother what I didn’t want. Rows and curls to broaden what I did. And legs? I punished them until they were carved in stone. But still, to them, I was confusing.

I ignored it, letting Stanley lead me down the aisle, as eyes from every pew gazed my way. I hated this kind of scrutiny. But I was used to it.

We were barely seated when the congregation rose again for prayer. I didn’t. I watched.

Faith was a prison with hymns for walls and gold for camouflage. I didn’t knock it. If anything, I envied it. But I was too curious about life and the unknown to blindly follow a faith.

I scanned the stage, trying not to look too eager. The pastor was at the pulpit, with some elders behind him, leading prayer.

Then... her.

Stage left.

Head bowed.

Hair like a halo of jet-black cotton, rising toward the heavens. High cheekbones, soft lips, cinnamon skin that was sun-kissed even in the shadows of the church’s lights.

I stopped breathing.

Every sound dulled to static. My heartbeat slowed, sped, and then forgot what it was supposed to be doing.

Ana. It had to be her.

She was it. The reason I was there.

From across the aisle, something ancient clicked into place. The moment arrived, calm, controlled, but quaking beneath the surface.

I couldn’t tell the color of her eyes yet. But her gaze was already coated under my skin.

Ana, if that is you, you might be my first prayer.

I stood... up... slowly.

I waited for the inevitable amen so it could complete that silent prayer that converted me to the faith with pure enchantment alone. My hands were dug into my pockets, attempting to slow down uncontrollable fidgeting.

Stanley noticed his suppressed snickering stuck in his throat.

His mother, Mama Davis, hadn’t been able to make it. Something about a migraine, but that wasn’t my concern right now.

My concern was standing behind the pulpit, singing like divine breath itself.

I leaned toward Stanley, lowering my voice to a whisper, without taking my eyes off her. “Stanley, tell me, is the woman behind the pastor Ana?”

Stanley didn’t mask the knowing smirk that said: ‘What do you think?’

“Yes, that’s Ana,” he confirmed.

“Amen,” I breathed, awestruck. And we were able to sit.

The pastor’s words droned on, something about obeying one’s parents. Useless noise. It didn’t apply to me. Mine had been estranged too long to enforce anything.

But his daughter, Ana... I hoped she wasn’t one of the obedient types. Unless... of course, she chose to be. For me.

She dressed modestly, fitting for the current setting. Her presence was a lull of a late-night prayer, and there was something else deeper beneath that. I wanted to know.

“She got you hooked.”

“Well, can you blame me?” I murmured, unable to look away.

Stanley peered her way, his brow raising. “Actually, no. I don’t blame you. She’s been staring at us for a while now. And I know that look ain’t for me.”

I hummed, considering. I wanted to know if he was right. So, I stared harder, long enough, and there she was, gazing back.

I smirked.

She averted her eyes.

Interesting.

She was nervous.

More interesting.

My mind wandered into places it shouldn’t. Her mouth was singing something softer than prayers. Her voice, moaning something sweeter than hymns. And I shouldn’t have because my breath fastened with every thought, the naughtier they got... the more alive I felt... the more my life no longer belonged to me, but to the shadows where Satan dwelled, and God had already cast me out.

I reset when the pastor called for donations.

And that was my cue.

Fate was on my side. It was the perfect opportunity. I pulled my checkbook from my suit. I prepared to write an amount, but... no. Instead, I tore out a blank check and slipped the book back into my suit.

Stanley side-eyed me. “You’re doing this?”

I grinned and stood. “You know I love a good investment.”

Heads turned.

Let them stare. I was never meant to blend in.

I walked up the aisle, my polished shoes making no sound against the floor. When I reached the pulpit, the pastor’s brows lifted when I handed it to him.

“A blank check?” He said, stunned.

“For the Lord’s work,” I said. “Please write whatever is needed.”

He paused a moment. Then he turned toward her. “Ana,” he said, “come forward and accept the donation.”

My lips twitched at the corners. This was too easy.

She walked toward me, her shoulders squared, her face composed, but her eyes told a different story.

She reached for the check, and our fingers brushed. And that? That was enough. The touch sent a ripple up my arms, a sudden current that coiled my stomach. I watched it register in her eyes, the same thunder I’d just swallowed.

Her lips parted. “Thank you,” she murmured.

I tilted my head, lowering my voice. “Don’t thank me yet,” I murmured back. “I’m not sure I deserve it.”

Her father added, oblivious to everything. “Ana, please offer a prayer for our generous visitor to give our thanks. God answered our prayers this morning.”

Now, this was unexpected.

I was many things—arrogant, impatient, an occasional asshole—but never, in my life, had I ever been someone’s Sunday morning prayer.

Ana then motioned for me to kneel.

Yes.

I humbly obliged.

Mwen ka plié jinou douvan’w ti manman.

Oh, if she only knew what I—let me shut up...

I dropped to one knee, and as I did, I leaned forward, just close enough to inhale the hint of rose, coconut, and something else: warmth.

“I’ve never been prayed for before,” I murmured to her. “I hope I’m worth your ‘amen.’”

She hesitated for half a second before placing a trembling hand on my head.

She touched me.

Hand to scalp. Fingers threading into my locs like they didn’t know better. I kept my head bowed, out of respect, partly to hide the grin threatening to split my face.

Her trembling palm reached into my roots, and my body sang, steeped in the blessing of her touch. I was there when it mattered, in the moment that asked everything of me.

I, too, was shaken, Ana.

Her voice was soft, shy, but she began:

“Bondye béni sèvant ou...” she said, her voice betraying her. Her mouth had never prayed over someone like me. “... May their generosity multiply in ways seen and unseen. May Your protection and peace walk with them tout koté yo alé...”

There was a crack in her voice, a hint of reluctance. She was struggling. Then she sucked in a breath; her pulse jolted beneath my locs for a second. Her fingers twitched against my scalp.

“... I’m sorry, what is your name?” She asked.

I lifted my eyes to meet hers, once more. “Soulé,” I answered.

“Gidé Soulé ak limyè ou...” she said.

The way she said my name... did something to me.

“... In Your name we pray,” she continued. “Amen.”

I then rose, my movements intentionally slow. She didn’t move, and her wrist brushed my cheek as I stood. A touch so light, but it lit up. It was in her eyes, in the slight part of her lips. I leaned forward. Not too much, but enough to watch the gulp glide down her throat. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t delusional.

And right there, I knew:

She wanted.

Not with words. Not out loud.

But with her hand on me.

With the way her fingers didn’t pull away.

Yeah.

I could work with that.

Then I smiled, a wicked, knowing smile.

“Amen,” I repeated, dragging the word longer than needed.

I stepped away. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to.

I slipped into my seat beside Stanley.

He leaned in, grinning. “You got on your knees quick,” he said.

I licked my bottom lip and smiled.

“Yeah... and if her prayer is anything to go by, I will repent every Sunday.”

I had this thought... wild and unholy:

This won’t be the last time I get on my knees for you, Ana. And next time... may your God help me; I won’t stop at amen.

***

Church was one thing: a crowded sanctuary, hymns reverberating off stained glass. But now? Now we were standing under the biting midday sun, the distinct smell of pavement baking in the Florida heat, and Stanley was grinning like he’d orchestrated the second coming of Christ himself.

“Ana,” he called out, waving her over like we were at a barbecue and not on Ana’s holy ground. “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”

And there she was.

Ana.

Walking toward us in her Sunday best, all soft steps and complicated grace. Her eyes found me, hesitated, and then held. Like we’d already exchanged secrets—and we did. Her dress caught the light in that stubborn way satin does, and it clung in all the right places. A breeze tugged at her hair, and she personified dream and charm.

Stanley clapped a hand on my shoulder. “This is Soulé,” he said. “One of my oldest friends.”

She gave a tight smile, polite but unsure. “We... met earlier. During the offering.”

“Right,” Stanley said, laughing. “Of course. Small world.”

Not that small, I thought. Not when your fingers left blessings in my locs.

I stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Nice to officially meet you, Ana. Thank you for the prayer.”

Her hand slipped into mine. Warm. No trembling this time. My fingers closed around hers.

“Likewise, and you’re welcome,” she said, but her eyes darted too fast. “You surprised a lot of people today.”

“Good. I like leaving a mark.”

She smiled, just enough to betray herself. There was something wicked and wondering behind it, like maybe she was wondering about what other kinds of marks I liked to leave.

Stanley glanced between us and chuckled. “I think you two will get along.”

Oh, Stanley, I think so too.

“I’m sure we will,” I said, watching the glint in her eyes, the way her lips parted, the way her breath danced different waves.

“Would you like to come to the community housing fundraiser?” She asked me, and her eyes bit my lips. “Because of your generosity, we would be remiss if you didn’t show.”

“I would. When is it?”

“I’ll have Stanley send you the details. Or...”

“I’ll give you my number, and you can text me.”

“That works fine...” She handed me her phone.

I put my number in and saved it.

This was too easy.

I handed her phone back, and she turned to go, her hand slipping out of mine, reluctant and slow. I caught her scent once more: rose water and coconut.

And as she walked away, my chest knew.

Something was new.

Something divine... and true.