I can’t have Elijah Iverson.
I can’t have him because he’s my older brother’s best friend. I can’t have him because I broke his heart five years ago and now he’s engaged to someone kind and dependable who deserves his whiskey eyes, soft mouth, and fierce intellect.
I can’t have Elijah because I’ve chosen God instead.
The Bell brothers, though, don’t have the best track record with vows. But I’m determined to commit to this monk life—to pledge myself to a cloistered existence of chastity and prayer. Yet, now Elijah’s here, joining me on my European monastery road trip. Between whispered confessions, stolen kisses, and moments at ancient altars, my vows feel weaker by the day.
Vows or not, I know in my heart that resisting Elijah Iverson right now would take more than a good and holy monk—it would take a saint.
And we all know that I’m no saint.
