Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw Page A

Okay, it was the weather again. Some delicate conversations work best in privacy. Others need crowds, or a dark room. I had no clue which this would be. I knew one thing. The sooner I got her into a twelve-step program for her addiction, the sooner I could organize VBS and figure out how to put on a rootin’-tootin’ “Dancing with the Vegas Stars” event that would generate about two million dollars for the new youth center.
    I had all the time in the world as long as it was done by Monday. Then, to put icing on this can of worms, I remembered stuffy official from the District Council was coming to visit me on Friday, maybe even to hand me new walking papers.
    Could the future get rosier? That’s a foolish question.
    I stared at the cookies, willing my hand to not hover over hers. If it was food she was avoiding, then maybe the cookie would bring that topic up more quickly. If not, well, I could always squeeze in another one.
    “Thanks for seeing me, Jane. I have sadness, I mean, much sadness, and my heart is heavy.”
    “Would you like to pray about it?” I placed my icy plastic cup down and reached over to take her hand, straight over the cookies, mind you, without hesitation. She snapped her hand back as if I were a maniac preacher waving and shouting, “The End is Here.”
    “No, I mean, yes, prayer is good. But I need advice from someone who knows America.”
    “Wait. You need a travel guide? Or about Americans? Americans are loud, pushy, and do awkward things such as heave ourselves on top of each other during a dance class. If you want travel information, there’s a Barnes and Noble around the corner; we can get a book. I have my favorite apps, too.”
    Petra shoved a long strand of hair behind her ear, looking like Reese Witherspoon, pointy chin and all. I wanted to hate her, and I would have, if she weren’t so stinkin’ sweet.
    “I love America.” She sighed.
    “Good, that’s very good, but what does loving America have to do with your addiction? Wait, it’s gambling, isn’t it? There’s so much around nowadays, and let’s not even talk about who has seen what or whom doing what to whom on the Internet, or so I’ve been told.” Okay, I blurted this but it didn’t stop my mouth. “It’s so easy to lose everything, including self respect. Is that what America has done to you?” Now I did grab her hand and began to pat it.
    She was staring at me. Did I see horror? Oh, how could I be such a dolt? It wasn’t gambling. She shook her head, and golden curls swung from side to side as I leaped straight in. “It’s sex? Or is it porn? You are not the first to be addicted to having sex with many people, men and women, and in various locations.” Although, trust me, leading this celibate life, I haven’t gotten in any primary research in that area since Collin died. I watch TV and hey, I’m a preacher. I know stuff.
    “Sex? Pornography? Oh, I do not know what to say.”
    “You can tell me. I can be trusted,” I whispered, and her cheeks got the color of cotton candy. So, hey, I plunged on. “Have you seen a counselor? Are you, um, in any situations that others can see, such as in movies, on YouTube, or the Internet?”
    She jumped up so quickly the café chair tipped back and slammed to the floor. “I do not know what you’re talking about, but people in Poland warned me that perversion was everywhere. You perverts would try to take advantage of me.”
    I grabbed her arm, and I believe it was only because Starbucks was suddenly jam-packed that she didn’t get away. “Wait, please. This is all wrong, stop.” I had a tighter hold on her than I thought, or maybe it was the linebacker from UNLV who blocked her escape, but I quickly went on. “This isn’t about any addiction, is it?” My head ached. I grabbed a cookie for strength. I ate it in two bites. Sugar has medicinal effects, or so some society somewhere must believe.
    “No. It certainly is not.”
    I patted the linebacker on a