The Sunday Only Christian

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Authors: E. N. Joy

BOOK: The Sunday Only Christian
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The Sunday Only Christian:
Still Divas Series Book Three
E.N. Joy
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Other Books by This Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Readers' Guide Questions
UC HIS GLORY BOOK CLUB!
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www.uchisglorybookclub.net
What We Believe:
Author Bio
Copyright Page
Other Books by This Author
Me, Myself and Him
She Who Finds a Husband
Been There, Prayed That
Love, Honor or Stray
Trying to Stay Saved
I Can Do Better All By Myself
And You Call Yourself a Christian
The Perfect Christian
Ordained By the Streets
Even Sinners Have Souls
(Edited by E.N. Joy)
Even Sinners Have Souls Too
(Edited by E.N .Joy)
Even Sinners Still Have Souls
(Edited by E.N. Joy)
The Secret Olivia Told
Me (N. Joy)
Dedication
 
I don't do romance. Once upon a time I used to write secular books, which included erotica, but there was no romance. Either the books were hot like fire and full of lust and temptation, or they were as cold as ice, full of vixens and drama. There was none of that in-between stuff called romance. But all that changed with
The Sunday Only Christian.
Mrs. Brenda Jackson, I would have never been able to make this story as romantic as I did had I not decided to pick up your books and learn from the best. There is no Hatersville in this part of Ohio. Nothin' but love for you. Keep schoolin' 'em!
Acknowledgments
I don't know how far I would be in my success as an author if it was not for the support of my grandparents, Oliver and Barbara Edwards. Thank you so much, Granny and Gramps, for reading ALL my books.
For my husband, Nick “Bang” Ross, you wouldn't let up until I penned and self-published my first book. Now with over twenty-five published writings later, outside of the gift of writing itself from God, I owe it all to you. Thanks for the push and for believing in me. Thank you for supporting me even when sometimes I felt you were the enemy. But I realize now that without the necessary pressure and constructive criticism you gave me, I would have settled for just doing the best I could. Thank you for making me do ALL that I could in a spirit of excellence. I love you like crazy, man!
For my mother-in-law, Gwen Marsh, I think I'm out of words to dedicate and acknowledge you with. None are sufficient. The role you have played in my life is something I absolutely never foresaw almost sixteen years ago when I met your son. Your son has become my husband. Your daughters have become my sisters. Your mother, “Mama” (God rest her soul) my grandmother. Your siblings my aunts and uncles, cousins, etc.... But most importantly, your God my God. And it is your godly advice and wisdom, along with my sister-in-law's, Nicole Ross Byrd's, prayers and spiritual guidance, that has helped me breathe when I thought I was going to take my last breath any minute. The biblical story of Naomi and Ruth makes so much more sense to me now. I love you, Ma.
For my four beautiful children; I have worked and prayed endlessly to make sure that you are nothing like the person who I was, and ten times better than the person I am today. Whenever I feel like giving up I picture your smiles—I hear your laughter. I remember that my work is not done in raising you in the Word. You make me better. You make me feel like going on. I thank God for you.
Last but not least, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Victoria Christopher Murray, and Pat O'Gorge: I watched you and studied you. You all have that special writing style and that special something that makes readers race out to the bookstore for your next project. If I could just do this old school—without measuring utensils—and take a dash of ReShonda Tate Billingsley, a touch of Mrs. O'Gorge, and a pinch of Victoria, I'd have the perfect meal to serve up to my readers. Thanks for your inspiration over the years.
It's much easier to act like a Christian at church than to be one at home.
 
—E.N. Joy
Chapter One
“I up and left him for another man, so what on God's green earth would make him want to take me back?” Deborah had been asking herself this question the entire drive to the book signing. And now, as she parked outside of the Barnes & Noble on 356 in Pickerington, Ohio, she still had no answer. Dreadfully, she knew her answer lay inside that one-level bookstore, in which the smell of flavored caffeine from the little Starbucks in the front corner of the store would assault her nose from the moment she stepped inside.
Sitting in her car, stalling, she dug in her purse and pulled out the postcard she'd come across in the hair salon last week. She double-checked the date of the book signing on the postcard. She was hoping she'd gotten her dates mixed up and that the book signing had been yesterday. That way she wouldn't have to risk the embarrassment and humiliation of rejection; if, in fact that's what was about to happen: her being rejected.
“Ughh,” she gasped. There was no mix-up. Today was the day.
Next Deborah allowed her eyes to scroll over to the time of the signing. If there was a God and He had her back and wanted to prevent her from being disgraced and her ego from being shattered to pieces, there would definitely be a mix-up with the times. She would have missed the signing by an hour or two. All that would be left once she went inside would be a couple of unsold autographed copies of the
New York Times
bestseller and a handful of promotional bookmarks.
She looked down at her watch. She chuckled at the fact that she could very well be the only person she knew who still bothered to wear a watch. Most people relied on their cell phones to keep up with the time. It was 7:45
P.M.
No mix-up in the time department. According to the postcard, the signing was from six to eight.
Deborah had deliberately waited to catch the tail end of the event. If she was going to be shamed with rejection, it sure wasn't going to be in front of a full crowd of fans. It would only be in the presence of those few still milling around, trying to get him to read a chapter or two of their own works in progress, and then provide feedback, of course. Then there were the couple of people who would monopolize a great deal of his time, asking questions about the process they need to take in order to become published. Both kinds of people would be the ones who never even bothered to purchase his book. She'd seen it a million times. But no matter who or how many people were still lingering around, did Deborah really want to get rejected in front of even one?
“Perhaps I should just sit here and wait; catch him coming out,” Deborah pondered. “No. No. I should go in there and act surprised that he's even there. I could pretend as though I just happened to be in the bookstore on the day of his signing.” That last idea wouldn't be too farfetched. After all, Deborah did own her own literary consulting agency. She did book editing and some agenting. To find her in the bookstore would be normal—believable.
Five minutes went by as she sat in the car wracking her brains on how she was going to approach the man who, if she were him, would never ever talk to her again. She'd played him to the left, right, front, and back. And for what? For a man who fed her a fairytale that he'd marry her and they'd live happily ever after. They'd go start a new life in Chile where he played professional basketball and he'd make sure she had the world. It all sounded good to Deborah. And it was good, until she found out that they couldn't live happily ever after together until he got a divorce from his wife; a wife who Deborah had been none the wiser of—in the beginning anyway. But that was neither here nor there. Right now she had to focus on exactly how she was going to play this thing out.
Pulling her keys out of the ignition and grabbing her purse, Deborah, in an attempt to be a little more optimistic, thought that maybe things wouldn't turn out to be so bad. Besides, since when had she become this Debbie Downer, so to speak? When had she started thinking the worst of everything? Maybe she should have been asking herself why on God's green earth wouldn't this man want to take her back. And that's exactly what she thought as she got out of the car and closed the door behind her. But she hadn't even taken two steps before those negative thoughts resurfaced.
“A girlfriend! A fiancée! Heck, even a wife!” Deborah said out loud as the thought reached down and punched her right in the gut. Those certainly were things that would make him not want to take her back. So much time had passed since she'd walked out of his life, or rather flew out of his life, anything was possible. Heck, he could even have a kid by now. After all, she did.
One minute she'd been on the perfect date with Mr.
New York Times
Bestselling Author, then the next minute her first love had swooped back into town and into her life, convincing her to join him on a plane to Chile to start a new one with him. And just like that, like that episode in
Sex and the City
when Carrie got on that plane to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov's character, Deborah had done it. Carrie had left what could have been with Mr. Big and Deborah had left what could have been with Mr. Perfect.
“I can't do this. I can't.” She turned to head back to her car and that's when a loud horn scared the bajib-bies out of her. “Oh, God!” Deborah screamed as the car came within inches of hitting her. The driver looked just as petrified as she did. “I'm so sorry. So sorry,” Deborah apologized.
The woman in the car, with her hand grabbing her chest, nodded. Once again, Deborah let out a verbal apology that the driver accepted with a second nod and then drove off.
“Lord have mercy, I almost got killed over thoughts about this man. No way am I turning back now.” And just like that, after a life-altering moment, Deborah found the courage to strut inside that Barnes & Noble like she owned the place; or at least had a great deal of stock in it. With her medium-brown complexion now glowing with excitement, she batted her thick eyelashes, ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, then strutted like a fashion model on a New York runway during Fashion Week.
“Hi, welcome to Barnes & Noble,” a clerk stacking books at the Summer Beach Read table greeted Deborah. “Can I help you find anything?”
“As a matter of fact, you can,” Deborah said confidently. “I'm here for a book signing—Mr. Lynox Chase's book signing. Can you please point me in the right direction?” Deborah asked, knowing in just a matter of minutes, her God of second chances just might give her a second chance at love. For real this time.

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