Page 21 of Debt of My Soul

His gaze moves from my face down my body and to my feet. “Have something against footwear?”

His voice is raw and rough, and I blink. “What? No, I was in the jacuzzi—listen, why are you near my car?”

“Curious about the newcomer in town.”

“You’re curious,” I deadpan.

He shrugs.

I snort. “Just leave it alone.”

It’s an accident I speak so freely. So to shut myself up, I chew the inside of my cheek, worried I’ve pissed off whoever this guyis. There willneverbe a time I want to be on this man’s radar or his boss’s.

He stands there, black jeans hugging thick muscled thighs. Boots, also black, kick outward as he leans back, his large arms folded in front of himself.

Observant of other members in town, I’ve noticed this man dresses more like he’s in a motorcycle gang than the others. Often in black and gray.

I spin on my heels, wincing at the rocks pressing into my socked feet.

“Is there a name that goes with that mouth?”

I pause. Back still turned to him. Over my shoulder, I glance at his smirk. Sinful and smug, his smile widens at the annoyance I’m working hard to convey. Biting my tongue, I ignore him, stepping back inside to finish my rooms for the day.

Laundry means I’m staying later than normal this evening, and I keep going to the windows to look out at the dark blue motorcycle still sitting in the employee drive. The driver, however, is no longer there. His helmet rests on the back of the leaning bike. Kickstand propped out, the large beast is in the way of my vehicle. The reasons why he has parked there bother me the rest of the afternoon, and I’m convinced I’m going to have to plow over the bike to leave.

When I finally get to my time sheet to clock out, two figures working at the pond catch my attention. Mr. Northgate moves large bags of mulch from the side-by-side. However, it’s not what he’s doing that causes my hand to skip as I write down my eight hours. It’s who’s with him.

That man.

My mind scrambles to reconcile what I’m seeing. Is he helping out here? Worry has me flipping through the other employee time sheets, searching for any names I don’t know. An invasion of privacy, for sure, but panic affects my judgment.There are no other names I don’t recognize. The handful of employees who work here are mostly young high schoolers working part time during the school year and full time in the summer. I know most, if not all of them.

Mouths open with laughter, Mr. Northgate loads up the man with several bags, which he hauls to the landscaping by the pond’s dock.

I think I’m seeing things.

Stumbling over a dining chair, I stub my toe and fall into the window I’m leering through.

Nice, Fleur.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Mrs. Northgate’s humming voice strides into the kitchen.

I jerk away from the window and shuffle the time sheet papers away from me. “Yep. Clocking out. Do you need anything else?”

She studies me, clearly curious about my run-in with the glass.

“Well, if you’re up for it. I could use the Fourth of July decorations pulled out of the garage. The bins aren’t heavy, just the flags for the guest driveway.”

It’s such a neat idea. She told me about how for years they’ve lined each side of the drive with mini American flags and put red, white, and blue lights on the large oak trees that tower in the front yard. Framing the house, those trees highlight every beautiful angle of Old Hillside. Christmas can’t come soon enough, as I anticipate their lights for the holidays being even better.

“Sure. No problem. Are they labeled?”

She nods, going to the window to look out at Mr. Northgate and the bulky man obsessed with jeeps.

She smiles, warmth flooding her expression. Her eyes gleam at the two men working, and I want to warn her. I’m sure she’sheard of the drug lord who runs around this town with his men. But, at the same time, maybe she hasn’t, and this guy can’t be up to anything good by working here. Can he?

I open my mouth to ask or say something—I’m not entirely sure. But I end up biting my tongue. Instead, I stalk out the back door.

Within the garage is an abhorrent amount of holiday bins scattered among all the other odds and ends. Lucky for me, the Fourth of July bins are not only labeled but color appropriate. Red, white, and blue.

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