Page 3 of Debt of My Soul

“Or, if you’re uncomfortable?—”

Adam’s voice snaps me out of my worrisome thoughts, and I shake my head. “No, no. It would be helpful if you took a look, but let me pay you, please.”

“Nah,” he says, the twinge of his Southern accent making itself known. “I’ll take a look at it for free and you can show me some of the other projects you’re taking on. I’ll give you a quote, with therecently moved-herediscount, as well as your own labor factored in.”

I take a quick breath to tell him that’s okay and inform him Icanfigure it out on my own, but he continues.

“Plus, you’d be helping me out, too. It’s been a bit slow for me around here.” Adam shifts on his feet and glances down at his brown work boots.

I know the feeling of insecurity all too well, and I recognize it in his expression.

Not wanting to embarrass him further, I offer him a smile. “I’d like that.”

When I anxiously chew on my bottom lip, it captures his attention, and he clears his throat, stepping toward me. “Let me grab a few things and I’ll meet you out at the house after you check out.”

I nod, crossing my arms in front of myself to avoid plucking the rubber bands on my wrist. He extends his hand to me again. I reach to take it and the warmth of his large hand engulfs mine.

“Welcome to Ruin, Mississippi, Fleur.”

Chapter 2

Fleur

By the time I check out and load my jeep, the sun is already starting to set. I take off down Main Street, passing by the local bank and coffee shop.

The roar of a motorcycle alarms me, and I squint in my rearview mirror to see a sleek bike on my tail revving its engine like I’m the slowest person in town.

Jerk.

It’s only thirty-five—I’m not speeding up. I hover at thirty-four to prove a point, and the motorcycle darts around me over the double-yellow line. As they pass, the pitch-black helmet turns to study me through my driver’s side window before speeding past and cutting me off.

I slam on my brakes and throw my hands up. I thought small towns were supposed to be the epitome of charm and kindness.

Huffing out a sigh, I come to a four-way stop where a modest thrift store sits on the corner. Its awning droops to one side and the signage is rusty, but a gorgeous oak dresser with potential sits out front. It’s a tall, six-drawer piece in desperate need of love. Nothing a good sanding and fresh stain couldn’t fix.

I pull over, hoping to catch the employee before they close up for the evening. That’s one thing I had to learn quickly upon moving to this sparse Southern town—they close their shops before 5:00 p.m. around here.

I push open the door, and the bell attached above jingles while the smell of antiques wafts up my nose. Shelves are filled to the brim with household items, and the nostalgia of hitting the once-a-month flea market with my mom invades my thoughts. The first Saturday of each month, in the three bearable seasons of the year, my mom would take me with her. At first, when I was younger, I’d tag along with her and her friends. But as I got older, it became something we did—just the two of us.

I pull out my phone and snap a photo to send to her. She’ll be impressed. I’ve already found the jackpot in this town.

“Be right there!” A sweet, feminine voice with a thick accent rings out from the back. Although boxes are piled high near the rear of the store, so I can’t exactly tell where the voice is coming from.

I head over to a section with multiple lamps, hoping to find a small one for my kitchen counter, and bring up my digital inspiration board for the house while perusing the few they have on the shelves.

“Hi, what can I do for you?”

A woman, perhaps late twenties, with brunette hair piled on top of her head, approaches. Beads of sweat collect above her upper lip and her breathing is heavy. I stare at her for a minute too long, my awkwardness compounded by her distractingly bright blue dress.

“Sorry, I was moving a bunch of donations in the back,” she adds.

I shake my head. “It’s not a problem. I wanted to ask about the dresser sitting out front. Is it still available? I didn’t see a price.”

“Oh my,” she says, her Southern drawl growing deeper. “I meant to put a price on it this morning. I think it’s fifty dollars. Let me grab my books and I’ll tell you for sure. I’m River, by the way.”

“Fleur.” I follow her up to the hoarded counter. Three different types of Ruin, MS stickers are stacked high next to postcards that don’t have a dent in them. She grabs two books from underneath the checkout and flips them open. Huh. No computer.

“I know,” she says, probably reading the confusion in my expression. “This shop was my grandmother’s before she died. She never upgraded things around here, and I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Oh, here it is. Fifty dollars.” She slams the books shut, dust kicking up into her brown eyes, and she rapidly blinks. “Did you want it?”

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