Page 8 of Debt of My Soul

“No,” she tries again, softer. “They’re not a motorcycle club. It’s best you steer clear of these guys around town.”

I open my mouth, wanting to fan the flames of curiosity, but she cuts off any other questions.

“All right. You’re all set. Here’s your information. If you decide you want to set up a direct deposit for your paychecks, let me know.” She shoves a bunch of paperwork across the desk and extends a shaky hand at me.

“Thank you.” I take her hand, offering her a reprieve from the jitters clearly coursing through her body. She nods and bolts from the room.

This town was supposed to be safe, and all of a sudden, I’m feeling uneasy, my mind wrestling with the memorable internet information about Ruin. Family friendly, community focused, town events—nowhere did it mention a motorcycle club, er, whatever.

Wind blows strands of hair into my face as I head back to my car, and I brush them away to get a better look across the street.

Several shops line the sidewalk and people mill about abnormally for late afternoon on a workday. Planter boxes filled with red and shell-pink flowers sit along the curb next to each village-style lamppost with attached banners declaring a happy summer.

But that’s not what snags my attention; it’s the blond-haired man from the bank.

He stands there, muscular arms crossed over his chest—a rigid statue between the wind-whipped flowers and moving locals. Several tattoos climb one of his forearms, the dark ink matching the black attire he’s wearing.

He stares at me, and I hold his gaze, panic rising in my chest. I scramble for my keys in my purse, stepping back a few paces before bumping into my car.

A semitruck stops at the only crosswalk in town, obscuring my view, and when it finally passes, he’s gone.

Chapter 5

Fleur

An unfamiliar sound has me tossing the covers off myself and jolting out of bed before my sleep-induced brain finally comprehends it’s loud banging on the screen door.

“Who in the world …” I say to myself, but my voice dies as I realize what day it is.

Saturday.

Adam mentioned he’d be back on Saturday to work on the kitchen sink, and I completely forgot. Yesterday was a long day at the bed-and-breakfast. Mr. Northgate had outdoor work he needed help with, so after I finished cleaning the rooms and restocking the front entry snack area, I went to help pull weeds in their flower beds for far too long. How a man in his seventies can spend hours bent over like that is beyond me. I’m exhausted.

Another loud knock on the front door drags me out of bed, and I wrap my silk robe around my lacey pajama set. The air conditioning in this house only works fifty percent of the time, and it being summertime in Mississippi, my continued choice of what I wear to bed has dwindled down to fewer and fewer clothes.

Each step down the narrow hallway is an indecisive one. Accentuated by the obnoxious wooden floor creaking with every step. Answer the door. Don’t answer the door. The wooden planks speak to me the entire trip to the front entrance.

When I reach the front door, I freeze, hand midway to the tarnished bronze knob I have zero intention of replacing. Adam stands on the other side of the door. And while meeting him was like a breath of fresh air in a new town, my traitorous heart sinks thinking about my inability to trust anyone.

More like men.

Disloyal, cheating ones.

At least he’s been more than willing to help me with this massive undertaking of a project. And maybe this is what my heart needs to move on.

I shake my head.You’re getting ahead of yourself.

I step close to the old mirror that hangs to the left of the door. It’s gold and gaudy, not my taste for décor at all. But I stare blankly in it. I study the dark circles under my eyes above the dusting of freckles on my cheeks. What used to be my biggest insecurity has now become my most unique feature. My dirty-blond hair and cloudy gray eyes are average. Nothing special. Apparently, not enough for Chris to keep it in his pants.

I sigh, and the air released creates a puff of fog that blurs my reflection.

It’s now or never.

Gripping the handle, I pull open the door.

“Hey!” Adam says, holding out a coffee cup to me. A black coffee bean inside a thin square is stamped on the side of the cup, and I briefly remember seeing that logo on a cozy-looking shop in town.

“Uh, hi,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. The smell of hay catches on the breeze and tickles my nose.

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