Page 87 of Debt of My Soul

I bolt upright from my less than ladylike slouched position and paw the window to lower the glass. Wind whips my hair, tossing pieces over my face, catching in my lashes, and sticking to my freshly glossed lips. But I see them.

Wildflowers seep through the surrounding field and a cluster of daisies bloom at the edge of it.

I suck in a breath, head practically out the window to get a better view of the picturesque flowers illuminated by the dipping sun over the horizon.

Even the light chuckle beside me doesn’t pull my gaze from them.

The whipping wind slows, and I realize it’s because the truck is also slowing.

Liam pulls over, straddling the red dirt and the crunchy road shoulder. I turn to him, already getting out, and my eyes follow as he walks around the front of the truck, moving toward the field.

His ample intimidating frame weaves through the delicate daisies, creating a mouthwatering picture, and I watch enraptured as he leans down, selectively searching for three flowers. After picking them, he gathers the flowers, their white and yellow petals standing out against his dark blue pants. Theyhang loosely at his side as he strides back and swings open the truck door.

As he climbs in, I study him. The light on his face in this moment. Did he really just?—

His eyes meet mine, bright with tenderness as he extends the flowers out toward me.

I glance at them, then back at Liam. Taking the flowers is natural, but the shiver down my spine as my fingers graze his knuckles is not. My breath gets caught in my throat. I work toward a swallow and my eyelids feel even heavier than they did before.

“It would’ve been too dark to stop on the way home,” Liam says, shattering the silence and anticipation tugging between us.

All I can do is nod.

Running the pad of a finger over the white petals, they’re smooth and pristine beneath my touch. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and whisper, “Thank you.”

He pulls back on the road as I stare at the three flowers tucked into my palm. How can this man do what he does, be who he is, and still show this side of himself?

It takes another ten minutes to finally pull into the driveway of his parents’ flawless home, severing the lightness I was basking in a moment ago.

“We’re here,” I say more to myself than Liam, but he answers nonetheless.

“Yeah.”

Liam’s tone is clipped, and he sighs, moving to exit the truck while I set my flowers on the dashboard and grab the bottle of wine stuck in the door.

The columns flanking the edge of the porch are bigger than I remember. Two containers spilling peachy pink Begonias flank each side of the double front door. Additional pots of fernsweave between the wooden rockers lining the length of the porch.

Heavy footfalls clamber up the stairs behind me, Liam’s boots imposing and disturbing the serenity of the evening.

I look over my shoulder and he pauses, shrugging his shoulders.

Suddenly, I wish we’d prepped for this. This awkward dinner, and no doubt appraisal of whatever sham his mother and father think we’re running. I sense describing exactly how it happened isn’t in the cards for tonight, the wickedness that almost occurred in the woods that night several weeks ago.

Liam passes me and raps his fist on the door twice.

Not walking straight into the house is definitely a tell of their relationship. With my parents, I usually opened the door and poked my head in, hollering a “hello” before kicking off my shoes and raiding their pantry for the best kept snacks. Liam’s uncertainty as he scans the house leads me to believe he’d never consider doing that. He’s a guest here. A stranger.

There’s a slight twinge of pain in my chest at the thought of all he’s done for his family, for his brother, only to be treated as if he’s the black sheep.

A few seconds pass, and we stare at the walnut-stained door in silence before it opens. Liam’s father greets us, a tight smile curving on his lips when he sees his son. He nods at Liam and says, “I would’ve warned you if I knew.”

My heart rate spikes. What’s he talking about? I swivel to observe Liam, whose face has paled.

“Hey, Fleur,” his dad says to me. “Sorry about this.”

I’m stunned into silence, for what, I don’t know, but I manage a “Hi” in response.

Mr. Parker extends his hand into the house, stepping back past the propped open door. An invitation to come in.

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