Page 1 of Debt of My Soul

Chapter 1

Fleur

Standing here in the plumbing aisle, I’ve come to realize two things: first, I have no idea what I’m doing renovating an old farmhouse, and second, I’m not sure running away to the southern half of the country was a good idea.

I snatch a P trap off the shelf and stare at it. Itlookslike what I need for the kitchen sink, but to be sure, I roam the aisle riddled with different-sized PVC pipes and couplings. Whole shelves are filled with small bins of plumbing parts I never knew existed. And half of them are blocked with a metal stair contraption used for stocking items—making it nearly impossible to view the overcomplicated selections.

Back at my house, water is currently dripping from underneath my sink into the plastic Tupperware container I shoved under there. I’ve given myself an hour to fix the issue before it’s overflowing with gag-inducing well water. And, glancing at my watch, I have twenty-five minutes left.

The breath full of lumber and paint thinner I inhaled seconds ago turns my stomach. I peer up and down the empty aisle, willing an employee to meander down here long enough that Ican ask a question. The thought of searching out said employee though … terrifying.

After squinting at some one-inch pipe, I pull up the photo of the space under my sink on my phone and mentally compare the two like the genuine novice I am. I should’ve measured. If I’m being honest, I should’ve picked another house to move into altogether. Unfortunately, my hurried departure from Michigan didn’t lend itself to a particularly relaxing relocation or house hunt.

I knew I wanted a simple, secluded place. So when I discovered this tiny town, without a single stoplight—I knew this was it.

However, real estate is limited. There aren’t any apartments for rent or many houses for sale. I hadn’t planned to buy this soon, but when I passed the dilapidated old farmhouse, I called the number on the FOR SALE sign right away. Apparently, it’d been on the market for a while. Even so, when I made them a lowball cash offer, I fully expected a flat-out rejection. But, a few days later, I was the proud owner of twelve acres, a run-down home, and an online vision board miles long.

Since depleting my funds, the pitiful amount in my bank account doesn’t afford me the luxury of hiring a contractor to tackle this disaster. So I’ve become a DIY homeowner. And I’m failing at it already. I can’t even fix the kitchen sink.

I toss the P trap I’m holding into the cart and scroll through my recent calls to find my dad’s number.

“Hello?” His voice is groggy, and he sounds half asleep. It makes my stomach clench—gosh, I miss home. I probably woke him from his afternoon nap. The kind you earn after retiring from forty years in the education system.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, unable to hide my smile. “I’m sorry to callagain, but I’m in the home improvement store, and I’m not surewhat else I need to fix the kitchen sink issue I messaged you about.”

“It’s never a bother, Fleur. Make sure you get a P trap. One-half inch is the standard size for kitchen sinks. You’ll want to get some PVC pipe of the same diameter and a few couplings. They might have a replacement kit that works for your situation.”

He continues listing items, and I scramble to keep up, hunting for everything he mentions, right down to the plumber’s tape. I’m overwhelmed already, and I haven’t even tried to fix the leak yet.

A sting prickles behind my eyelids, and I massage my temple with the hand not holding the phone to my shoulder. I’m irritated with myself, and apparently—I scuff my shoe on the tile—this tacky floor.

After hanging up with my dad, I tuck my phone back in my crossbody bag and discreetly wipe beneath my eyes, hoping to hide the few tears that escaped down my cheeks at the realization I’ve overcommitted.

Scrubbing my palms against my torn and tattered work jeans, I set my gaze back on the endless options. Then I rummage through the tubs of items, sorting through what my father mentioned I needed. At this rate, I’ll be finished renovating the farmhouse in twenty years.

While crouching down to pick through a bin of couplings, I sniffle as another wave of anxiety ripples through me. Trying to make it on my own wasn’t in my plans.

But I guess neither was the twenty-one-year-old college student.

I aggressively rip a clear package from its spot on the shelf sending the whole bin, plumbing parts and all, skidding across the sticky floor. I tilt my head back at the fluorescent lights above and let out a less than ladylike groan.My luck—always my luck.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Rattled, I snap my head straight, then crane it to the left to see a handsome man standing there. In dark blue jeans, with a flannel button-up, he’s everything I’d picture the men in this town look like. His head is topped with short dark brown hair, and his cleanly shaved face offers a view of his rounded chin.

I blink, processing, before diving to the floor to pick up the couplings I dropped. “Uh, sorry. Did you need to get in here? I’ll just pick these up and be on my way.” My arms flail around the dirt-caked tile, trying to reach each package and shove them back in the bin.

The man steps closer, and I catch a whiff of a woodsy scent as he bends down to help pick up some of my mess.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I stop snatching and glance up at him. His eyes are a soft brown that seem to twinkle as he smiles at me. Sharp lips come together, curling up as he takes in my disheveled state.

“I, uh, yeah,” I mumble.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you on the phone …”

His words cut out as the sudden rush of embarrassment burns my cheeks.Great. The first person I interact with in this town besides the realtor, and I’m already making a terrible impression.

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