Page 12 of Debt of My Soul

Fleur

In a blink of an eye. That’s how fast the next two weeks pass.

With Adam working on the kitchen renovation multiple days a week, along with weekends, I’ve spent ample time with him. And I don’t mind.

It’s amazing—the work he’s done in such a short few weeks. Although I’m pretty sure the farmhouse is his only job right now. Still, he’s put in long hours with me. The kitchen is almost finished, and last night we were able to enjoy a pepperoni pizza sitting on my new granite countertops. The white with speckled black stone complements the shaker-style cabinets painted in a soothing cream, and I couldn’t stop the giddy giggle that bubbled out of me when they were installed.

The asphalt driveway squeaks under my tires as I reverse out of the B&B parking. Ordering the dishwasher is on my after-work to-do list. It’s one of the last items we need for the kitchen renovation. The butcher block was installed on the island this morning, and Adam also hung the new pendant lighting. Having opted to keep the kitchen sink—which turned out beautifully—and refinishing all the cabinets instead of replacing them, I’vesaved money. Which I’ve needed because I’m paying Adam much more than I had originally told myself I could.

Practically skipping into the home improvement store, which has now become my second home, I head back for the appliances. My new refrigerator and stove were delivered last week, and it’s felt like a luxury to finally have a kitchen to operate out of in the mornings.

After spending the next thirty minutes looking at and ordering a dishwasher, I’m finally ready to head home and see Adam’s progress. Already I picture his rolled-up flannel and sharp grin as I enter the door, having decided on a dishwasher. He seemed awfully worried about me doing dishes by hand.

A hankering for coffee gnaws at me. Which is odd because coffee at 4:00 p.m. is not something I usually do. However, I’m five minutes from Adam’s favorite coffee shop, and the thought of giving him a coffeeanddelivering him the dishwasher news feels like an even greater win.

After passing several local businesses with trimmed hedges and keystone pillars, I pull into the two-story coffee shop. Several advertising flags ripple in the wind outside, telling passersby they sell more than coffee—they sell milkshakes, too.

The shop has an aged patina to the iron windows, and the bricks, weathered by the elements, look sad and defeated. A single wooden door with a glass window sits on the right-hand side of the building’s facade, but it’s riddled with stickers from tourists’ travels, making it hard to see inside.

A bell chimes when I step through, and the aroma of coffee melts away much of my exhaustion with a promise of energy. It’s welcoming.

The sound of beans being ground fills the small space as I step in behind a couple of customers. Exploring the walls, my gaze falls to a large map on one of them. Red pins scattered across the world mark where patrons have come from. Allmaking the trip into the distinctive coffee shop during their visit to Ruin, Mississippi—odd but pretty wild all the same.

There isn’t much seating downstairs, but past the ordering counter, stairs ascend to the second floor. Voices and soft chatter drift down from above, and I assume that’s where people relax while enjoying their drinks.

An older woman is ahead of me in line, and when my phone rings, she turns to offer a smile—giving me an unhindered view of the burly man in front of her.

Large, hulking shoulders twitch under a black leather vest and white T-shirt. I freeze, swallowing the thickness in my throat. The young girl behind the counter hands him a drink and his muscles move with a fluid motion as he takes his coffee.

“Thank you.”

My eyes widen when his low, gravelly voice glides over me. And it’s like the whole shop hears the tone of those two words.

His hair is pulled into a half bun that tilts to the side as he pays the woman in front of him. Her face is pulled taut, worry pulsing in her neck. Is she uncomfortable? And the way his shoulders shake … is he relishing it?

My phone dings again and it’s like hearing one of those red pins drop on the concrete floor. There’s no other sound. The whole shop is quiet aside from the few unknowing conversations above. I scramble to silence my phone, praying it’s not Chris at such an inopportune time.

The man’s head swivels to the side, and I’m able to catch a glimpse of dark blond scruff covering his sharp jawline, but he doesn’t turn fully just yet. Images of the group of men in the bank knock around in my mind, and when I lift my head and catch his profile, I know it’s him. The man from the bank; from across the street that day.

Now is the time, I chide myself. Leave. Run. Go.

After what Adam mentioned about these people …

But my feet don’t move. Won’t move. The oddest desire to see his face up close glues me to the tiled floor, which I’ve come to realize is sky blue, cracked, and scuffed from the steady flow of town traffic.

I hug my purse to my chest as the man takes a few dollars to put into the tip jar.

It’s as if it happens in slow motion—which is unfair. He pivots, offering the older woman a faintly amused smile, his lips not fully stretching into one. Then he notices me, and any hint of a smile disappears along with my desire for coffee.

His nostrils flare as his eyes narrow on me, tracing around my face and glancing quickly down and back up my body again. Sunburst eyes meet mine, the hues of blue and greens mixing with the blackness growing in his gaze.

He stalks toward me—no, the door.

I move away, closer to the counter and toward the lifesaving caffeine.

His shoulder grazes mine as he passes, and I shudder out a sigh when the bell rings and the door slams shut.

As if on cue, the coffee shop comes alive again teeming with life like this strong storm of a man didn’t just blow in and destroy me in seconds. Who is he?

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