Page 22 of Debt of My Soul

The problem? They’re buried under twenty years’ worth of Christmas decorations.

I sigh, starting at the top and pulling each bin off the others. Five rows down and I’m breaking a sweat. The summer heat mixed with zero air conditioning in the garage causes pools of sweat to move down my temples. It’s even dripping off my nose and into my mouth.Gross.

The next bin I reach for is a hundred pounds—it must be. I can’t muscle it down and it’s going to fall.

It’s falling?—

I yelp, moving backward with a large bin barreling down toward me. Arms burning, I lose my grip and?—

Relief.

The weight is suddenly gone, and my body slams into a large form behind me. I startle, turning to see his muscled chest at eye level whilehestares down at me. One hand above his head, he holds on to the bin, keeping it from falling on me and also from breaking.

I realize I haven’t moved from where I’m plastered at his chest and I shake myself out of the stupor, ducking under his arm. He extends up to grab the other side of the bin and moves it down, stacking the box where I have piled the others.

No words are uttered between us as he moves to another bin and lifts it down for me. I’m stunned into paralysis. The black leather jacket is gone, replaced by a T-shirt. Sweat lingers underneath his black tee, the darker patches growing larger along his back each minute he stays in the sweltering hell pit.

His hair is pulled up into a bun, the hair at his temples sticking to the skin there. I’m no better. Mascara comes away from underneath my eyes when I wipe where the sweat and heat have melted my makeup off.

Ten bins later, the Fourth of July decorations are free, and he turns to look at me, lifting the collar of his shirt to wipe at the beads of sweat clinging to his upper lip.

“Thank you,” I mumble. Unable to look at his face, I pretend to count the bins of decorations, my finger jabbing in the air, but I lose count after one.

He grunts in response and sulks out of the garage. Not long after, the engine of his motorcycle roars to life.

When I finally make it back to my car, pit stains and all, there’s no bike blocking my path, and I can’t help but wonder why he was here at all.

Showering after a long, hard day at work is glorious. Showering after a long hard day of work in mynewmaster shower … even better.

Many nights I prune under the steady spray. Thinking about Chris and how foolish I seem for it. It’s funny how he’s the one who screwed up, yet shame shrouds me.

Tonight, though, as the warm water spews around me, my thoughts drift to a different man.

I wrap myself in a warm towel and pull on some jeans and a T-shirt. Even though it’s 8:00 p.m., Adam called me on my way home, asking if he could bring some drinks and food over.

Initially, I hesitated. Dinner. The kiss. The moment his lips met mine plays over in my head, and I search for the right words to describe my discomfort. But the thought of cooking after the grueling day I had isdefinitelynot ideal, so I told him yes anyway. Still a yes person, it seems.

So I opt for jeans instead of my pajamas, planning to sit and relax on the porch.

After cleaning up the living room as best I can, despite the exposed drywall and the paint samples sitting out, there’s a knock on the door.

Opening it, Adam stands there, a pack of beer and wine spritzers in hand.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

“Hi.”

“So I grabbed the drinks but figured we could make food here.”

I deflate.

The last thing I want to do at almost nine at night is cook food, but I grit out a smile and hold the door open. “I’m sure I’ve got a frozen pizza or something.”

Sure enough, there are several frozen pizzas in my freezer. Pepperoni feels like a safe choice, although not my favorite, and I snag one to pop in the oven. Adam digs around the drawers to find a bottle opener, and he cracks open a beer and wine cooler.

He leans against the counter, one hand in his pocket, watching as I tear down the cardboard pizza box for recycling. His perusal floats over my face and down my body, and heat licks my cheeks.

When I can’t take his staring anymore, I suggest, “How about we sit on the porch?”

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