Page 1

Chapter 1

Fleur

S tanding 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. It looks like 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 I can 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 call again , but I’m in the home improvement store, and I’m not sure what 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.

“Yeah. Trying to figure out what I need for a small project.” I offer a flat smile, secretly wishing this floor would open up and swallow me whole. His face lights up when I engage him, and my heart picks up its already fast pace.

“Small project?” The man crosses his arms, letting the bulk of his biceps rest on full display, and he casually leans against the plumbing shelf I’m sick of staring at.

“Well,” I say, standing. “More like a massive undertaking, and I have no idea what I’m doing.” I motion to the cart full of plumbing items.

“Do you want me to get someone to help you?”

“No!” I blurt out. “I mean … no, thank you. I’ll figure it out.”

He smirks at me but doesn’t say anything else as he strolls to my cart and lifts out the items my father told me to get. “Kitchen sink trouble?”

I pick at a loose thread on my holed pants. “Actually, yeah.”

He extends his hand to me. “I’m Adam.”

“Fleur,” I say as I meet his calloused hand and give it a slight squeeze.

His eyebrows rise. “Are you new in town, Fleur?” He grins with the question, but the smile is lost on someone like me. Moving here wasn’t really a choice. More like a necessity.

“For now.”

“Well,” Adam says, reaching into his back pocket, “I’m in the business of helping people with projects around their homes. I’d be more than happy to give you a hand.”

He passes me a business card. It names him the local handyman, with his number attached. Heat licks my cheeks, and I flick my eyes to his before staring back at the card again. I don’t have money to pay someone, especially since I haven’t started working at the bed-and-breakfast yet.

“Thank you. I-I unfortunately don’t have a ton of extra cash right now. I’m planning to do most of the renovations to the farmhouse myself.”

He blinks. “Farmhouse?”

Dang. Oversharing again, Fleur.

“Uh, yeah. It’s outside of town. Anyway, I appreciate your?—”

“You mean that old farmhouse right on Highway twelve? Across from the Mason Farm’s cornfields?” he asks, brows drawn together. His face is smooth, but the wrinkles from his confusion make him look older than he probably is. Maybe in his thirties?

I study his expression, my gaze drawn to his bare chest peeking out from behind the partially unbuttoned blue and green flannel, forming a tempting V shape. Despite myself, there’s a flicker of attraction.

I don’t know who the Masons are. Honestly, I wasn’t even aware someone owned the acres of field across from my new place. But I nod, acknowledging the place as mine, and move to pocket his card.

“Wow,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize anyone had bought that. I’ve always wished someone would restore the place. If I had the money, I’d definitely do it.” He moves across the aisle to pick a few items off the shelf.

I smile at his enthusiasm for my project—the excitement in his voice confirming my impulsive decision to purchase the property.

“I have big dreams.” I grin. “But the know-how is a bit lacking.”

He transfers the items he plucked from the shelf into my cart, rearranging a few pieces before taking others out and returning them.

He stands from his hunched position and brings a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing it while his eyes rake over my attire.

I don’t look cute, and Adam has probably noticed. The ripped jeans I put on to work, coupled with the bulldog mascot shirt I stole from Chris before I ran, all look like they’ve been plucked from a trash bag. My hair is braided over my shoulder, with one of my dad’s pale-yellow bandanas folded up over my head. Although it basically blends into my blond hair, so much so that it isn’t even noticed.

“Listen, I’ve been wanting to see the inside of that place forever. How about I follow you back to your house and fix your sink in exchange for a tour?” His eyes sparkle with his request, and I can’t seem to look away.

I’m pretty sure there’s a horror movie in the making here. A random guy offers to come back to my house to fix my sink for free. I look down the empty aisle, then glance at my cart with almost all new items I don’t recognize. Desperation must make my judgment questionable because my heart pounds with anticipation. The idea he would work on my sink is … beyond helpful. I’ve been doing dishes with gallon water jugs, refilling them at the local grocery store every day since I’ve been here. For a week.

As quickly as the joyful prospect of a working kitchen sink enters my mind, so does the realization that I’m going to have to show this man my current living conditions.

When I bought the place, I knew I’d have to resort to living in construction. I cleaned out the master bedroom and the kitchen the best I could, intending to only utilize those two rooms. My first project to tackle is the guest bathroom. It’s a compact powder room with a toilet, a small vintage vanity, and a tiny shower. My plan is to get that renovated first so I have a facility to use while I upgrade the master bed and bath.

“Or, if you’re uncomfortable?—”

Adam’s voice snaps me out of my worrisome thoughts, and I shake my head. “No, no. It would be helpful if you took a look, but let me pay you, please.”

“Nah,” he says, the twinge of his Southern accent making itself known. “I’ll take a look at it for free and you can show me some of the other projects you’re taking on. I’ll give you a quote, with the recently moved-here discount, as well as your own labor factored in.”

I take a quick breath to tell him that’s okay and inform him I can figure it out on my own, but he continues.

“Plus, you’d be helping me out, too. It’s been a bit slow for me around here.” Adam shifts on his feet and glances down at his brown work boots.

I know the feeling of insecurity all too well, and I recognize it in his expression.

Not wanting to embarrass him further, I offer him a smile. “I’d like that.”

When I anxiously chew on my bottom lip, it captures his attention, and he clears his throat, stepping toward me. “Let me grab a few things and I’ll meet you out at the house after you check out.”

I nod, crossing my arms in front of myself to avoid plucking the rubber bands on my wrist. He extends his hand to me again. I reach to take it and the warmth of his large hand engulfs mine.

“Welcome to Ruin, Mississippi, Fleur.”