Page 10

Chapter 10

Fleur

T he rumbling of a motorcycle pulls me out of my thoughts mid-scrub down of the jacuzzi tub. Purple foam slides down my pant leg, and I drape the microfiber cloth over the spout, quickly fleeing the tub. Cold tile meets my feet. I learned quickly that cleaning the large tub took me getting in the thing as short ole me could only lean across half of it.

I slip, barely making it to the window overlooking the narrow employee parking lot to see a man getting off his motorcycle. His head is covered with a glossy black helmet reflecting the nearby trees. He stomps around his bike toward my car, and I angle myself, pushing up on my already tender toes to peek farther out.

Tilting his head to the side, he looks at my license plate, then bends down to get a better look.

Umm. What is he doing?

Turning, I bolt out of the bathroom and spring to the stairs. This man wouldn’t vandalize my car, would he? Most of the town’s people have been welcoming, but I wouldn’t put it past some to hate outsiders enough to want to drive them off.

Mrs. Northgate ascends the steps, smiling at me as I dart past.

“I’ll be right back!”

Each tread comes quicker than the last. I jog past the entryway, passing the blueberry muffins Mrs. Northgate has already set out. Through the kitchen, I shove the back door open and fly through the river-rock driveway. Only now I realize I still don’t have my shoes on from when I was cleaning the tub.

Skidding to a halt in front of the man’s motorcycle, I throw my hands up, my annoyance getting the better of me. “Can I help you with something? You’re taking too keen an interest in my car.”

He stiffens, rising to his full height and turning around slowly. I cross my arms, glaring at the man while both of his hands meet his helmet and lift it.

Dirty-blond hair falls around his neck, leather jacket zipped to cover it. With each inch he pulls up, the more my heart pounds. Scruff is revealed as the helmet moves past his chin, and when his hazel eyes come into view, my heart nearly stops.

The rest of his hair, wavier than I’ve seen it before and damp with sweat, falls around his face.

Cold eyes meet mine.

It’s him. The man from the bank. From the coffee shop.

His gaze moves from my face down my body and to my feet. “Have something against footwear?”

His voice is raw and rough, and I blink. “What? No, I was in the jacuzzi—listen, why are you near my car?”

“Curious about the newcomer in town.”

“You’re curious,” I deadpan.

He shrugs.

I snort. “Just leave it alone.”

It’s an accident I speak so freely. So to shut myself up, I chew the inside of my cheek, worried I’ve pissed off whoever this guy is. There will never be a time I want to be on this man’s radar or his boss’s.

He stands there, black jeans hugging thick muscled thighs. Boots, also black, kick outward as he leans back, his large arms folded in front of himself.

Observant of other members in town, I’ve noticed this man dresses more like he’s in a motorcycle gang than the others. Often in black and gray.

I spin on my heels, wincing at the rocks pressing into my socked feet.

“Is there a name that goes with that mouth?”

I pause. Back still turned to him. Over my shoulder, I glance at his smirk. Sinful and smug, his smile widens at the annoyance I’m working hard to convey. Biting my tongue, I ignore him, stepping back inside to finish my rooms for the day.

Laundry means I’m staying later than normal this evening, and I keep going to the windows to look out at the dark blue motorcycle still sitting in the employee drive. The driver, however, is no longer there. His helmet rests on the back of the leaning bike. Kickstand propped out, the large beast is in the way of my vehicle. The reasons why he has parked there bother me the rest of the afternoon, and I’m convinced I’m going to have to plow over the bike to leave.

When I finally get to my time sheet to clock out, two figures working at the pond catch my attention. Mr. Northgate moves large bags of mulch from the side-by-side. However, it’s not what he’s doing that causes my hand to skip as I write down my eight hours. It’s who’s with him.

That man.

My mind scrambles to reconcile what I’m seeing. Is he helping out here? Worry has me flipping through the other employee time sheets, searching for any names I don’t know. An invasion of privacy, for sure, but panic affects my judgment. There are no other names I don’t recognize. The handful of employees who work here are mostly young high schoolers working part time during the school year and full time in the summer. I know most, if not all of them.

Mouths open with laughter, Mr. Northgate loads up the man with several bags, which he hauls to the landscaping by the pond’s dock.

I think I’m seeing things.

Stumbling over a dining chair, I stub my toe and fall into the window I’m leering through.

Nice, Fleur.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Mrs. Northgate’s humming voice strides into the kitchen.

I jerk away from the window and shuffle the time sheet papers away from me. “Yep. Clocking out. Do you need anything else?”

She studies me, clearly curious about my run-in with the glass.

“Well, if you’re up for it. I could use the Fourth of July decorations pulled out of the garage. The bins aren’t heavy, just the flags for the guest driveway.”

It’s such a neat idea. She told me about how for years they’ve lined each side of the drive with mini American flags and put red, white, and blue lights on the large oak trees that tower in the front yard. Framing the house, those trees highlight every beautiful angle of Old Hillside. Christmas can’t come soon enough, as I anticipate their lights for the holidays being even better.

“Sure. No problem. Are they labeled?”

She nods, going to the window to look out at Mr. Northgate and the bulky man obsessed with jeeps.

She smiles, warmth flooding her expression. Her eyes gleam at the two men working, and I want to warn her. I’m sure she’s heard of the drug lord who runs around this town with his men. But, at the same time, maybe she hasn’t, and this guy can’t be up to anything good by working here. Can he?

I open my mouth to ask or say something—I’m not entirely sure. But I end up biting my tongue. Instead, I stalk out the back door.

Within the garage is an abhorrent amount of holiday bins scattered among all the other odds and ends. Lucky for me, the Fourth of July bins are not only labeled but color appropriate. Red, white, and blue.

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 while he stares 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 my new master 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 is definitely not 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?”

It’s the only time during the summer you can enjoy the porch without the sun baking your clothes to your body.

We move to the new porch, and contentment flutters through me as I sit in my rocking chair, gazing across the wide front yard and over at the expansive hayfields across the road.

When the mosquitoes decide to join us for dinner, I lean forward and light a few of the bug barrier candles I have scattered around. It’s the only way to avoid being covered in welts and bites the next day. One might think to screen in the porch, but there’s something about having an unhindered view of the surrounding landscape that speaks to me.

“I helped Mrs. Northgate pull her Fourth decorations down today,” I say, taking a sip of the sparkling berry spritzer. Surprisingly, it’s delicious.

“Oh, yeah. They usually have a cool display.”

I nod and swig another.

“I told my mom you’d be coming to the family barbeque.” He smiles, reaching for my hand and fumbling with my fingers. “I know how it sounds, but trust me, it’s a community event.”

I wince, hoping those thoughts weren’t plastered on my face. “I’m looking forward to it. What should I bring?”

“Anything you’d like. My parents do the catfish, pork butts, and brisket, as well as all the fixin’s. But then everyone else brings side dishes and desserts. There’s food for days.”

I ponder that, a slight pang in my chest at being far from my parents. I’ve already been saving my vacation time up for Christmas. I’m going to make sure I’m home for that.

“It sounds nice. I’m excited to come.” And I am. It will be nice to meet more people and do something more community-focused besides the constant hours at the bed-and-breakfast or working on the house. Hopefully, in the next two weeks, I can come up with something to bring.

Lights flicker down the road. They’re obvious in the pitch black. The porch lights only illuminate the front yard and offer mediocre highlighting of the surrounding fields. But these lights are bright.

Stark white dots act as beacons in the night, and two other lights come into view behind it. They move closer while the crunch of the dirt road and the roar of motorcycles creep toward us.

Adam goes still, his face ashen as he watches the slow-moving vehicles inch down the road.

“Is it just me, or are they getting slower?” I ask. But as if in answer, the vehicles ease up in front of my driveway.

“Go in the house, Fleur.”

I stand but don’t move. This is my home, and I will not be scared off my porch by a couple of cars and motorcycles. We don’t even know who?—

“It’s them. You need to go inside.”

“Them?”

In an attempt to appease Adam, I shuffle back a few steps as the car slows in front of my long driveway. It wraps in the front like an S, but I’m able to make out a black or darker-colored car. The two motorcycles flank either side of it, and they … sit there.

Do these people have nothing better to do?

I pull my damp hair into a bun and march to the steps.

A hand circles my waist, and Adam hauls me back. “Don’t, Fleur. Let’s go inside.”

“Why? They can’t just sit there.”

“They can. Trust me.”

Trust. It’s getting hard to do that in this town. People avoid these men like the plague. Content to let Darrin create drug addicts and capitalize on their gambling addictions. River’s eyes when she was talking about him, them—fear splintered out, making her whole expression tight and nervous. And that was only talking about them.

My chest is heavy as I think about this town that seemed so appealing online, but in reality, I’m starting to think Google needs to add a disclaimer to the town map. It should read: charming, quintessential small town riddled with drugs and motorcycles.

Adam opens the door, hand placed on my lower back to push me into the house. Twisting my head, I crane to get one last look as the bikes rev and the car speeds off in a cloud of smoke. The pungent smell of rubber burning and acrid exhaust fumes catch on the breeze and slam into us.

Time on the oven continues to count down, and within the next three minutes, Adam and I are sitting quietly at the peninsula eating our undone pizza. Then he’s leaving with the promise to see me this weekend and that he looks forward to taking me to his family’s home in two weeks.

Later, after repeatedly checking the window to ensure they’re gone and triple-checking my locked door, I finally nestle into bed. Unfortunately, I can’t help but wonder if he was out there.

My mind returns to my earlier shower and the man who occupied my thoughts. It wasn’t Adam.