Who Will Save Your Soul - Skye Warren Page 0,1

see the divide where the gloves go. But even with that glove line his hands are marked by a thousand scratches and cuts, a landscape of physical labor. A million reasons he doesn’t belong here.

He smiles a little, revealing startling white teeth. “What’s your name?”

“Emily. I live here,” I say, even though that must be obvious.

He’s making me stupid, this boy. He’s making me yearn.

I think what I love the most about him is the dirt. There’s dirt on the white marble tiles in faint footprints leading inside. There’s dirt in a fine layer over his skin and his dark T-shirt. It grows thick around his boots, like scar tissue in a wound reformed each day.

“This lemonade is delicious. Did you make it?”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “No.”

We don’t make anything in this house. Nothing sweet, anyway.

We make bad decisions in the Coulter household. Like when I take a step closer to him, close enough to see the stubble across his chin, a swipe that he missed when he shaved. Another in a long list of imperfections. Another thing to make my skin flush and turn hot.

He tilts his head sideways, as if he’s studying me back. My Tanglewood Prep T-shirt from high school and my yoga pants. My nails done in Emerald Cove this week, a deep green that matches the vines outside.

“You’re the one watching me from the second floor.”

Oh God. He saw me watching him?

He says it casually, as if girls stalk him every day. Maybe they do.

My pulse beats hard and loud against my ribs and farther out, reaching to my fingertips, to my face, its rhythm incriminating, relentless.

Ba bum. Ba bum. Ba bum.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind.” Those dark eyes hold a thousand secrets. So many secrets they might match my own. “You could keep me company outside.”

Is he flirting with me? “I don’t think so.”

A slow smile. “Or I could keep you company inside.”

My heartbeat feels almost unbearable, a drum over the taut surface of my skin, vibrating all across my body. This is moving way too fast. And why do I even want it to move with him at any speed? I don’t, but this the most alive I’ve felt in forever.

Words scatter through my brain, petals in the wind, each one with a different response—how dare you? And no, thank you. And yes, why don’t you come upstairs. I can’t grasp any one of them long enough to answer.

The smile drops, a mask sliding away, revealing only brutal disdain. “Or maybe you only wanted to fuck around with the help. To make me hard and then skip back upstairs where you’re safe. Is that it, rich girl?”

Acid burns my throat, sharp and sudden. He isn’t flirting with me. There’s something other than lust burning in those coal-black eyes—disgust. Maybe even hatred. He thinks I’m a silly little rich girl, and what’s worse is that he’s probably right.

Humiliation sharpens my words. It makes me haughty. “You aren’t even supposed to be here. This is the main kitchen. Laborers use the one in back.”

My stomach clenches into a tight knot, cemented by the terrible awareness that I sound like my mother. He doesn’t flinch at my tone; I’m the one who takes a step back.

“Then fire me.”

Moving slow enough it’s clear he won’t be rushed—not by me, anyway—he swallows the last inch of frosty lemonade in the glass. I know from experience that the bottom will be stronger than the rest, the liquid heavy with sugar, the lemon still tart in summery defiance.

My gaze can’t move away from his throat, the play of muscle and tendon, the slick of sweat. And cuts. There are little cuts all over him, where the thick gloves can’t possibly cover him, bright red stripes small enough the pain must blur together.

He sets down the glass in the sink, more considerate than I would have expected, especially considering my behavior. Except when his eyes meet mine, it feels more like he’s marking his territory than being polite. As if he’s showing exactly who’s comfortable here. Not me. Him.

Then he stalks back outside, leaving faint smudges of dirt in his wake. Long strides I couldn’t possibly match as I run to the patio doors. I slam them shut as if that can keep him out.

Out of the kitchen, out of my head. Out of the secrets this family holds close.

It shouldn’t be smug, the way he goes back to such strenuous work. But I can’t deny the casual