Page 1 of Just One Little Bargain

Chapter 1

Evie

Two things I know for certain:

One. The couple in the Honeysuckle Room last night were either celebrating an anniversary, or hosting a ritual sacrifice to Bacchus. Two. Merlot doesn’t come out of antique Persian carpet without a fight.

Twenty minutes pass, and four cleaning products fail as I kneel, locked in a staring contest with the wine stain that’s probably judging me as hard as I’m judging it.

My scrub brush snaps in half, because obviously, the universe is running a two-for-one special on humiliation today.

“Perfect,” I announce, waving the broken handle like a white flag. Add it to my growing list of things that need fixing. Right after two burnt-out bulbs, the porch step that’s actively plotting my murder, and apparently my entire sanity.

When Mrs. Henderson sold me the Foxglove Inn, she said it liked to ‘test people.’ She made it sound hauntingly poetic. Turns out, she was warning me that the plumbing had a vendetta.

I grab a towel and attack the carpet one last time. The stain fades to a shadow—good enough. If anyone asks, moving the decorative trunk two inches to the left is my “strategic design choice.”

When I rise, my knees crack so loudly I wince. Twenty-seven is far too young to sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

A pale blue package perches on the nightstand, ribboned and aggressively cheerful, with a note tucked underneath.

So sorry about the mess! Please give this to Marmalade. He made our stay unforgettable.

Even my cat is more beloved than I am. Marmalade: local celebrity, guest magnet, and minor deity to anyone who’s ever managed to pet him. He doesn’t work here. He just exists. And apparently, that’s enough.

I unwrap the box and find a cat Ouija board. Black fabric with gold lettering, YES and NO in the corners, and a ball planchette sporting painted paw prints.

Somewhere, someone got paid to invent this. I hope they’re thriving.

I lob the board onto the bed and grab my supplies. My checklist waits downstairs, half-unchecked and judgy. Laundry, linens for the Garden Room, groceries before breakfast prep tomorrow.

The carved wooden staircase creaks under my feet in the pattern I know by heart: thirteen steps down, then left past the grandfather clock that never works properly no matter what I try.

The kitchen is how I left it, which is the only predictable thing about this morning. Sunlight streams through the window over the sink, illuminating the herb garden outside: rosemary, thyme, and basil in terra cotta pots. I use them for breakfast service, but for the most part, I enjoy watching plants grow. It’s satisfying, keeping things alive.

I’m elbow-deep in dish soap when the back door opens without knocking, which means it’s either Daisy or someone with a death wish.

“You’re cleaning again,” my sister announces, as if this constitutes breaking news.

She breezes in wearing a lavender cardigan over a white sundress that floats around her knees despite the mid-September chill creeping through the inn’s old windows all week. Daisy has always been this way, impervious to practical concerns such as weather or stained clothing. Her honey-blond hair falls in those perfect waves I’ve never managed to replicate, despite owning the same genetics.

“Hi to you, too.” I scrub at a stubborn coffee ring inside a mug.

She hops onto the counter and goes for the cookie jar. “So . . . Rebecca Hartley has a boyfriend.”

“Riveting.” I chase a fleck of soap around the rim.

“She met him when her sink broke, and he came to fix it. Love at first pipe wrench.”

“That’s not how plumbing works,” I mutter.

“That’s not how romance works, either, but try telling that to Rebecca. Three-hour conversation. Sparks flying right past the leaking pipes. They’re going to the fall festival together.”

I scrub at the mug so hard it squeaks in protest. “Good for them.”

“When’s the last time you talked to someone for three hours who wasn’t a guest dissecting water pressure or hunting for the Wi-Fi password?”

I want to say, I’m fine. I want to say, what does it matter? What I want most is to say, I don’t remember. And I’m not sure if that means I’m content or if I’ve gotten good at folding loneliness into laundry and checklists until it disappears inside the seams.