Page 113 of Just One Little Bargain

“Tell me about the magazine man.”

She’s quiet for a few steps, her thumb moving slowly across my knuckles before she answers. “It’s called The Hidden Getaway. They pick one overlooked location each issue and write about it. The places they feature can go from struggling to booked solid years in advance.” Her breath fogs and vanishes. “A writer for it, Julian Ashford, found me outside the restaurant last week. He wants to see the Foxglove.”

“Evie.” I stop walking, and she stops with me because our hands are locked. “That’s amazing.”

“It might be nothing. He just wants to see the inn.”

“He tracked you down. That isn’t a man who intends to look and leave.” I dip my head until she looks at me. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because saying it out loud makes it real, and if it’s real, then I can lose it.” Her voice loses some of its edge. “The bookings have been fine. They keep the lights on and the boiler running. Each year I tell myself this is the season it tips into stability, and every year it stays exactly, precisely fine.” A muscle works in her jaw. “I sank everything into that place. Every hour, every dollar, the whole of my twenties. And most nights I still lie awake doing calculations that never quite add up the way I need them to. This is what would change that. It would mean I built something real instead of something I’m always one bad season away from losing. Like maybe the inn isn’t just surviving because I refuse to let go. Maybe it’s actually worth something.”

I’ve never heard her say any of this so plainly. Most people see how competent she is and never notice how narrow the margin underneath it actually is.

“You built something extraordinary,” I say. “The Foxglove is incredible, Evie. Guests write your name in that book like they’re saying goodbye to a person. The whole town points strangers up that hill. That’s not luck, and it’s not nothing. That’s you. You need to let yourself be proud.”

In the dark, her eyes look deeper green than usual, gold warming near the center. I hate that she can build something this loved and still look at it like she’s waiting to be told it isn’t enough.

“You made something people love. That deserves to be seen. You deserve to have this go right.”

“I’m nervous,” she admits. “What if he comes, and it’s not good enough?”

“If Julian walks through your door and doesn’t see what everyone else already sees, then he’s a fool, and it’s his loss, not yours.” I take her hand and lift it between us, rubbing warmth back into her cold fingers with my thumb before pressing my mouth to her knuckles.

She presses her lips together against a smile that wins anyway and leans up to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Don’t make me cry on my sister’s ghost tour.”

“The emotional stability of this evening may be beyond my control.”

Chapter 33

Milo

The path climbs toward the old mill, and the temperature drops the second we step into its shadow. The air there has a different texture: damp stone, stagnant water, leaf rot, the metallic bite of machinery left too long in the weather. Evie’s fingers tighten around mine, and I become aware of every place her hand fits against my own.

The mill hunches at the top of the rise, half-swallowed by ivy, its empty wheel housing hanging uselessly over the stream. The water below keeps working at the rocks with a patient, grinding sound. Through the broken slats, the interior holds a darkness thicker than the night around it.

Daisy tells us about the workers who built the place: the long hours, the accidents, the foreman who walked the floors after closing, checking equipment nobody else heard running. As she speaks, something inside the mill answers with a slow wooden knock.

I lean toward Evie’s ear.

“Her description of post-mortem manifestations is technically imprecise.”

“Milo.” Her hand lands on my forearm. “If you well actually my sister’s ghost tour in front of paying guests, I’m not saving you from her wrath.”

“Understood. No corrections.”

“No corrections, clarifications, or helpful addendums.”

“What if something is genuinely inaccurate?”

“Milo.”

Daisy gestures toward the mill, looking delighted with the whole thing. “Would she accept notes afterward?”

Evie bites down on a smile and fails. “Try it after the tour. She’ll pretend to be offended, then ask you seventeen questions.”

Behind us, a branch snaps.

“What was that?” Priya freezes.