Page 36 of Just One Little Bargain

“Maddie, I set up every year. I’m plenty involved.”

“Exactly.” She gives me a mocking nod. “You arrange folding chairs at dawn, argue with the electrician about generator placement, and organize the vendor parking lot. Then, the second the bunting goes up and actual humans start arriving to enjoy themselves, you vanish. Poof. Gone. Like you were never there.”

“I have guests.”

“Your guests are at the festival, Evie.” She counts on her fingers. “Eating. Drinking. Playing ring toss. Buying overpriced pottery. Having the best day of their vacation. They are not wondering where you are. You know who’s at the inn? You. Alone. Probably ironing pillowcases.”

That’s annoyingly accurate.

Her teasing fades. “It’s been three years since you actually came with me. Remember how we used to eat terrible food, and you judged the pie contest entries with way too much passion? I miss it.”

“It’s not about the festival.”

“I know.” She sighs. “But it’s been two years since Jason dumped you at the top of the Ferris wheel. You can say his name without the building collapsing.”

“I’m aware.”

“My point is that you’ve let one mediocre man with commitment issues ruin fall for you.”

I want to argue, but she’s not wrong. At least about Jason. That relationship died a quiet, unremarkable death, and I’ve been over it since roughly two weeks after it ended. But the festival is unpredictable. Crowds shift, schedules change, nothing happens when it’s supposed to. There’s no way to control every variable once the day gets moving.

“Couple of hours,” she says. “Just walk around with me. If it’s awful, we bail and go drink at The Rusty Nail.”

“Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Yes!” She slaps the table so hard our drinks jump. “This is the best news I’ve gotten all week.”

“That’s genuinely depressing.”

“I don’t care, I’m thrilled.” Her grin is impossible not to return. Despite my resistance to this plan, some of her excitement is rubbing off on me. “We’re going to have fun. Remember fun?”

“Vaguely.”

“Good enough.”

“How was work last night?” I ask because I need to talk about literally anything else.

“Brutal. Ten straight hours without sitting down.” She stretches her arms overhead, shoulders cracking. “And then Dad rolled in at nine to ‘check on things.’ Which, as you know, means hovering behind the bar, correcting everything I do.”

“What was it this time?”

“The usual greatest hits: my ice-to-liquor ratio was off, the music was too loud, and I should smile more at the regulars. As if Mike Dunham wants me to beam at him while I pour his fourth Bud Light.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, and he told a couple of tourists the menu was ‘still being worked on.’ It hasn’t changed in eleven years.”

“He’ll come around.”

“When?” The question comes out clipped, and she presses her lips together before continuing. “I’ve been running that bar for five years. I do the books, the orders, the hiring, the firing, the health inspections, the broken toilet at two a.m. And he still tells people I’m ‘helping out,’ like this is a summer internship.”

“He’s terrified of it becoming yours because then it’s not his anymore.”

“Exactly. And I get that. I do.” She stares at her drink. “I just wish he’d trust me enough to admit I’m already doing it.”

“You’re allowed to be frustrated.”

She’s quiet long enough to qualify as emotional processing before changing course.