Page 60 of Just One Little Bargain

“Okay,” he says. “That’s . . . completely within your rights. I’ll go.”

But he doesn’t move.

“It’s just . . .” He adjusts his glasses. “Tomorrow morning, when your alarm goes off and you have guest rooms expecting breakfast, how will you manage? Your doctor said to stay off the ankle as much as possible for the next few days.”

“I was there.”

“The stove keeps you on your feet. Breakfast service is trays, plates, coffee refills, and too many trips across the dining room. The guest rooms are on the second floor.” He delivers each point like an obvious fact rather than a detail he somehow collected while carrying me through the inn. Each item lands with the quiet, devastating accuracy of a dart hitting the center of a board I didn’t know I’d hung up. “How are you planning to manage that?”

I tighten my hands in my lap. “I’ll figure it out.”

“How?”

“The way I always do. By myself.”

“On one leg?”

“If necessary.”

“For two weeks?”

My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. The frustration isn’t at him. Or it isn’t only at him. It’s at the ankle, the timing, and the universe’s relentless insistence on handing me problems that sheer force of will and lists can’t solve.

I hate asking for help. Needing it is worse. But having him see both written across my face might be the worst part.

“I could help,” he says.

“Right. And what does that cost? Just my immortal soul, or is there a payment plan?”

“No.” He shakes his head once. “No, I meant . . . not a contract. It’s just a small bargain. I help you with the inn, and in exchange, I’ve got somewhere to sleep that isn’t infested with animals.”

I stare at him.

“Labor for lodging,” he clarifies, as if the problem is that I didn’t understand the terms, rather than that a demon just offered to be my live-in employee.

“That’s still an offer, coming from you. You understand why those words, in that order, from your mouth specifically, might give me pause.”

“It’s not the same thing.” He shifts his weight on his knees, visibly sorting through how to explain this without sending me further up the wall. “A soul contract requires a specific verbal agreement. You state what you want, you name your price, Hell’s magic generates the agreement, and you sign. That’s the mechanism. Without your words and your signature, nothing binds.”

“So this . . .”

“Doesn’t cost you anything except couch space.” He pauses. “And possibly your patience, which I recognize is already in limited supply.”

“You want to live here. In my home. With me.”

“On your couch.” His flush has spread from his ears down his neck. “Or the floor. I’m not particular about surfaces.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Evie.”

“No. Not happening. Do you hear yourself?” The heat in my face has nothing to do with the ankle anymore. “I’m not letting a demon move into my house. I don’t care how many stairs I have. I’ll crawl up every single one of them on my hands and knees before I let you . . . you can’t just . . . this is insane. You know that, right? This is categorically, objectively, by every available metric, insane.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“I don’t know you.”

“You summoned me.”