Page 62 of Just One Little Bargain

“That would be a first.” She’s already putting the groceries away, opening my fridge like it belongs to her. “I was thinking . . . My schedule at the bookstore is practically empty this week. I could come by in the mornings. Help you with breakfast, the rooms, whatever needs doing.” She faces me, leaning her hip against the counter. “We never get to spend proper time together, Evie. It would be nice.”

The vision forms in my mind with horrifying clarity. Mom humming off-key in my kitchen each morning, substituting cinnamon for nutmeg because “it feels right,” leaving cabinet doors hanging open. Twenty-minute conversations with guests while muffins transform from golden-brown to charcoal. Tasks half-finished. The oven still running because a guest mentioned a book she’s been meaning to read, and she forgot she was in the middle of something.

My mother is sunshine in human form, but also a wrecking ball. I love her dearly, but she can’t be here for two weeks.

“So sweet of you, Mom. But I’ve got it under control.”

“How? You can barely walk.”

“I was going to ask Daisy.”

The laugh that erupts from my mother is so sudden and loud that Milo startles beside me.

“Daisy,” she repeats.

“Why is that so funny?”

“Because I was there when your sister tried to help you prep the guest rooms for the summer rush.” Mom wipes beneath her eye, smudging her mascara. “She made one bed, and you remade it before she even left the room.”

“The corners were wrong.”

“Then she tried to clean the bathroom and used dish soap in the toilet.”

“She said the bottle looked similar.”

“And you stood in the doorway, watched her do it, and didn’t say a word. Then, the second she went downstairs, you redid the whole bathroom yourself.”

I open my mouth to defend my sister—or maybe myself—but nothing comes out.

“I love my girls.” Mom shakes her head. “But the two of you collaborating on anything with a system and a deadline is a hostage negotiation. You’d have her on a color-coded schedule within the first hour. She’d tell you you’re being controlling. You’d tell her she’s being careless. By lunch, one of you would be stress-texting me and the other would be crying.”

The escape routes are gone. Mom is gravitating toward the chair across from me. Any second now she’s going to sit, and once she sits, she roots. She’ll be here through dinner and back tomorrow morning, rearranging my spice rack according to some system only she understands. My carefully constructed routine will be obliterated.

My gaze cuts to Milo. He’s stationed by the refrigerator, hands deep in his pockets.

“I already have help, Mom.”

My brain catches up too late.

“You do?”

“Milo.” I gesture toward him. “He’s helping me with the inn.”

His eyes widen. “I am?”

“He is?” Mom’s gaze swings between us. “Because he doesn’t sound sure.”

“He’s modest.” The word tastes absurd. “Everyone’s been on my case about hiring help. So I finally did it.”

Milo opens his mouth, and I shoot him a look that could curdle milk. He closes it.

“Since when?”

“Recently.”

“How recently?”

“Does the exact timeline matter?” I counter. “The help exists. That’s the relevant information.”