Page 64 of Just One Little Bargain

“My mother would burn this inn to the ground with love and good intentions. My sister would last half a day before we stopped speaking. I can’t hire a stranger on zero notice in a town this small. And I . . .”

Nothing comes out.

I don’t cry in front of people. Tears belong in locked bathrooms with the faucet running, in my car in the parking lot, or at two in the morning when the only witness is a cat who couldn’t care less. But I open my mouth to finish the sentence, and instead I’m crying at my kitchen table in front of a demon.

“I need a minute.” I barely get the words out. “Could you just go stand somewhere else?”

“Where?”

“I don’t care. Another room. The hallway. Canada.”

He takes one step backward and collides with the counter. A wooden spoon rattles in the ceramic holder. He shifts his weight to his other foot and stares at the kitchen floor, but he doesn’t leave.

I scrub at my face with my wrist, furious, which only seems to make the tears come faster. Apparently, my body has been stockpiling them for years and decided today is the liquidation sale.

“I can’t do it alone.” The admission hurts more than I expected. “At least not with an injury. There’s no plan for this, and there is always a plan. I have plans for my plans. I have a contingency binder in my office with laminated tabs, and right now none of it matters because I can’t stand up long enough to crack an egg.”

Milo says nothing. He’s so obviously trying not to say anything that the effort is practically audible.

“You can talk,” I mutter, grinding the back of my hand across my cheek.

“Let me help.” He looks up at me.

“You need my soul. Let’s not pretend that’s left the equation.”

“It hasn’t.” His voice drops. “I have twenty-nine days and something ugly waiting at the end of them if I fail this. Every logical impulse I have is telling me to push right now while your defenses are down.”

That’s not exactly comforting. At least he’s honest about it.

“So why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out, and I have nothing. It feels wrong. You’re . . .” He stops himself. “I’ll figure out my deadline on my own time, not at your expense.”

I stare at him through swollen eyes. “That’s monumentally stupid.”

“Fully aware.”

My breathing has steadied without my permission. The tears are still coming, but at least I can talk around them now.

“You sleep on the couch,” I say flatly. “You touch nothing in this kitchen without my explicit permission. We start at five-thirty tomorrow, and if you make even one comment about what just happened at any point in the future, I will discover what salt does to demon skin firsthand.”

“Understood.”

“Stop looking at me.”

He redirects his gaze back to the tile so fast his glasses slide down his nose.

“And no using influence, persuasion, or demonic tricks on me.”

His brow furrows. “I’d never do that to you.”

The certainty in his answer disarms me for a second before I reach for the next rule.

“If I say it’s over, you respect that.”

“Without question.”

I study his face for a catch and find nothing. “We have a deal.”