Page 68 of Just One Little Bargain

She stops mid-sentence. “What?”

“A notepad,” I repeat. “So I can write all this down. Because you’ve given me approximately forty-seven instructions in the last ninety seconds.”

“You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not.” I meet her eyes. “I want to make sure I get it right.”

Her mouth falls open. “You actually want to take notes?”

“Yes.”

She stares at me, then reaches into the coffee table drawer, pulls out a notebook and pen, and tosses them to me. The pen bounces off my chest and I fumble it.

Forty-five minutes later, my hand cramps, and I’ve filled eight pages with obsessively detailed notes.

Evie leans sideways to look and her shoulder grazes mine. I lose my place mid-sentence.

“Most people would just nod and figure it out as they go.” She scans the pages.

“Most people haven’t been threatened with exile for underperformance.” I flip back through the notes, reviewing the cleaning sequence I’ve outlined with bullet points, sub-bullets, and, on page four, a small diagram of the linen closet that I’m quite proud of. “Also, I retain information better on paper.”

We sit in silence until Marmalade appears from somewhere down the hallway. He surveys the room, identifies me as the most promising source of attention, and crosses the floor in a direct line.

“He bites,” Evie says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I hold out my hand anyway and he sniffs my fingers. Instead of the threatened bite, he gives my finger one rough lick and jumps onto the cushion.

Evie stares at us. “Are you serious right now?”

“What?”

“I feed him. I clean his litter. I tolerate the hairballs—and let me tell you, no amount of emotional preparation makes a hairball on your pillow acceptable. I’m sitting here, injured, in pain, and radiating sympathy-worthy energy.” She gestures at her propped ankle. “And he picks you.”

Marmalade ignores her, tucking his head under my palm in a clear demand for attention. I comply, scratching behind his ears.

“He’s showing good judgment.”

“He’s showing terrible judgment. I’m the one with food.”

“Maybe he values personality over meal provision.”

Her eyes narrow, but she’s fighting a smile. “You’re very smug about this.”

Marmalade has now melted into a boneless puddle against my leg. “It’s not my fault I’m irresistible to cats.”

“Just cats?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Or do you have this effect on anyone with questionable judgment?”

Her cheeks go pink when she catches up to what she just said.

“That didn’t come out right.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Obviously I meant . . . it was a joke . . . you’re . . .” Her fingers twist the hem of her sleeve into a knot. “Forget I said anything.”

“Too late.” A reckless impulse urges me to push this further.

She clears her throat. “I should set up the couch for you.”