Page 74 of Just One Little Bargain

“Nope. Stopping you right there.” She holds up a hand. “I don’t need that image.”

I grin. “You asked.”

“I really didn’t.”

Marmalade pads over to inspect me, sniffing my jeans before meowing up at me.

“He likes you,” Evie says. “Which is bizarre because he’s an asshole to literally everyone else.”

“Maybe I’m special.”

“Maybe you smell like something dead and he’s confused.”

I laugh and she does too, and for a moment it feels absurdly normal. Like we’ve done this before.

Then the laughter fades and we’re still looking at each other, the air between us shifting into something heavier. Her gaze stays on mine until the moment stops feeling casual.

She looks away first. “I should sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

She hesitates in the doorway, hand braced on the frame. Her mouth opens, then closes again.

“Goodnight, Milo.”

“Goodnight.”

She disappears down the hallway, and I hear her door click shut.

I make my way to the couch and stretch out on top of the blankets she’s set up for me. I close my eyes and try to relax, but the day starts replaying instead.

It was nice. Really nice. Minus Evie hurting herself, it was the best day I’ve had in years.

Chapter 20

Evie

The ankle is a travesty.

I discovered this when I swung my legs out of bed and placed my right foot on the hardwood. My body informed me, in no uncertain terms, that this had been a grave miscalculation. The joint is swollen tight and bruised deep plum, fading into a sickly greenish yellow at the edges. Every step sends pain shooting up my calf.

I’m standing in my kitchen anyway because the muffins won’t make themselves, and my new employee is a demon from Hell I’ve known for approximately thirty-six hours. Yesterday, I cried in front of him, let him sleep on my couch, and agreed to a labor-for-lodging arrangement that I’m fairly certain no HR department in any realm would approve of. Today I need to act like that was a rational decision made by a competent adult, and not a woman who was out of options.

I have to actually let him help, and that part is turning out to be harder than expected.

Milo hasn’t moved from the spot I assigned him. He’s been leaning against the counter by the window for the better part of an hour, notepad open, studying my kitchen. Now and then, he flips a page or taps his pen on the paper. Mostly, he watches me. I’ve been keeping my back to him because acknowledging that fact would make me far too aware of him.

The machine sits past a break in the counters, across a stretch of open floor with nothing to grip. I’ve been recalculating the distance while pretending to be very focused on muffin batter. All I have to do is ask. The words are right there. Can you make the coffee?

My eyes stray toward the machine again. Milo’s pen stops tapping.

“You know . . .” He sets the notepad down. “I read that humans discovered coffee after watching goats eat coffee cherries and then refuse to sleep. So really, the ritual you’re so attached to began with over-caffeinated livestock.”

I chuckle. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s documented.”

He moves toward the coffee machine. The canister lid clicks open, the scoop scrapes through the grounds, and water rushes into the reservoir from the tap. I told him the ratio once, among nineteen other instructions, while he scribbled in that notepad last night with his handwriting slanting further right with every page. I assumed he’d retain maybe half of it by morning.