Page 80 of Just One Little Bargain

“Are you describing a con?”

“I’m describing a morally gray acquisition strategy.”

“So a con.”

“But it would be wrong. And I’m trying very hard not to do things that way while I’m here.”

Her expression cycles through disbelief, amusement, then lands on something soft and startled that she blinks away before I can study it properly. “You’re a soul-collecting demon with the ethical boundaries of a youth pastor.”

“That’s the most confusing thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I’m buying you clothes. It’s not a discussion.”

“You don’t owe me that. Letting me stay here is already generous. So is feeding me. Yesterday, you made an extra portion of pasta specifically because you’d noticed I eat more than a normal human, and you didn’t even comment on it. You just gave me a bigger plate. That’s more than enough.”

“Milo.” She turns toward me, chin tipped up. Five foot two of absolute tyranny staring up at me with those gold-flecked eyes and that stubborn set to her mouth. All I can think about is what it would be like to kiss her. If she’d let me. If I had any right to want it in the first place. Evie would probably kiss the way she argues: relentless, precise, and unwilling to surrender the pace. And I’d forget how to breathe and ruin the whole thing.

My hands stay at my sides.

“I’m not paying you a wage. This is a charity shop trip. We’re talking second-hand shirts, and jeans someone’s granddad wore to barbecues in the nineties. I’ll survive the financial hit.”

How could she understand? She grew up in a world where people buy each other things because they care, where noticing a need is reason enough to fill it without contracts, terms, or fine print to parse.

In Hell, nothing comes free. Even the smallest object, favor, or gesture carries a cost. You own only what you fought for, traded for, or bled for, and all of it can be taken if someone above you decides you don’t deserve it.

This is the most extravagant gesture anyone has ever made for me.

“You coming?” She’s already halfway down the porch steps, looking back over her shoulder. The wind presses the sundress flat against the curve of her ass and the backs of her thighs. I give myself three seconds to look, then follow her before three turns into thirty.

Chapter 22

Milo

The thrift shop nestles along the lower end of Main Street, between a bakery that pumps the smell of fresh bread onto the sidewalk and a hardware store with a handwritten sign advertising a sale on fall lawn care. SECOND CHANCES is painted above the door in faded green letters. In the window, a mannequin wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a sun hat stares out at pedestrians, with the serene blankness of a plastic man who has made peace with his circumstances.

I relate to the mannequin more than I’d prefer to admit.

Inside, the place smells of cedar, old books, and someone’s perfume trapped in donated wool. Clothing racks press together in dense, colorful rows, arranged by shade rather than size or function. The color-coded system activates a pleasure center in my brain I didn’t know existed.

There’s a white ceramic mug on the shelf by the door, with the words WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA in faded red letters. Someone drank coffee from it so many mornings that the glaze wore thin on the handle. Then it ended up here, between a glass vase and a little dog figurine, priced at fifty cents. Humans cycle through their belongings so casually. In Hell, you keep what you can defend. Here, people just give things away when they’re done with them. I find that staggering.

Near the register, there’s a basket of buttons. Just buttons. Hundreds of them, loose, all different sizes, colors, and materials.

“Evie!” A silver-haired woman wearing a cardigan covered in embroidered roosters rounds a display shelf stacked with ceramic figurines. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Hi, Fran.” Evie’s smile goes warm. “How’s the shop?”

“Overflowing. Everyone cleaned out their closets before the festival rush, and now I’m buried in donations I can’t sort fast enough. Had to put three boxes in the back room this morning.” Fran’s gaze lands on me. “So . . . this is him.”

I’ve been looked at by demons whose literal function is to assess the structural weaknesses of a soul in under ten seconds. None of them have ever studied me as thoroughly as this woman does in the span of one breath.

“This is Milo.” Evie’s voice carries a careful edge. “He’s been helping at the inn.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“From who?”

Fran adjusts her glasses. “Sweetheart, from everyone.”