Page 88 of Just One Little Bargain

“One word,” I say. He had to have football explained to him twenty minutes ago. My expectations are somewhere on the floor.

Milo mimes taking a tiny pinch of something between thumb and forefinger, sprinkling it into his palm. He recoils, staggers back, shakes out his hand, and scrubs at his skin like the imaginary grains have burned him on contact. He commits to it, and it’s the best mime anyone’s done all night.

“Salt.”

He points at me, beaming, one curl springing loose over his forehead with the motion.

Nadia stares. “It’s been ten seconds.”

“It was obvious.”

“He mimed sprinkling something on his hand and dying. That could have been anything. Poison. Acid. My aunt’s potato salad.”

“It was salt.” Milo once backed into my refrigerator because I shook a salt shaker too close to him.

Two more rounds follow. Milo and I lose spectacularly to Caleb and Ivy, who apparently share the psychic shorthand of a couple fluent in each other’s worst pantomime.

The cold comes up off the grass, as it always does once the sun’s gone, creeping in beneath the warmth of the fire. I start handing out fleece throws from the pile. Ben and Holly share theirs, Nadia gets the next, and I pass another to Caleb and Ivy.

“I want my own. Caleb runs like a radiator and I always end up with a corner the size of a washcloth.” Ivy yanks the shared throw off his lap, tosses it over her own shoulders, and looks at me expectantly.

I surrender the one I was going to keep for myself, leaving me with two options: go inside for a replacement or sit here pretending the late September air isn’t crawling under my sleeves.

“I don’t mind sharing.” Milo says it so quietly I nearly lose it under the crackle of logs. When I turn, he’s red to the tips of both ears, staring between his knees as he lifts one edge of the throw. “I mean, only if you want. I just thought, since you’ve been up and down all night . . . There’s room, is what I’m saying.”

The responsible version of me would stand up, go inside, and come back with my own blanket. She’s the reason The Foxglove is still afloat and my heart has stayed out of reach of anything temporary. Usually, I call that being sensible. Lately, I’m starting to wonder how much of that safety has been loneliness.

I know how this goes. Milo leaves, one way or another, and the sensible thing would be not to count on him at all. I settle back into my chair anyway and take the edge he’s offering, because for once, I’d rather have this than protect myself from losing it.

The wool falls heavy and warm across both our laps. His fingers release the fabric the second mine touch it, careful not to brush against me, and that carefulness is worse than contact would’ve been.

“Milo.” Nadia tilts her head. “What’s your favorite thing about working here?”

He doesn’t even pause to think. “Watching Evie.”

Everyone around the fire goes quiet. I wait for the qualifier, the joke, the pivot to something safe and easy to brush off. It doesn’t come.

My face goes warm all the way to my ears.

Milo’s brow furrows. “Was that not the right answer?”

“Depends who you’re asking,” Nadia murmurs.

“I meant watching how she runs everything,” he amends. “She built all of this herself. She anticipates what a person needs before they’ve worked it out themselves. She notices the details the rest of us miss. People see a lovely inn and assume it just runs itself. I’ve watched what it really takes out of her.” He turns to me. “Evie is remarkable, and I don’t think she gets told that enough.”

I’ve got no response prepared because there’s no version of this I saw coming. I’m the one who notices things. That’s the whole load-bearing wall of my personality, catching what everyone else breezes past so the place doesn’t quietly come down. It genuinely never occurred to me that someone might be watching me the same way.

People thank me, lean on me, and assume I’ve got it handled. Not one of them has ever looked at the weight of it and called it anything worth admiring.

Nobody says anything until Ivy murmurs, “That’s really lovely, Milo.”

Under the throw, his pinky edges closer to mine, tentative enough that he could pretend it never happened if I don’t answer. I hook mine over his and keep my eyes on the ground, arranging my face into profound disinterest while all my attention narrows to that tiny point of contact.

Milo freezes beside me. The fidgety energy that follows him around all day disappears. The warmth of his hand on mine ignites a flutter in my stomach. I lift my cider and drink because if I look at him now, I’ll give myself away.

He turns his hand over. His palm slides beneath mine, and when I don’t pull back, his fingers thread through mine and close. I press my teeth into the inside of my cheek to keep my face still.

“Evie.” The conversation on the far side blurs into nothing.