Page 93 of Just One Little Bargain

“He’s not running it unsupervised. He has the list.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a load-bearing wall.”

Daisy’s been quiet, which is never a neutral state for my sister. “Can we just acknowledge, for a second, how incredible it would be if any of it were true?”

She doesn’t say it to be funny. Daisy collects stories the way other people collect hobbies. Ghost sightings, local legends, unexplained patterns in the woods outside town. Her job at the visitor center feeds the obsession, putting her in contact with every hiker and tourist who comes through with a strange story near Brindlewood. She’ll chase the first odd sound into the trees without hesitation.

“Imagine if demons were real. If that whole world existed underneath ours, operating by rules we’ve never had access to.” Her fingers go motionless against the condensation on her drink. “The questions alone would be endless.”

Of all the people, Daisy would understand best. Would ask the right questions in the right order and believe every answer. Not out of naivety, but because her mind has always had a door propped open for this exact possibility.

Which is precisely why I keep my mouth shut.

Whatever Milo is tangled in—the machinery of punishment, quotas, and soul-collecting operating beyond him—it stays between us. Maddie and Daisy exist on this side of the line, where the worst thing that can happen is a bad date or a slow night at the bar. I intend to keep it that way.

I’m not making a deal. That hasn’t changed. Milo will navigate his own consequences. I’m keeping myself and the people I love safe. That’s the right call.

Except every day the deadline gets closer, it gets harder to pretend his consequences are none of my business. He won’t tell me which consequence he expects if he goes back without a signed contract. He deflects with trivia, changes the subject, launches into some bizarre fact about fourteenth-century trade routes. But every time I push, his face closes off before he redirects me, and that tells me more than any answer would.

My thumb sinks into the sugared rim until the crystals bite into my skin.

The kitchen pass offers a narrow view where Wade himself works in total silence. I’ve eaten here a dozen times and never once seen him step into the dining room. He doesn’t cook for an audience, but for the plate. Everyone else just happens to be in the building.

Daisy nudges Maddie’s arm. “So, why are we at the fancy restaurant instead of drinking free at your bar like civilized freeloaders?”

“Strategic reconnaissance.” Maddie jerks her chin toward the pass. “I need Wade’s help.”

I swallow my cocktail too fast and the thyme scorches my throat. “The man who inherited this entire restaurant and has spoken publicly about it exactly zero times. Who hasn’t given a single interview? Whose staff answers every question about the chef with, ‘He prefers to let the food speak for itself’?”

“He spoke to me once,” Daisy offers. “At the farmers market.”

“What?”

“I was picking tomatoes for a salad, and he was at the next stall. He studied my basket, said, ‘Those are the wrong tomatoes,’ and walked away with no explanation.”

“I don’t need a conversationalist.” Maddie’s jaw squares. “I need someone with the best palate in Brindlewood who understands how to build a food program for a small kitchen with no pretension. Wade does both every night. Doing it without speaking is honestly a bonus. Less arguing.”

“And you think he’ll just agree to help you?”

“I think he doesn’t have many people asking.” Some of her confidence slips. “But I’m going to ask. And if he refuses, I’m going to ask again next week. I’ll sit at that bar until he gets bored enough to talk to me.”

Daisy grins. “You’re aware that’s basically harassment.”

“Dad’s giving me the bar.” The rings on her fingers click against the surface, and she stares at the amber liquid rather than at us. “Conditionally. I’ve got to prove that I can build something new. A full menu overhaul. Drinks, food, a reason for new people to come in without losing the ones who’ve been here since before I could reach the taps.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Daisy asks.

“Then I spend the rest of my career listening to him explain why I wasn’t ready. Every idea I bring after that, any change I suggest, he’ll have this one thing to hold up. Remember when you tried. I can already hear it.”

Daisy’s hand lands on hers. “You’re going to crush this.”

“Anything you need from me,” I say. “Organization, planning, budgets. I’ll build you a spreadsheet so detailed it makes your father weep.”

Maddie pulls her hand from Daisy’s grip and waves us both off. “It’s too early. I need to think it through properly before I start pulling anyone in. Figure out the concept, the pricing structure, what actually makes sense for the space.” She glances up. “But when I’m ready. Yeah. I’ll come to you both.”

“Done,” we say together.

An hour disappears over dinner. The short ribs are obscenely tender, falling apart under the pressure of a fork. The trout skin crackles when I cut into it. Daisy’s stolen three bites of my beet salad and shows no signs of stopping.