Page 117 of Just One Little Bargain

Julian laughs. “Consider me an impartial witness, then. Bribed or not.” He looks around the parlor, taking it in.

“Can I get you tea?” I ask, seizing the lifeline of a task. “There’s shortbread. Lemon biscuits, if you want to be the judge of whether they’re bribery-grade.”

“I’d be a poor journalist if I didn’t say yes.”

After tea, I guide him upstairs through the rooms.

We start with the Garden Room, with its ivy-patterned wallpaper, brass bed, and narrow writing desk tucked beneath the window, because someone, someday, will absolutely come here pretending they’re going to finish a novel. The wardrobe is Victorian, dark walnut, and dramatic enough to look personally offended by modern luggage, but the drawers still run smoothly because I spent an entire Sunday waxing them while questioning my career choices.

Then the Sunrise Room, where I draw back the lace curtains so he can see the peach quilt, the pressed-glass lamps, the old washstand I use as a coffee tray because history is lovely but people still need caffeine. I show him the little cast-iron fireplace, the marble-topped table, the bell pull beside the bed that no longer rings anything but looks too perfect to remove. The floorboards dip near the window. A handmade coverlet lies across the bed, sewn by a woman in Montana who charged me less than she should’ve, so I send her a Christmas card every year and pretend that makes us even.

My favorite is the Honeysuckle Room, though I try not to say that to guests. It has the carved bedframe I found in a barn and paid a man far too much to restore, with curling vines and nicked mahogany. The wallpaper is cream with faded yellow flowers; the mirror tilts slightly no matter how many times I straighten it, and the rug has one corner that refuses to lie flat. In June, when the real honeysuckle blooms outside the window, the whole room smells like sugar and green leaves. Right now it carries the subtle aroma of beeswax, laundry soap, and the old lavender sachets I keep.

Julian writes nothing down. He watches and asks the right questions in the right order. Every so often, he says something so precise about the place that I understand why the magazine has the reputation it does.

He sees it. Not the way Milo sees it, which is a whole separate ache I’m not examining right now. But he sees it.

We’re on the landing, the tour done, when Marmalade appears at the top of the stairs. He clocks Julian and halts.

This is routine. My cat stops before every guest to conduct a brief, insulting appraisal before deciding they may continue existing. What isn’t normal is what he does next. His pupils narrow to slits, ears flattening against his skull. And then Julian, who clearly has never met Marmalade or possibly any cat, crouches and extends one manicured hand.

“Well, hello.”

“I wouldn’t,” I begin.

Marmalade goes off like a trap. He’s across the landing before I finish the sentence, hackles up, teeth bared to the gums. Julian rips his hand back with a reflex that doesn’t match the calm on his face. I lunge and catch a howling ginger disaster against my chest. He keeps yowling, twisting toward Julian, dead set on finishing what he started.

“I’m so sorry.” I tighten my hold before Marmalade can launch himself again. “He’s rude, but he doesn’t do this. I genuinely don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“Please. I don’t take it personally.” Julian straightens, openly amused. “I’d be short-tempered too, in his position.”

I carry the traitor down the stairs, deposit him in the kitchen pantry, and shut the door. The offended silence lasts until a bag hits the floor.

I wince. I’m going to be finding lentils in that pantry until Christmas.

“He’s being appalling,” I say, coming back.

Julian straightens his cuff, unbothered. “In any case, I’ve seen enough.”

There it is: the polite letdown, the lovely place, but sentence.

“I want to run it.”

I don’t move. My whole nervous system has unplugged itself to reboot. “I’m sorry. Run what, exactly?”

“The feature on The Foxglove Inn.” He tilts his head like he’s checking I’m still with him. “I want it for the winter issue. Which is why I need to be direct, Evie. I don’t have the luxury of sitting on this. I’d want to move this week. Is that possible?”

I hear this week very clearly, and everything after that arrives in pieces. Photographer here by next Monday; he’s got one he trusts; she wants the morning light. A short interview he needs me for. The money, which he names without flourish. I ask him to say it again, because there’s no way they pay me that much.

He repeats it. I haven’t misheard.

I bite down on a scream and clasp my hands behind me, staying composed in front of this man who has just casually rearranged the rest of my life.

“This week,” I say again, because apparently it’s the only phrase I have left.

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Yes.” I don’t remember deciding. His hand’s already out, and I take it, his grip firm and certain, making myself let go at a normal time.