Page 118 of Just One Little Bargain

“Forgive me, I have a meeting I’m already late for, and I’d like to get the wheels turning today.” He’s halfway to the door now. “You’ll hear from me by tomorrow. Truly, Evie, you’ve built something rare here. I’m glad I got to you before anyone else did.”

The door shuts behind him, and the squeal I’ve been holding in finally escapes.

“I have returned victorious,” Milo announces, coming in through the back door, “with sourdough starter, extensive commentary from Nora, and no idea what half of the second page was for.” He stops the instant he sees me. “Evie?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

He’s already crossing to me, all that easy brightness gone taut with worry. “What happened? What did he say? If he was unkind to you, I don’t care what he writes for; I’ll find him—”

“He said yes.” My laugh breaks halfway into a sob. “Milo. He’s running the feature. It’s happening, it’s actually—”

I don’t get to finish, because he lifts me clean off the ground and spins me in the middle of my entry hall until the wallpaper smears into a blur of green. I grab his shoulders to hold on while he laughs, head tipped back, and I’ve never in my life seen anyone this happy about something that isn’t even theirs.

“I knew it.” He lets me slide back down, my body dragging the length of his until my feet find the ground. I stay tucked against him. “I told you. You’ve made something people would give anything to belong to for a single night. That’s all you.” He presses a kiss to my forehead.

That’s what does it. I’m crying now. He gathers me in, one hand splayed warm and wide across my back, the other coming up to catch my face, thumb sweeping under my eye. I realize this is the first good thing I’ve ever let someone share with me before I’ve had time to contain it.

Chapter 35

Evie

The caramelized onions were a mistake. Not because they aren’t golden, jammy, and perfect, but because apparently once I committed to a pizza topping that deliberate, I also needed three varieties of olives, hand-torn basil, and a ramekin of hot honey. Now my kitchen counter looks like I’m auditioning for a cooking show.

Eleven ramekins are arrayed in a precise crescent around two dough rounds proofing under a damp cloth. Every topping is something Milo has never tried.

That part wasn’t accidental. I’ve been secretly cataloging his food reactions for a while, keeping an invisible index of what he’s encountered versus what he hasn’t. This is what I do with my free time now instead of anything resembling a hobby.

The firewood is on my conscience. I sent Milo to restack the logs behind the inn forty-five minutes ago, even though I stacked them myself last weekend. But I needed him gone long enough to build all of this.

It’s too much. Nothing about this feels like a casual cooking lesson. This is another date.

What if he hates it? What if he walks in here and sees how much effort this represents? What if he looks at me with pity or, worse, confusion?

But I don’t want to do the scaled-back version. I want him to walk in here and understand that someone thought about what he might enjoy, and then made it happen.

The front door of the cottage opens, and my pulse spikes.

“Evie?” His voice drifts closer from the hallway, bright and slightly winded. “I need to confess something about the firewood. It was already stacked. So I unstacked it and then restacked it, which felt redundant, but I gave it my full effort.”

He rounds the corner into the kitchen, one hand raking through his curls. There’s a wood chip caught behind his ear and sawdust clinging to his hair. Now that he’s safely inside, his horns are back too. His cheeks are ruddy from exertion.

“Tell me that you didn’t send me away so you could do this.”

“I needed prep time.”

“For what, exactly?”

“You mentioned wanting to try more human food. Pizza is non-negotiable.” My voice only cracks a little.

“You did all of this for me?” His mouth curves into a grin.

My face goes nuclear. There’s nowhere to hide in a kitchen nine feet wide, especially with him planted in the middle wearing that devastating, wonder-struck expression, as if I’ve done something extraordinary instead of made pizza.

“I’m a planner,” I manage. “This is planning. Don’t read into it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

***