Page 130 of Just One Little Bargain

“Mm.” There’s an entire cross-examination in that one syllable. “And you still haven’t told me where you’re from, exactly.”

“I did say it was rather far.”

“How far?”

“It would be difficult to explain without—”

“And are you and Evie official yet?” Maureen cuts me off with bright, unwavering interest.

“I think that’s something you’d have to ask Evie,” I say, which feels both diplomatic and cowardly.

“I have. She tells me nothing.” Maureen gives a small, aggrieved sigh. “That girl’s a locked drawer. You, on the other hand, are much easier to read.”

This is how Brindlewood gets me. If I give Maureen anything, Evie will be annoyed. If I stay quiet, the silence becomes so unbearable that I start filling it and give away more than I meant to.

“There’s no need for either of you to be coy,” she continues. “Anyone with eyes can see it.”

“See what?”

“How you look at her.” My face grows hotter. “And the way she looks at you when she thinks nobody’s watching.”

I don’t have an answer for that. Maureen nods as though I’ve confirmed something.

“You’re a good match,” she says. “Better than most, honestly. My Eugene and I had nothing in common when we met. Hardly said two words together, that man. I talked enough for both of us, and it worked out beautifully. Fifty-one years, and he still insists I proposed to him.”

“Did you?”

“Of course I did. He was taking too long.” She chuckles, and for one merciful second, I think we’ve drifted safely off track. Then she returns to the interrogation. “So. Are you together?”

“Milo!”

Peter’s moving at a pace that might have impressed me if he weren’t doing it in pressed trousers and a navy blazer thrown over his sports shirt.

“Morning,” he wheezes. “Just doing my usual route.”

“That blazer isn’t exactly athletic wear,” Maureen scoffs.

“This is breathable wool.”

“You’ve sweated clean through it.”

“That’s how you know the exercise is working.”

He straightens and spots Zia crouched halfway down the path, shooting the porch through a long lens.

“Professional photographer?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He shifts his weight, angling himself so I get what I can only assume he considers his better side. “She doing the front of the house? Because a fella near the porch would really lift a shot. Human interest, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of—”

“Every shot’s improved by a person in it.” He tugs the blazer straight, warming to the subject. “It’s a known thing.”

Maureen steps into his path. “Nobody wants your face in a magazine, Peter.”

“People love my face. Ask anyone at the store.”