Page 133 of Just One Little Bargain

But the ache beneath that is harder to dismiss. After weeks of sharing nearly every hour, letting him into my home, my bed, and all the parts of my life I usually keep locked down, holding his hand where half of Brindlewood can see us doesn’t feel frightening. It feels like the beginning of something I’m finally ready to stop pretending I don’t want.

Maddie slips through the crowd toward us, her high ponytail swinging behind her. Her black skinny jeans are ripped at the knees, and she’s shoved up the sleeves of her leather jacket despite the cold. She sidesteps a child carrying a caramel apple without breaking stride.

“Oh, good. You’re holding hands.”

“We’re walking.” I roll my eyes.

“Okay.” She wedges herself into step beside us. “I see it now.”

“See what?”

“You.” She points at me, then hooks the same finger toward Milo. “And you. And the two of you together, which is apparently a whole separate thing.”

“She’s been like this all morning,” I tell him.

“You’ve been like this all morning,” Maddie corrects. “Running around with your clipboard, being competent and stressed. Then every thirty seconds you find him in the crowd and your entire face does something that I’ve personally never witnessed in the years I’ve known you.” She steals the kettle corn bag from Milo’s hands. “It’s disgusting, honestly. I love it.”

“Can we talk about anything else?”

“Sure.” She eats a handful of kettle corn. “Milo, has Evie fed you yet today? Because if not, she’s off her game. Normally by now, she’ll have identified three things you haven’t tried and built a route around them.”

Milo looks at the bag in her hands, then at me. “She had the kettle corn waiting when I finished with the generator.”

“Point proven.”

I groan. “He’d been working all morning. It would’ve been rude not to get him something.”

Maddie smiles like I’ve just made her point for her.

We move through the market row, past trestle tables sticky with spilled jam samples. The air carries the scent of woodsmoke, fried dough, and crushed apples. Someone brushes too close behind me carrying a crate of pumpkins, and a child tears across our path with a paper windmill clattering above his head.

Usually, by this point, I’d be keeping count of blocked paths, unattended candles, and all the minor disasters waiting for somebody to notice them. Today, Milo’s hand stays wrapped around mine, and the contact quiets the worst of it. Beside me, he keeps turning toward every new sound and smell with open fascination, lingering by the blacksmith shaping a leaf from glowing iron, watching a vendor spin sugar into pale gold ropes, then stopping at a stall selling knitted hats shaped like woodland animals. Each discovery brings that wide-eyed expression to his face. It’s painfully adorable.

I let him tug me toward the next stall, even though we’re moving at half the speed I planned, because watching him fall in love with Brindlewood is worth it.

He’s still trying to convince me we need to see the prize squash when Rebecca Hartley steps into our path at the produce stall.

“So you are alive.” She sweeps toward us, her glossy chestnut hair falling in loose waves beneath a black bat headband that wobbles with each step. Her mouth pulls into a pout. “I was starting to take it personally. I’ve waved at you across the square four times this month, and every time you suddenly have somewhere to be.” She sets a hand on her hip. “I’ve been dying to meet your new man properly, and you keep whisking him off.”

“I’ve been swamped,” I mutter.

“You’re always busy. That’s not new.”

She turns to Milo and brightens instantly, all grievance abandoned. Maddie drifts up on my other side, already grinning because she knows what’s coming. “Rebecca Hartley. I’ve known this one since she was in diapers.”

“Milo.” He shakes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Evie talks about the town constantly. And I love your sweater.”

Of course he does. Rebecca’s coat has fallen open to reveal a bright orange pullover with an enormous grinning pumpkin stitched across the front. The kind of festive Halloween monstrosity that most people wouldn’t be caught dead in. On her, paired with pearl earrings and polished riding boots, it somehow looks intentional.

“Oh, he’s lovely.” Rebecca beams at me as though he isn’t standing right there. Milo’s smile turns a little helpless, and his fingers tighten around mine. “Where did you find him? They didn’t make them like this when we were young.”

“Hell,” I say, with a completely straight face.

Rebecca’s hand flies to her chest. “Evie Feywin, that is a terrible thing to say about a man you’re dating.”

“Oh, no, she’s right,” Milo says earnestly. “Straight from Hell. Truly one of a kind down there. They broke the mold.”

“They really did,” I agree.