Page 163 of Just One Little Bargain

“Then you fix the individual cells. Not the entire spreadsheet.”

I’ve been sitting at the front desk of the inn for six straight hours. Maddie called at noon with a casual question about organizing the bar inventory. Somehow, that spiraled into a full spreadsheet tutorial that consumed my afternoon. I love Maddie. I’d take a bullet for her. But surely a functional adult human being can’t be this clueless about basic Excel functions.

“What does the little triangle in the corner mean?” she asks.

“You’ve got a comment or an error. Click on it.”

“I’m clicking. Nothing is happening.”

“Are you left-clicking or right-clicking?”

“There’s a difference?”

At least it’s been a slow day. No guests checking in or crises to manage. Just me, and my rapidly deteriorating will to live.

“Okay,” Maddie says brightly. “I think I fixed it. Wait. No. Everything just turned into hashtags.”

I drop my forehead onto the desk. “That means the column is too narrow.”

“How do I make it wider?”

“Drag the edge.”

“Which one?”

I stay on the phone for another twenty minutes, walking her through column width adjustments and conditional formatting until she finally, mercifully, declares victory and hangs up.

On the walk back from the inn, I rehearse my apology to Milo for being a complete nightmare human being. When I reach the cottage, my speech is ready. I’ll be calm, rational, and emotionally mature about the whole soulmate bomb he dropped in the basement.

When I push open the front door, every single prepared sentence evaporates.

My living room has been transformed into some kind of domestic altar. Candles cover every surface. Milo’s standing in the center of it, looking like he might throw up from nerves.

“What is this?”

“It’s . . .” He gestures around the room. “An apology? And also, maybe a date? I wasn’t entirely sure how to categorize this.”

“Milo, I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” My bag drops down by the door. “I was a complete asshole at the festival. I was scared and angry, and you were the easiest person to blame. Then in the basement, when everything was already too much, you told me we’re soulmates, and . . .” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t handle it.”

“Evie—”

“No, let me finish.” I press my palms against my eyes for a second, then drop them. “I do this. When things get too much, I remove myself from the situation. Convince myself I need space to think, but really I’m just avoiding the hard conversation because if I don’t talk about it, I don’t have to face it. But all I did was punish you for telling me the truth. I’m sorry.”

“Stop.” He takes a step toward me. “You were right. Krell is here because of me. If I’d never been summoned, none of this would’ve happened.”

“No.” My voice rises. “I don’t give a damn why he showed up. I care that I made you feel like I regretted you being here. And that’s not . . . Milo, you being here is the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I’m sorry I led you to think otherwise because I couldn’t deal with my own emotions like a functional adult.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he says quietly. “Can we just forget the whole thing? Pretend the basement never happened and just . . . enjoy the days we have left?”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

I make the mistake of looking past him into the kitchen. From here I can see flour coating the counter, and the dish towel has a visible smear of something orange on it. There’s a measuring cup tipped on its side with dried batter crusted along the inside.

“You made a mess.”