Page 164 of Just One Little Bargain

“I’ll clean it.”

I’m calculating how long it would take if I did it now. Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five if I have to soak the pot. I could knock it out before we eat.

“Evie, look at me.” Milo steps into my line of sight, blocking the view. “I’ll wash it tomorrow.”

“If you let it sit too long, it’ll—”

“I’ll handle it.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “I know it’s physically painful for you to let it sit. But let me take care of it.”

My hands are clenched so tight that my nails are biting into my palms.

“Please.” He dips his head. “I want to do this for you.”

The hope on his face cracks through the last of my resistance.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

The grin that breaks across his face is so stupidly happy that I almost forget why I was anxious in the first place.

***

We settle onto the sofa after dinner, our skin still tacky from the face masks we’ve peeled off and Milo’s glasses freshly rescued from the residue along his temples. I’m already reaching for the remote as the ridiculous cream blanket he bought pools across both our laps.

“You can’t leave without seeing Titanic,” I inform him, cueing it up.

“Is it a comedy?”

“You’ll see.”

Within ten minutes, I’ve tried all three popcorn flavors, unwrapped four chocolates, and stolen the one Milo picked after deciding his looked better than mine.

“You said you wanted the hazelnut flavor.” He tracks the truffle all the way to my mouth, watching my lips close around it.

“I changed my mind.”

He reaches into the box and hands me the hazelnut one, too.

I pause, the chocolate melting on my tongue. “You know rewarding this behavior only makes it worse.”

“I don’t care.”

I sink deeper into the cushions. Candle flames throw restless shadows across the walls, and his arm stretches along the back of the sofa behind me.

By the time Rose reaches the bow of the ship, I’ve migrated closer without deciding to. My thigh presses against his beneath the blanket, the heat of him bleeding through the denim.

I reach for the popcorn in his lap. Milo lifts the bowl just as my fingers graze the rim.

“Seriously?”

“You’ve had two bowls already.”

“I’m stress-eating a fictional shipwreck. Give it back.”

He switches the bowl to his far hand, holding it out of reach. I lean across him, stretching, and he moves it again. My hand lands on his chest for balance.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

His palm settles at my waist, holding me in place. “You could just ask nicely.”