Page 193 of Just One Little Bargain

“Let me check.” Papers rustle. “Looks like it came through our standard submission process. Properties are nominated by readers and travel bloggers, and then our editorial team selects which ones to feature.”

“And you’re sure this is real?”

She laughs. “Very sure. We’ve already blocked out space in the issue. We just need to schedule the shoot and interview.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course. Take your time. Be sure to let us know within the next week or so.”

I hang up and stare at the email.

A month ago, this would’ve been everything: validation, recognition, proof that the Foxglove mattered beyond Brindlewood. But now I’m not sure I care.

I leave the email unanswered and go back to work.

That night Caroline texts me.

Caroline: Party Sunday at the Foxglove. 4 pm. Town’s celebrating your award. Daisy said you agreed.

Me: What award?

Caroline: County Independent Stay of the Year. I told Milo to give you the note. You were nominated, and you won!

I sit up straight on the couch and search my cottage from top to bottom. I’m about to give up when I spot something white under the bed. I crouch down and pull it out. It’s an envelope, lightly crumpled, with teeth marks in one corner. Marmalade’s work, obviously.

Inside are the award nomination, the town’s application, and a note in Milo’s handwriting.

You deserve good things. This is the proof.

—Milo

I turn the paper over, half expecting something else on the back, but there’s nothing. Disappointment sinks heavily through me, because some part of me had still been hoping he’d left more behind. I sit on the floor with the note in my lap until my hands stop shaking.

Then I tuck it carefully into the drawer of my nightstand, beside the grocery list he wrote three weeks ago in handwriting so terrible it took me ten minutes to decipher butter. Next to it sits the small, smooth stone he found in the garden and set on the kitchen windowsill because he thought it looked like a heart.

I lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing now. If he’s miserable. If he misses me. If he can still sense me the way he said he could, that pull between soulmates that transcends distance and realms. I try so hard to feel him back, to find that connection and follow it to wherever he is.

But no matter how hard I reach, all I can feel is the ache of his absence.

Chapter 55

Evie

Iwake Sunday morning with an ache lodged deep under my ribcage. It isn’t pain exactly. When I roll onto my back and press a hand to my chest, there’s nothing there to explain why I feel so off. By the time I sit up, the ache has become an insistent tug, urging me to get dressed and go somewhere even though I don’t know where.

Marmalade sits on the nightstand, his unblinking green eyes fixed on me.

“What?”

He gives me one accusatory meow, then jumps off the nightstand and disappears through the bedroom door.

When I walk over to the inn, Mom and Daisy have beaten me there. My sister considers anything before eight a personal attack, while Mom can technically be conscious at six and spend ten minutes looking for the coffee pot she’s holding, so finding them both here before me stops me in the kitchen doorway.

My sister sits on the stool, her hands wrapped around a mug. Mom’s claimed half the island and made it look like she’s been working there for hours despite accomplishing very little. A carton of raspberries is open beside her; the blueberries are still sealed; a banana has migrated next to the toaster; and she’s halfway through cutting a melon.

“There she is,” Daisy says, lifting her coffee toward me. “The award winner herself.”

“Why are you here so early? It’s not even seven.”