Page 27 of Just One Little Bargain

I reach for the eggs and knock the carton onto the floor. It hits with a wet crack, and one rolls under the stove into permanent exile.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The second attempt works, but I crack the eggs too hard, yolk splattering across my knuckles and onto the counter. I wipe it off with a dish towel and keep going. Milk next, then melted butter still hot enough to sting through the glass, and vanilla extract that makes my empty stomach fold in on itself.

The wet ingredients hit the dry and the mixer screams in protest. If this ancient piece of machinery finally dies, at least that’s a problem I know how to solve.

Blueberries go in last. I fold them in by hand, dragging the wooden spoon through the batter in careful arcs as purple bleeds into cream. The shade makes me think of his eyes before I can stop myself. That violet-blue that had no business being on a real person. Genuinely, annoyingly gorgeous.

And the truly pathetic part, the one I will take to my grave and never speak aloud, is that the last person to compliment me with genuine enthusiasm was my dental hygienist, and she was talking about my flossing habits.

He was, objectively, the most interesting man who’s been inside my house in years. And I threatened him with bakeware.

Daisy would be horrified. Maddie would never let me live it down. And the honest, inconvenient truth is that I haven’t had sex in so long that my body apparently can’t distinguish between a home invasion and a meet-cute.

I add more blueberries and stop looking at the batter.

Footsteps overhead tell me the Wilsons are up, right on schedule. They’ve been model guests all week, actually reading the check-in information and showing up to breakfast when they say they will.

I pick up the muffin basket and push through the swinging door.

My reflection warps across the polished carafe as I set out the coffee. Steam carries the roasted, nutty smell of the beans through the room, mixing with herbs from the garden. The watercolor sunrise over Lake Superior hangs crooked on the far wall, but at least the plates and glasses are lined up properly.

Mr. Wilson appears first, silver hair damp from the shower, and tall enough that he ducks through the doorframe out of pure habit. His wife follows in a pale blue cardigan, reading glasses already perched on her nose.

“Good morning.” I aim for warm and capable, and land somewhere near manic. “Coffee’s ready.”

“Bless you,” Mrs. Wilson says, sitting down. She smooths the napkin across her lap, looks up, and whatever she sees on my face makes her powdered expression rearrange. “Oh, honey, did you sleep at all?”

“Not much,” I admit, pouring coffee and trying not to slosh it everywhere. “One of those nights.”

“We noticed some excitement last night, and weren’t sure what was happening.”

“Oh, that.” I place the carafe down. “I’m so sorry if we woke you. It was just a mix-up. Someone looking for a different house got turned around.”

“The police came, though.” Mr. Wilson accepts his cup, looking more curious than concerned. “We saw the lights from our window.”

Because Lucas Vaughan needed to announce my personal crisis to the entire neighborhood with his light show.

“Small town.” I try for a casual laugh. It comes out manic. “Someone gets lost and suddenly it’s a whole investigation. Very boring in reality, I promise.”

Mrs. Wilson exchanges a look with her husband that I recognize from every medical drama ever made.

“As long as everything’s okay. We were worried about you being over there alone.”

“Really, it was nothing. He was very polite about the whole thing.” The second I say it, I know I’ve made a mistake. Her face confirms it.

“He? So there was a man?”

Fuck.

“Yup.” I’m already backing toward the kitchen. “Can I get you juice? I have fresh orange.”

They both nod, and I escape before the questions can continue.

I bolt through the door and lean against it once I’m safely in the kitchen. I slosh orange juice over both rims while filling their glasses.

When I return, the Wilsons are debating the merits of Brindlewood’s eastern trail versus the steeper northern path. Footsteps on the stairs cut off my escape as the couple from the Sunrise Room appear. Her auburn hair is tousled beneath his college hoodie that’s slipping off one bare shoulder. He’s lanky and half-awake beside her, fingers hooked through her belt loop like he’d follow her into oncoming traffic before remembering to ask where they were going. They’re so wrapped up in each other that a sharp little stab of envy catches me off guard.