Page 3 of Just One Little Bargain

“Then prove it. Come to one dinner.”

I fold the towel into a precise square. “Fine. The next one, not Monday. But if something comes up—”

“You’ll text me before you cancel, not send a message an hour beforehand.”

“Deal.”

She kisses my cheek on her way to the door, then pauses. “Where’s Marmalade? I wanted to say hi.”

“Probably murdering something in the garden.”

“He’s a treasure.”

“He’s a tyrant who thinks I exist to serve him.”

“All cats think that. He’s just more honest about it.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and the kitchen feels empty without her. I finish the dishes and wipe down the counters, pointedly not thinking about the next family dinner I agreed to, then check my list. The rest of the day becomes a training montage, except I get progressively more exhausted instead of stronger.

Garden Room: strip bed, remake with fresh lavender sheets, fold corners with hospital-tight precision that would make a drill sergeant weep with pride. Fluff pillows. Adjust throw blanket five times because the drape has to be perfect even though guests will destroy it in thirty seconds.

Laundry: four loads, because apparently, guests use seventeen towels per person.

Hallway: get intercepted by Mrs. Wilson, who has fifteen questions about lunch options.

By late afternoon, I’m operating on muscle memory and spite. Everything hurts. My hands smell of chemicals. My ponytail has given up and died, leaving sad honey-brown wisps stuck to my face.

This is fine.

This is what I signed up for.

This is the dream.

The dream is exhausting.

Outside, the fall air wakes me up. Rosemary and thyme brush my legs as I follow the stone path toward the cottage, and the mint has escaped its bed again, taking over the edge of the fence like it pays rent.

My cottage sits at the edge of the property where the garden meets the forest, tucked behind the inn in what used to be the gardener’s quarters, back when the Foxglove was first built in the late 1800s. The Hendersons used it for storage and occasional seasonal staff, but I renovated it into my own place.

The roof sags at the eaves, where clematis vines tangle in last year’s twinkle lights, and the painted door glows pink even on cloudy afternoons. A patchwork of mismatched flowerpots lines the steps, all thrift store finds overplanted with succulents, marigolds, and anything else that will survive my haphazard watering.

The cottage’s cooler air hits my skin as I step inside. Marmalade sits in the middle of the living room floor, tail wrapped around his paws, watching me with unnerving focus.

“What did you do?”

He blinks but doesn’t move.

I scan the room for evidence of crimes: knocked-over plants, shredded curtains, mysterious wet spots. Everything looks intact. The colorful rug is still centered under the pink sofa. On the shelf, the trailing pothos hasn’t been murdered. Even the gallery wall of botanical prints remains unmolested.

“You’re being weird,” I tell him.

He walks straight to my feet and winds between my ankles, yowling until I’m certain the neighbors two houses over can hear him auditioning for a feline opera.

“I already fed you.”

He looks up at me, then at the Ouija board tucked under my arm, then back at me.

“You don’t actually want this.”