Page 67 of Just One Little Bargain

Right. Work. The actual reason I’m here.

“Okay.”

She hobbles toward the couch and stops, staring at the pillow mountain with a resigned expression. Her teeth catch her bottom lip.

I start grabbing pillows before she can argue, tossing them onto the floor in a haphazard pile.

“Hey!” She straightens. “What are you doing?”

“Making it possible for you to sit down.” I scoop up three more. “Unless you’d prefer the floor? Which seems inadvisable given your ankle situation.”

“I was going to move them myself.”

“Sure. And by the time you finished, it would be morning, and we’d be behind on your schedule.”

She huffs out a breath. “You have a point there.”

I clear the last few, including one shaped like a fox that I hold up with raised brows. She snatches it from my hands.

“That one stays.”

I point to the now-visible couch. “See? Much better.”

Evie rolls her eyes, but the gesture loses some bite when she lowers herself down, propping her injured ankle on the coffee table.

I sit on the opposite end, leaving space between us that feels both necessary and unfortunate. The fox pillow sits in the gap like a fuzzy, judgmental chaperone.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and swipes through screens, her brow furrowed in concentration. The light from the screen turns her features pale blue, sharpening the angles of her cheekbones.

“I’ll need to prep breakfast ingredients tonight so everything’s ready to cook in the morning. Muffins should be baked fresh, so that’s the first thing. Casserole goes in the oven at six.” She pauses, shaking her head. “Actually, no casserole. I’ll do muffins and fruit. Keep it simple.”

She hates this. It’s there in the rigid line of her shoulders and the way her thumb presses too hard against the screen.

“Okay,” I say. “Simplified menu. What else?”

She returns to scrolling, faster now, each swipe more aggressive than the last. “You’ll handle the rooms. I’ll walk you through the cleaning protocols before guests arrive. There’s a specific order. Bathroom first, then dusting, then vacuuming, then a final check. Towels get folded in a certain way. Sheets have to be hospital corners.”

“Hospital corners?”

“I’ll show you tomorrow.” She’s typing notes. “I need you to help with heavy lifting too. Moving furniture when I vacuum behind things, hauling trash bins, restocking supplies from the storage room. Guest interactions should be friendly but professional. Don’t overshare personal information. I’ll have my phone on me so guests can reach me if needed. I always check on them during the evenings, but that’s obviously not happening tonight.”

“I could do it,” I offer.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you with that.” Her flush deepens. “I mean . . . that came out wrong. I just meant—”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it sounded rude.” She presses her palms against her face and groans into them. “But I don’t know if you’d know what to say or how to handle questions or—”

“Evie, it’s fine. I understand.”

She’s still rambling about proper check-in procedures—room keys, welcome packets, the specific temperature she keeps the front hall—when I lean forward.

“Do you have a notepad?”