Page 69 of Just One Little Bargain

“Tell me where the bedding is and I’ll do it.”

“Hallway closet, second shelf.” But she’s already fighting her way upright. “I’ll show you.”

“You’ll sit down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Someone apparently needs to.”

She scoffs and hobbles after me anyway. I find the closet and grab an armful of blankets and pillows. When I turn around, she’s standing behind me with her hands out, ready to take half the pile.

“I can manage,” she says.

“So can I.”

“It’s my couch.”

“And you’re injured. Sit.”

“Stop bossing me around.”

“Stop being stubborn.”

We glare at each other across the pile of bedding. She has to tip her chin up to deliver the full effect, otherwise she’d be glaring directly at my collarbone.

Evie snatches the quilt from my arms with a sharp tug, shifting too much weight onto her right foot. The ankle buckles. She makes a tiny sound, and my hands are around her waist before I’ve consciously decided to move.

Her body tenses in my arms, and suddenly she’s close enough that I catch cinnamon, vanilla, and the faint sweetness of brown sugar on her skin.

“Careful.” My fingers press into her hip.

“I’m fine,” but she doesn’t pull away immediately.

We stand there in the amber glow of the lamp, the blanket pooled between us on the floor. My thumbs shift against her hips. She goes very still.

I let go, and she steadies herself against the wall.

We shake out the blanket together in silence, each holding opposite ends. The fabric ripples, releasing the scent of lavender and cedar from the folds. She moves to lay it across the cushions and I mirror her. When we smooth out the last wrinkle, our fingertips meet over the faded cotton. She pulls back first.

“Pillows.” Her voice is breathier than it was a minute ago.

I grab one and hold it out, and she takes it with exaggerated care, fingers curling around the far edge to maintain maximum distance from mine. She positions it at the end of the couch and adjusts it twice, stepping back to evaluate.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“I want it to be comfortable.”

“It’s a couch pillow. It’s inherently comfortable.”

“You don’t know that.” She fluffs it one more time, punching it into shape. “I want to make sure you’re . . . that it’s adequate.”

“It will be fine.”

“I should heat up dinner.” She’s already moving. “You can shower. If you want.”

“Sounds good.”

Cool. Great. Love to do that. Except for the minor detail that everything I own in the mortal realm is currently on my body, and I’m standing in this woman’s hallway trying to figure out how to explain that without sounding pathetic.