Page 97 of Just One Little Bargain

I’ve watched them long enough to know his standards aren’t about doubting her. Rick loves his daughter so much it scares him half to death, but he has no language for that kind of fear. So it comes out as standards, proof, toughness about the bar. If he gives the place to her outright, he has to admit there will come a day when it stands without him. Maddie hears him doubting her. I hear a father terrified of letting go. They’re both right, in their way.

She climbs out, taps the roof twice, and vanishes through the front door without a backward glance. Rick waits for her light to come on before he shifts into drive.

The heater and the gentle rocking of the truck conspire against me. I let my eyes close.

Wanting Milo hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s worse in the dark, with nothing left to distract me from the persistent, maddening ache between my thighs that won’t quiet down. There’s still that inexplicable tug behind my sternum, pulling me toward home, toward him.

When he leaves, whatever strange, electric fixation my body has developed will fade with him.

So maybe that’s the answer.

I could stop circling the thought, go to him, and ask for exactly what I want.

When I stir, Daisy is unbuckling beside me, the engine idling outside her apartment.

“She lives.” My sister presses a kiss to my temple. “Text me when you’re home.”

“I will.”

“Come sit up front,” Rick says. “You’ll only nod off again back there, and I’m too old to carry you in.”

I laugh and do as I’m told, fumbling with the handle and dropping into the seat. He waits until my belt clicks before he pulls away.

“That back gutter still dripping on the porch?” he asks after a while.

“It’s fine, Rick.”

“That’s a yes, then.” He grunts. “I’ll come by after the festival to look at it.”

I open my mouth to launch the usual protest: that I’ve got it, that I’ll call someone, that he doesn’t need to come all the way over—but Rick doesn’t wait to be invited. He turns up with a ladder, more confidence than skill, and fixes the thing while I’m still coming up with reasons he shouldn’t. He’s a genuinely mediocre handyman, if I’m honest, and I quietly redo about a third of his repairs later, though I’ve never said a word.

“Thanks,” I say instead.

A mile of unlit road unspools before Rick clears his throat.

“That man outside the restaurant . . .” His eyes stay on the windshield. “The one who had you girls all lit up in the parking lot. Who was he?”

“A writer for a magazine.” Saying it makes the possibility feel more real. “He might want to do a feature on the Foxglove.” I twist the strap of my bag around one finger. “That’s the sort of thing I’ve wanted for years. Honestly, it feels too good to trust.”

“It’s happening, though?”

“Maybe. He hasn’t promised anything. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself.”

“You earned this. You’ve poured more into that place than most people put into anything. Same as Maddie with the bar. You two are alike, you know. Don’t stop till it’s right, then can’t take a compliment when it is.”

We ride the rest of the way without talking, too comfortable after all these years to fill every quiet stretch. The inn appears through the windshield, porch light glowing gold. I gather my bag.

“Get inside; it’s cold.” He tips his chin at the cottage. “And Evie. Call that magazine fella.”

I wave and fumble for my keys.

Chapter 27

Milo

The list is two pages long, front and back, written in Evie’s handwriting, which manages to be both precise and slightly unhinged. Bullet points, sub-bullets, margin notes, and a small drawing of a mug, with an arrow pointing to it that says, this one has a chip; don’t give it to guests.

She fought me about leaving. Or rather, I fought her with arguments so flimsy she dismantled them before I finished constructing them. I lost, which was the correct outcome, because I couldn’t tell her the truth underneath it: I didn’t want the distance. Being exactly what she asked me to be—helpful, pleasant, and safely at arm’s length—has worn a groove in me I don’t know how to fill.