17. Chapter 17
Evie
My mother stands in the kitchen doorway, a cardigan draped over her shoulders and a grocery tote hanging from her arm. Her hazel eyes, so much like my own, widen at the sight of us.
“Mom.”
“Evie, sweetheart.” She steps fully into the kitchen, attention bouncing between me and Milo, who’s still kneeling at my feet with a face the color of a ripe strawberry. “Doctor Devereaux said you were fine, but I needed to see for myself. And apparently, I should’ve called first.”
Heat floods my face. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Really?” Mom tilts her head. “Because from where I’m standing, you have a very cute guy on his knees in your kitchen. Which, for the record, is exactly the kind of thing a mother dreams about walking in on.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
Milo scrambles upright so fast the ice pack slips from his grip and hits the tile with a wet smack.
“Milo.” He thrusts out his free hand, realizes it’s damp from the cold compress, yanks it back, wipes it on his jacket, and extends it again. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She laughs, delighted. “Oh, honey, no. That makes me sound ancient. Just Rose.”
“Rose. Sorry.” His flush deepens as he looks at me, desperate for help.
“Don’t apologize. Polite is good.” She turns to me with barely suppressed glee. “Where have you been hiding him?”
“I haven’t been hiding anyone.”
“Then why is this the first I’m hearing about him?” She sets the grocery bag on the counter with a decisive thud. “I brought food. Figured you wouldn’t want to cook.”
Relief loosens the knot between my shoulder blades. “Thanks. That’s really helpful.”
“Of course. That’s what moms do.” She glances at Milo. “So you and Evie . . .”
Panic spikes through me, and I glance at him to find the same desperation reflected in his pale eyes.
“We’re friends,” I blurt out. “Thanks for coming by, but it’s a sprained ankle. There was absolutely no reason for Doctor Devereaux to call you.”
She scoffs. “He said I should check on you. Make sure you were doing okay.”
“Of course he did,” Milo says under his breath.
“There’s zero reason for anyone to check in on me,” I press on. “Iced, wrapped, elevated. I’m doing exactly what I was told.”
“That would be a first.” She’s already putting the groceries away, opening my fridge like it belongs to her.
“I was thinking . . . My schedule at the bookstore is practically empty this week. I could come by in the mornings. Help you with breakfast, the rooms, whatever needs doing.” She faces me, leaning her hip against the counter.
“We never get to spend proper time together, Evie. It would be nice.”
The vision forms in my mind with horrifying clarity.
Mom humming off-key in my kitchen each morning, substituting cinnamon for nutmeg because “it feels right,” leaving cabinet doors hanging open.
Twenty-minute conversations with guests while muffins transform from golden-brown to charcoal.
Tasks half-finished. The oven still running because a guest mentioned a book she’s been meaning to read, and she forgot she was in the middle of something.
My mother is sunshine in human form, but also a wrecking ball. I love her dearly, but she can’t be here for two weeks.
“So sweet of you, Mom. But I’ve got it under control.”
“How? You can barely walk.”
“I was going to ask Daisy.”
The laugh that erupts from my mother is so sudden and loud that Milo startles beside me.
“Daisy,” she repeats.
“Why is that so funny?”
“Because I was there when your sister tried to help you prep the guest rooms for the summer rush.” Mom wipes beneath her eye, smudging her mascara. “She made one bed, and you remade it before she even left the room.”
“The corners were wrong.”
“Then she tried to clean the bathroom and used dish soap in the toilet.”
“She said the bottle looked similar.”
“And you stood in the doorway, watched her do it, and didn’t say a word. Then, the second she went downstairs, you redid the whole bathroom yourself.”
I open my mouth to defend my sister—or maybe myself—but nothing comes out.
“I love my girls.” Mom shakes her head. “But the two of you collaborating on anything with a system and a deadline is a hostage negotiation. You’d have her on a color-coded schedule within the first hour.
She’d tell you you’re being controlling.
You’d tell her she’s being careless. By lunch, one of you would be stress-texting me and the other would be crying. ”
The escape routes are gone. Mom is gravitating toward the chair across from me.
Any second now she’s going to sit, and once she sits, she roots.
She’ll be here through dinner and back tomorrow morning, rearranging my spice rack according to some system only she understands.
My carefully constructed routine will be obliterated.
My gaze cuts to Milo. He’s stationed by the refrigerator, hands deep in his pockets.
“I already have help, Mom.”
My brain catches up too late.
“You do?”
“Milo.” I gesture toward him. “He’s helping me with the inn.”
His eyes widen. “I am?”
“He is?” Mom’s gaze swings between us. “Because he doesn’t sound sure.”
“He’s modest.” The word tastes absurd. “Everyone’s been on my case about hiring help. So I finally did it.”
Milo opens his mouth, and I shoot him a look that could curdle milk. He closes it.
“Since when?”
“Recently.”
“How recently?”
“Does the exact timeline matter?” I counter. “The help exists. That’s the relevant information.”
Mom turns to Milo with the slow, thorough appraisal that has terrified every boy I’ve ever brought home. “Do you have experience in this line of work?”
He swallows. “I’m happy to help with anything Evie needs.”
Mom’s eyebrows inch higher. “So where is Milo staying while he’s working here?”
The question floats toward me like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
“Here.”
“Here?” Mom’s eyebrows climb past her hairline and keep going. They are now in orbit. “But I thought all the guest rooms were booked?”
“He’s staying on my couch.” It’s the only plausible answer. “Completely professional arrangement. I’m in my room, there’s a hallway, and a closed door, and several pieces of furniture between us at all times.”
“Oh, that’s perfect!” Mom beams at Milo.
“There’s nothing happening beyond a professional arrangement.” The more I say it, the less convincing it sounds.
“I haven’t suggested otherwise.” She’s collecting her purse now, the leather strap sliding over her wrist. “Okay, I’ll leave you two to your very platonic work schedule.”
I hop toward the door on my good foot, the movement jarring my injured ankle. “Yeah, we have a lot of work to do. Guest rooms to prep. Schedules to figure out. Very busy.”
Mom’s grin turns knowing, the same expression she wore when I insisted my high school lab partner was “just a friend” right before he asked me to prom. “Oh, I bet you’re busy.”
“Oh my God.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.” She’s laughing now, clearly enjoying my suffering. “Take care of that ankle, honey. And Milo?” She touches his arm and his eyes widen at the contact. “Make sure she actually rests. She’s terrible at that.”
“I will,” he promises, looking earnest and slightly terrified.
“Good.” She pats his arm once more. “You seem like a nice guy.”
“Mom, please leave.”
“I’m leaving! Geez.” She blows me a kiss. “Love you, honey. Use protection.”
“MOM!”
Her laughter echoes down the hallway as the door swings shut.
I stand there, mortified beyond reason, until I realize Milo is staring at me with wide eyes. His cheeks are flushed pink.
“She’s . . .” He trails off, searching for words.
“A lot,” I finish. “She’s a lot.”
The silence after she leaves is worse than the one she interrupted. Five minutes ago, I explicitly refused to let this demon live in my house. Now he’s apparently my new live-in employee.
“You said no,” Milo says carefully. “Before she came in.”
“I remember.”
“And then you told your mother I was hired.”
“Yes.”
“So which one is it?”
I lower myself back into the chair, careful with the ankle, and level him with the most direct stare I can manage.
“My mother would burn this inn to the ground with love and good intentions. My sister would last half a day before we stopped speaking. I can’t hire a stranger on zero notice in a town this small. And I . . .”
Nothing comes out.
I don’t cry in front of people. Tears belong in locked bathrooms with the faucet running, in my car in the parking lot, or at two in the morning when the only witness is a cat who couldn’t care less.
But I open my mouth to finish the sentence, and instead I’m crying at my kitchen table in front of a demon.
“I need a minute.” I barely get the words out. “Could you just go stand somewhere else?”
“Where?”
“I don’t care. Another room. The hallway. Canada.”
He takes one step backward and collides with the counter. A wooden spoon rattles in the ceramic holder. He shifts his weight to his other foot and stares at the kitchen floor, but he doesn’t leave.
I scrub at my face with my wrist, furious, which only seems to make the tears come faster. Apparently, my body has been stockpiling them for years and decided today is the liquidation sale.
“I can’t do it alone.” The admission hurts more than I expected.
“At least not with an injury. There’s no plan for this, and there is always a plan.
I have plans for my plans. I have a contingency binder in my office with laminated tabs, and right now none of it matters because I can’t stand up long enough to crack an egg. ”
Milo says nothing. He’s so obviously trying not to say anything that the effort is practically audible.
“You can talk,” I mutter, grinding the back of my hand across my cheek.
“Let me help.” He looks up at me.
“You need my soul. Let’s not pretend that’s left the equation.”
“It hasn’t.” His voice drops. “I have twenty-nine days and something ugly waiting at the end of them if I fail this. Every logical impulse I have is telling me to push right now while your defenses are down.”
That’s not exactly comforting. At least he’s honest about it.
“So why aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out, and I have nothing. It feels wrong. You’re . . .” He stops himself. “I’ll figure out my deadline on my own time, not at your expense.”
I stare at him through swollen eyes. “That’s monumentally stupid.”
“Fully aware.”
My breathing has steadied without my permission. The tears are still coming, but at least I can talk around them now.
“You sleep on the couch,” I say flatly. “You touch nothing in this kitchen without my explicit permission. We start at five-thirty tomorrow, and if you make even one comment about what just happened at any point in the future, I will discover what salt does to demon skin firsthand.”
“Understood.”
“Stop looking at me.”
He redirects his gaze back to the tile so fast his glasses slide down his nose.
“And no using influence, persuasion, or demonic tricks on me.”
His brow furrows. “I’d never do that to you.”
The certainty in his answer disarms me for a second before I reach for the next rule.
“If I say it’s over, you respect that.”
“Without question.”
I study his face for a catch and find nothing. “We have a deal.”
Milo’s lips part, but he doesn’t answer right away.
“So how do we . . .” I gesture vaguely. “Do demons shake on it?”
“Usually, a verbal agreement is sufficient.”
“Usually?”
His fading flush comes roaring back. “There are other, more traditional methods.”
“Such as?”
“It’s not . . . it doesn’t apply here.”
“Milo.”
“Some bargains are sealed with a kiss.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
“Not that this one . . . I’m not suggesting . . . verbal is fine. Verbal is completely adequate.”
“A kiss?”
“Please stop saying it.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“You asked!”
“And you could’ve stopped at a verbal agreement!”
“I panicked!”
We stare at each other across the kitchen, both flushed, breathing harder than the conversation warrants. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, and for a moment the embarrassment gives way to unmistakable interest.
Milo’s eyes drop to my mouth, then lift again, his pupils blown wide.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I tell him.
“I won’t.”
He can’t outright lie. I know that now. Which means he meant that promise when he made it, and the relief I feel is a problem I’m not equipped to solve today. Because the most dangerous thing about Milo isn’t that he might be lying.
It’s that he might not be.