18. Chapter 18
Milo
Evie makes it three steps into her cottage before she starts barking orders at me.
“Shoes off.”
Not welcome to my home or make yourself comfortable. Just an immediate directive delivered over her shoulder as she limps down the hallway like a tiny, injured drill sergeant commanding a battalion of one.
Fine. I can follow instructions.
I toe off my boots and set them beside hers.
Her shoes line the wall in a neat row, each pair spaced with what I suspect is an exact, measured gap.
The corridor stretches ahead, hardwood floors gleaming beneath our feet.
Glass decorations hanging along the walls catch the light and scatter little prisms across the paint as we pass.
The first thing I notice about Evie’s living room is that her couch is drowning in an ocean of throw pillows. Florals, geometric shapes, and solid colors compete for space, but somehow the couch gets away with it. Apparently, Evie’s decorating philosophy was to choose everything.
“You’re staring.”
“Because it’s a lot to process.” I gesture at the pillow situation. “How do you even sit on that thing?”
“I remove them first.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“That seems exhausting.”
Her chin lifts. “It’s called aesthetic.”
“It’s called excessive.”
She opens her mouth, probably to eviscerate me, but I’ve already wandered toward the bookshelf along the far wall. I crouch beside it. The books form a perfect gradient. Orange fades into coral, then pink, periwinkle, and deep blue. Every spine is aligned, every edge flush.
Except one.
Tucked between two pristine coral paperbacks, a single book sits with its spine so creased that the title is barely legible.
The cover is warped from being held open too many times, pages fanned and yellowed at the edges.
She shelved it in the correct color position, kept it inside the system, but she’s read this thing to death.
“Are you judging my books?” she asks from behind me.
I pull my hand back from where it had drifted near the worn spine. “No. I’m impressed.”
“By what?”
“The commitment.” I nod toward the rainbow shelf. “This took effort.”
“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or being serious.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Pink creeps up her neck, blooming past the collar of her shirt, and she looks away fast.
“It’s just a room.”
“Everything in here says something about you.”
“Please don’t psychoanalyze my decor.”
“I’m not.” I look around again, taking in the details.
Books are stacked on the coffee table with spines aligned to the millimeter.
A throw blanket is folded in perfect thirds over the couch arm.
Every plant sits in its designated spot, each leaf angled toward the light. “You like things organized.”
“Most people do.”
“Not like this.” I nod toward the one book that broke ranks. “You also keep the things that matter to you close. Even when they don’t fit perfectly.”
Evie shifts her weight and winces. “Can we not do the part where you narrate my personality based on my interior?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s weird.”
“I think it’s interesting.” I straighten and turn to face her, cutting the distance between us in half. “You’re interesting.”
She drops her arms and immediately crosses them again. “We should probably talk about tomorrow.”
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?”
She stops mid-sentence. “What?”
“A notepad,” I repeat. “So I can write all this down. Because you’ve given me approximately forty-seven instructions in the last ninety seconds.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“I’m not.” I meet her eyes. “I want to make sure I get it right.”
Her mouth falls open. “You actually want to take notes?”
“Yes.”
She stares at me, then reaches into the coffee table drawer, pulls out a notebook and pen, and tosses them to me. The pen bounces off my chest and I fumble it.
Forty-five minutes later, my hand cramps, and I’ve filled eight pages with obsessively detailed notes.
Evie leans sideways to look and her shoulder grazes mine. I lose my place mid-sentence.
“Most people would just nod and figure it out as they go.” She scans the pages.
“Most people haven’t been threatened with exile for underperformance.
” I flip back through the notes, reviewing the cleaning sequence I’ve outlined with bullet points, sub-bullets, and, on page four, a small diagram of the linen closet that I’m quite proud of.
“Also, I retain information better on paper.”
We sit in silence until Marmalade appears from somewhere down the hallway. He surveys the room, identifies me as the most promising source of attention, and crosses the floor in a direct line.
“He bites,” Evie says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I hold out my hand anyway and he sniffs my fingers. Instead of the threatened bite, he gives my finger one rough lick and jumps onto the cushion.
Evie stares at us. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?”
“I feed him. I clean his litter. I tolerate the hairballs—and let me tell you, no amount of emotional preparation makes a hairball on your pillow acceptable. I’m sitting here, injured, in pain, and radiating sympathy-worthy energy.” She gestures at her propped ankle. “And he picks you.”
Marmalade ignores her, tucking his head under my palm in a clear demand for attention. I comply, scratching behind his ears.
“He’s showing good judgment.”
“He’s showing terrible judgment. I’m the one with food.”
“Maybe he values personality over meal provision.”
Her eyes narrow, but she’s fighting a smile. “You’re very smug about this.”
Marmalade has now melted into a boneless puddle against my leg. “It’s not my fault I’m irresistible to cats.”
“Just cats?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Or do you have this effect on anyone with questionable judgment?”
Her cheeks go pink when she catches up to what she just said.
“That didn’t come out right.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Obviously I meant . . . it was a joke . . . you’re . . .” Her fingers twist the hem of her sleeve into a knot. “Forget I said anything.”
“Too late.” A reckless impulse urges me to push this further.
She clears her throat. “I should set up the couch for you.”
“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.
Whatever’s on my face must be more transparent than I’d like, because Evie pauses and looks me over. Whatever she notices, she keeps to herself.
“New toothbrushes are under the sink,” she says. “Take whichever.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“And I’m guessing the commute from Hell doesn’t include a checked bag.”
I almost laugh. “Not standard, no.”
“Hang on.” She’s already limping toward a closet, bad ankle and all. She reappears less than a minute later with a folded stack tucked under her arm. “Lost-and-found bin. Guests leave clothes constantly. These are clean.”
“Evie, you don’t have to—”
“Already done.” She smooths the top of the heap once. “Shower’s all yours.”
I stand there holding clothes and a stack of feelings I’ve got no idea what to do with. There’s no category for someone noticing a problem I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud, then fixing it without making me ask. I’m starting to think Evie does that a lot.
Which is a problem for a demon who’s supposed to take her soul.
Evie moves toward the kitchen, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. My attention catches on her waist, right where I held her.
I’ve been alive for three decades and not once—not fucking once—have I felt this kind of pull toward anyone. This bone-deep need to close the distance. To put my hands back where they were and see if she lets me keep them there.