“My name is Eve Brown,” she said, coming to sit down. More confidence. Good. He circled one of the Os again.
“I’m Eric Montrose,” Mont said. “I run the Rose and Crown over on Friar’s Hill. And my silent friend here is the owner of Castell Cottage, Jacob Wayne.”
Silent? Oh, yeah. That was Jacob right now. He was just taking things in. He had things in his head. Eve Brown, she said her name was, but it seemed so unassuming compared to the lip gloss and the T-shirt and the way all those long, fine braids spilled over her shoulders. Very dramatic, was the spilling. And the wetness of her skin made it look less like skin and more like some kind of precious metal or silk or whatever. Her neck reminded him of a wood pigeon’s breast, that soft sort of curve. But no feathers here, he assumed. Just kind of velvety, the way they looked. He was still circling the O on his notepad. Crap.
Jacob put down his pen and cleared his throat. “Sorry. Autism. I occasionally hyperfocus.”
She nodded and kept her mouth shut. No thrilling stories about her sister’s husband’s cousin’s neighbor’s five-year-old autistic son. Wonderful. Another O.
Jacob made the mark, then got down to business. “Obviously, we weren’t expecting you.”
“No,” she smiled. Again. For what possible reason, Jacob couldn’t say. Perhaps she was trying to be charming? Definitely suspicious. “I was actually just passing through,” she went on, “when I saw the notice on your door.”
Jacob stiffened. Disorganized, unintentional, just passing through. Bad, bad, bad, X, X, X. “Do you often roam the Lakes, passing through random small towns, looking for work?”
“The Lakes?” She blinked, then smiled again. “Is that where we are? Good Lord, I drove quite far.”
Jacob had changed his mind. Her neck did not look like a wood pigeon’s breast. It looked like the rest of her: untrustworthy and highly annoying and possibly on drugs. He was allergic to coke-heads. He had been overexposed during his childhood, and now they made him leery. “You don’t even know where you are?”
Beneath the table, Montrose kicked him again. He followed it up with a glare, which Jacob knew from experience was code for, Tone, man. Eve, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes until they went from wide, innocent, puppy-dog things to flashing slits of night. Then they returned to normal, so fast he wondered if he’d imagined that moment. “I’m afraid not,” she said sweetly. “Or at least, I didn’t know before. Thank goodness you were so chevalier as to tell me.”
Jacob stared, perplexed. Then Mont said, “Er . . . did you mean chivalrous?”
“No,” she replied calmly. “I’m quite certain I meant chevalier. Would you like to hear about my experience now?”
The answer should be no. She was disorganized and unreliable; therefore, Jacob did not want her anywhere near his masterpiece of hospitality. On the other hand, she was clearly cool under pressure and very self-assured, and he appreciated the firm conviction with which she spoke utter nonsense. Conviction was a very important quality. He jotted down another O. Her pros and cons were practically even, although the fact that she had any cons at all should make her an automatic failure.
Jacob opened his mouth to tell her as much, but Mont, the bastard, interjected.
“Sure. Tell us all about it.”
“Do you have a CV?” Jacob demanded, because he wasn’t about to let this process go to the dogs, thanks very much.
“No,” she told him with another one of those sweet little smiles. She really was like a Disney princess, except her clothes were awful and everything that came out of her mouth was wrong. He felt a bit dizzy, which in turn made him more than a bit irritated.
Who in the bloody hell was this woman, anyway, turning up at his B&B with her posh, southern accent, making him draw far too many Xs and Os? He didn’t like her, Jacob decided, his mind snapping into a new direction like a whip. He didn’t like her at all.
“I studied at a pastry school in Paris for, er, a period of time,” she went on, which was the vaguest bullshit he’d ever heard, “and I’m an excellent baker. Really, since this is a practical position, I was hoping I could simply take you to the kitchen and prove my abilities.”
Jacob was frankly appalled. “No. Nope. No. For one thing, practical skill doesn’t cover things like health and safety experience.”
“Oh, but I have all of that,” she said brightly. “I had to, so I could join my friend Alaris’s Mindful Juicing Experience back in 2017. Juice recipe development,” she told them in a conspiratorial tone, “is an underrated form of meditation.”
“Really?” Mont asked.
“Mont,” Jacob said, “why are you responding to this rubbish?”
Eve ignored him, or perhaps she didn’t hear. He’d noticed she was wearing one of those earbud things, peeking through the braids, as if her T-shirt wasn’t offensive enough.
“Oh, yes,” she was saying, her eyes on Mont as she nodded pleasantly. “It does work. My grandmother is a great fan.”
“Hmmm. You know, I’ve been looking for ways to turn the pub into a kind of events hub for the town. Maybe something like that would work. Holding classes, or . . .”
“I’d be happy to discuss it with you,” Eve said. “I could even give you Alaris’s number. She’s a true pioneer.”
Jacob wondered if perhaps, when he had gotten up to pace twenty minutes ago, he had actually tripped and fallen and hit his head and was now in a coma. “Look,” he said sharply, attempting to drag the conversation back into the land of good sense and logic. “I can’t interview you without a CV. You have no references, no solid evidence of education or employment—”
“I studied at St. Albert’s,” she told him, her tone a little colder, “from two thousand—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted. “What I’m trying to say is, applications are still open, and if you’re serious about this, I’m sure you’ll email me your CV as soon as you can get to a computer.” If you’re serious about this. Ha. Clearly, this woman had never been serious about anything in her life.
Which made her exactly the type of person Jacob despised.
She pursed her lips as if he’d demanded something wildly unreasonable, like the deliverance of a magical scroll from the Andes by tomorrow afternoon. “But,” she said, “I don’t have a CV. Or a computer, right now. Actually, I was rather hoping I’d come in here and wow you with my incredible cooking skills, good looks, and general charm, you’d employ me, and I’d have a salary, and a house, and all those lovely things.”
Jacob stared.
Montrose laughed.
Jacob realized that must have been a joke. “Ha. Ha. Hilarious.” Then he remembered that sometimes jokes were kind of true and wondered if she didn’t have a computer because she didn’t have a home, and if she was wandering around looking for jobs because she really needed one.
But she sounded like the queen, and her shoes, he’d noticed, were white Doc Martens with red hearts, probably limited edition and very expensive. If he were homeless, he would sell his expensive shoes. Except, no, he wouldn’t, not if they were warm and waterproof and sturdy and possibly the only pair he had, because that wouldn’t make long-term sense.
“Are you homeless?” he asked.
She blinked rapidly.
“Jacob,” Mont scowled, then looked at Eve. “You don’t need to answer that. Listen, Eve, let me level with you.”
“Oh, God,” Jacob sighed, because Mont leveling with people usually involved a vile amount of needless honesty. People complained Jacob was blunt, but at least he’d figured out when it was polite to lie. (Mostly.)
“Jacob here is knee-deep in the shit,” Mont said cheerfully.
Great. Absolutely brilliant. Jacob’s second-in-command had gone rogue.
Chapter Three
Eve had never had the pleasure of staying at a B&B. In fact, she rarely ever stayed at any sort of hotel—why bother, when Grandpa’s home in Saint Catherine was always open? Her vision of a B&B owner, theref
ore, had been cobbled together from vague ideas and possibly a few books she’d read as a child. Jacob Wayne should, by rights, be an old married couple with a twinkle in their eye who looked upon the world at large with kindness and goodwill and would be happy to hire Eve so that she could start her journey to self-actualization in a job she’d never get too attached to.
Instead, Jacob Wayne was a single man, not much older than her, and the twinkle in his eye was more of a steely, judgmental glint. Or maybe that was just the light flashing off his silver-rimmed glasses. Those glasses were balanced on a strong, Roman nose that someone should probably break, because all his features were strong and Roman and that likely had something to do with how he’d become so arrogant. The man was disgustingly, inescapably, thoroughly handsome, and as Gigi often said, A handsome man is a fearsome liability to everyone but himself.
Jacob had high cheekbones and a hard, sharp jaw, a terminally unsmiling mouth, pale skin, and rainy-sky eyes that had speared Eve through the chest from the moment she’d entered the room. Everything about him, from his severely side-parted blond hair, to his blue button-down shirt with its crisply rolled-up sleeves, suggested brisk efficiency. Even the way he talked, staccato bursts that zipped from point to point, said he was irritated by the irrelevant chatter the rest of the world wasted its time on.
Most of all, he seemed irritated by Eve.
Which was, frankly, his loss. Eve was an absolute delight, everyone knew that—yet it was abundantly clear that Jacob believed himself to be better than her. And perhaps, in certain respects, he might be right . . . but she wasn’t overly fond of people who made judgments like that without the proper evidence. She wasn’t fond of them at all.
Honestly, she barely wanted to work here anyway. In fact, what she wanted to do with Jacob sneering Wayne, after just ten minutes of acquaintance, was conk him on the head with a saucepan.
But watching a scarlet flush creep up his chiseled cheeks was also enjoyable, and since that’s what happened when Mont said, Jacob here is knee-deep in the shit, Eve decided to listen instead of storming off.
“Jacob’s last chef won the lotto down at the corner shop last week,” Mont went on. “Fifty grand, so she’s jacked work in and moved back to Scotland to marry her fella—long distance, they were—and start her own business.”
Eve arched a dubious eyebrow. “Well, that’s nice for her. But I doubt she’ll get far with fifty thousand.”
“That’s what I said,” Jacob burst out. “What’s a house deposit without a guaranteed income to pay the mortgage?” He frowned and snapped his mouth shut as soon as the words escaped, looking thoroughly displeased at having agreed with Eve on any level.
Of course, Eve hadn’t realized fifty thousand pounds was a house deposit. What she’d meant was that fifty thousand pounds hadn’t been even half of the budget of the wedding she’d planned for Cecelia. But she decided to keep that minor detail to herself.
You waste time and opportunities like—like a spoiled brat.
She pursed her lips and turned away from Jacob’s sharp, clear energy, focusing on Mont, who was considerably less unsettling in every way. Oh, he was as handsome as Jacob, with his smiling mouth, dark skin, and warm eyes—but he didn’t vibrate with iron control and never-ending judgment, which made him far easier to look at. “Please,” she said politely, “do continue.”
Mont smiled a little wider. Jacob, meanwhile, narrowed those frosty eyes of his. Not that Eve was looking.
“Point is,” Montrose went on, “the chef’s gone, and Jacob doesn’t know how to boil an egg.”
“Yes,” Jacob growled, “I do.”
“Correction: Jacob was cursed by a witch at birth, so no matter how carefully he follows a recipe, it always comes out like shit.”
Jacob opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, then closed it again as if, on second thought, he really couldn’t. Eve was suddenly glad she’d stayed; though she had no intention of taking this job, hearing all about Jacob’s problems was rather entertaining.
“Plus,” Mont said, “it’s the Gingerbread Festival over in Pemberton at the end of the month.” He must have seen Eve’s expression, because he explained: “Old-school gingerbread bakery with a bit of a cult following. You should try some, it’s bloody good. Anyway, they have this annual foodie event and Castell Cottage is running a breakfast-for-dinner stall.”
Eve hadn’t realized that breakfast for dinner was a legitimate thing, as opposed to evidence of her own chaotic lifestyle, but she decided to take this new knowledge in stride. “So they chose your B&B—”
“My B&B,” Jacob interrupted. God, what a prat.
“This B&B,” Eve went on smoothly—she was rather proud of herself—“to lead such an important event, despite your not even having a chef?”
Jacob’s jaw tensed and his cold eyes flashed with irritation, which was rather fun to see. It was rare that Eve’s natural skill at annoyance gave her such satisfaction. “We did have a chef when I secured the opportunity,” he corrected her. “An excellent one.”
“Also,” Mont cut in, “there are multiple food stalls, all with different themes and providers. Pemberton Gingerbread is a bit of a patron for local business, like in the olden days with kings and . . . harp players. Or whatever.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Point is, tourists come from all over the place, so it’s an unmissable chance to reach new customers. Plus, there’s always press. Jacob wants it to go well. Badly. But, as you pointed out, it kind of requires a chef.”
Eve assumed that last part was the understatement to end all understatements.
“Suffice to say, we really can’t afford to be picky at the moment. So here’s what I think: let’s go to the kitchen right now—”
Jacob’s head whipped around as he glared at his friend. “What are you doing?”
Somehow, Montrose ignored the rigid command of that tone. In fact, he ignored it with a smile. “You show us what you can do, Eve, and if you’re good—”
“Mont, no.”
“If you’re good,” Mont continued firmly, “maybe Jacob will get his head out of his arse and take you seriously.”
“I bloody won’t,” snapped the man in question.
Her patience snapping, too, Eve produced her sweetest smile. “You won’t get your head out of your arse? Aren’t you concerned about potential suffocation?”
A muscle began to tick at his jaw. “I—you—that is not—” Jacob cut off his own spluttering with a sharp inhalation. In an instant, he went from flustered irritation to rigid disdain, his gaze drilling into her.
For some reason, Eve’s breath hitched a little. As if that harsh focus was something other than rude and alienating. Which it was not.
Jacob said, steel braided through every word, “I’m sorry, Ms. Brown, but my friend is mistaken. It’s clear to me, based on this interview, that the two of us would not suit.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Eve said calmly, and she had the great satisfaction of making Jacob Wayne look like he’d swallowed a wasp. She rose to her feet and said to Mont, “It was absolutely wonderful to meet you. Perhaps I’ll loiter around a certain pub this evening. Where did you say it was?”
Mont had been shooting Jacob some serious side-eye, which was rather enjoyable, but now he turned his attention to Eve and gave her the sort of charming and indulgent smile she should always be treated to. “Friar’s Hill, sweetheart. You come and see me. Don’t worry,” he added darkly with another glare at his friend, “Jacob won’t be there.”
Eve beamed. “I can’t wait to talk . . . juice.”
Jacob threw up his hands, clearly disgusted. “Are you flirting with her?” he demanded of Mont.
“Of course he is,” Eve said pleasantly. “I’m delicious.” She turned on her heel and sailed out of the room, tossing a look at Mont over her shoulder in the doorway. Call me, she mouthed with an ostentatious wink.
“We don’t even have your bloody contact details!” Jacob yelled after h
er.
“Darling,” she replied, “if you wanted them so badly, you should’ve asked.”
Eve was fairly sure she heard a volcanic boom from the dining room as she left. Which kept a smile on her face for . . . precisely as long as it took to reach her car and realize she’d found the perfect opportunity to prove herself to her parents and had immediately, childishly, recklessly fucked it up.
At which point, every drop of her satisfaction went right down the drain.
* * *
The minute Eve shut the door behind her, Mont turned to Jacob and demanded, “What the bloody hell was that?”
“You’re asking me? That whole interview was betrayal, Mont. Rank and utter betrayal. Guillotine-worthy. What were you doing, you sack of shit? Bending over backward for that—that chaos demon.”
“You mean the woman who could have saved your arse,” Mont corrected. “She was perfect!”
“She was unprepared, unprofessional—”
“Because you were such a shining star, there,” Mont said. “I bet you know her fucking bra size.”
“I was reading the bloody T-shirt,” Jacob roared.
“You were acting bonkers, is what you were doing. I’ve never seen you . . .” Mont trailed off and narrowed his eyes.
“What?” Jacob demanded. He hated trailing off. Hated unfinished sentences. Hated ominous ellipses that other people could mentally finish, but that left him utterly in the dark.
Mont continued to look weirdly suspicious. “I have never seen you speak so much to a complete stranger.”
Heat crept over the back of Jacob’s neck, prickled at the bends of his elbows. “I lost my temper. You know better than anyone how talkative that makes me.” But the truth was, Mont made a valid point. Jacob didn’t typically waste so much of his breath on interacting with untried strangers, because 90 percent of humanity was eventually proved useless and/or infuriating without any exertion on his part. He suspected Eve Brown was both, but he’d exerted himself for her, anyway, and behaved quite badly, too.
He must be at the end of his tether.
Mont shrugged and shook his head. “Whatever. Look, I know you didn’t like her, but just think for a second. She was charming as fuck, which is something the B&B needs that you don’t provide—I’m sorry, man, no judgment, but you don’t.”
Act Your Age, Eve Brown Page 3
