“Yes, you have a concussion,” she replied, “but you were a prick to me even before that event, so I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
Jacob’s jaw dropped. Pettily, she enjoyed the sight.
“Now, shut up about it,” she finished, slapping his breakfast onto a plate. Funny, how she’d made all this food without really noticing. Arguing with him had worked wonders for her nerves. “Here’s the plan. Since your wrist is broken and your arse is also broken—”
“I’ll give you this,” he muttered, “at least you’re thorough when you run a man over.”
Eve valiantly ignored him. Or was it Valium-ly? “—you can’t sit at a table and you can’t hold your own plate.”
“I can hold my own plate, genius,” he said, waving his left hand.
“And can you also feed yourself, genius?”
He glared. “It’s very irritating when you say logical, intelligent things. Stop it. Now.”
Ridiculous, to take such sideways words as a compliment. It was just—well. Eve’s sisters were smart. They passed exams and built careers and did incredible things with computers or peer-reviewed research. Eve failed exams, attended drama school, failed that, too, and mixed up all her words because focusing on conversations was beyond her. Family never called her stupid, and her friends only ever implied it—but intelligent wasn’t a word she often heard directed at herself.
Jacob cocked his head, watching her steadily. “You keep zoning out of this conversation. Have you suffered a blow to the head too, or do you find me that boring?”
“You are the exact opposite of boring,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
Jacob blinked, and she had the pleasure of seeing him look genuinely at a loss for the first time since they’d met. “Oh. Erm . . .” He cleared his throat. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Right. Well. That’s true.”
Eve shoved the plate of breakfast at him, pleased when he took it reflexively with his good hand. “This’ll probably be cold after all the babbling we’ve done.”
“Excuse me,” he said severely, “I don’t babble.”
“I am ignoring you and your smartarse interruptions,” she replied, “because they do not deserve acknowledgment. As I was saying—”
“You do realize that claiming you won’t acknowledge something is an acknowledgment in itself.”
You already injured him yesterday, Eve. At least let him recover before you beat him over the head. “As I was saying, here is the plan. You hold the plate, and I,” she murmured, fighting a smile as she picked up his fork, “will feed you.”
He reacted just as wonderfully as Eve had expected. Which is to say, his eyes widened with comical horror, that vicious mouth fell into a rather satisfying O, and more strawberry ice cream crept up his pale cheeks—the outraged kind, this time, which had a sort of raspberry tinge.
“Feed me?” he sputtered.
Eve couldn’t hold back her smile anymore. It spread evilly across her face. A snicker might have escaped, too. “That is what I said.”
“Are you taking the piss? I’m not having you feed me. That is unnecessary—”
“Do you have another solution, then?”
“—and completely inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?” Eve blinked, taken aback for a moment. “Oh—you don’t mean to say you’re sensitive about the idea of me shoving a sausage down your throat?”
To her surprise, instead of scoffing at her admittedly risqué joke, Jacob simply blushed harder. “Do you ever shut up?” he muttered.
“Do you?”
“Of course. When I’m alone,” he said, “which I seriously wish I was right now.”
“But then how would you eat my delicious test breakfast?”
“Oh, fuck off. I told you about the logic and the intelligence and the making points. It unsettles me. Stop.”
Eve didn’t mean to grin. It just . . . happened.
“How about this,” Jacob said after a moment. “You hold my plate, and I feed myself.”
“I had considered that,” she said.
“And disregarded it because?”
“Because feeding is a dominant action. A helpful action. An action that inf—infant . . .” Oh dear. There was nothing worse than confusing her words when she was trying to be badass.
She waited for Jacob to pounce on her stutter, but all he did was sigh and drawl acidly, “I’m assuming you are searching for the word infantilize.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Eve brightened. Let the badassery continue. “Feeding is an action that infantilizes you. Whereas holding something, like a table, is servile, and I am not servile.”
Jacob stared. “First of all, you think like a wolf under all that pastel hair.”
Said the wolf himself.
“And second of all, you literally work for me. You should be servile.”
“I thought I didn’t work for you yet?”
“Well, you’re trying to,” he snapped. “Embrace servility in your soul, and maybe I’ll hire you.”
“Do you often encourage servility in the souls of the black women around you?”
“Do I—the—” He shut his mouth with a click and glared. “Again. You think like a wolf.”
“Thank you. Now open up for the choo-choo train.”
“Murder,” Jacob murmured. “I am going to commit a murder.” But to Eve’s surprise, when she stabbed some egg and a chunk of sausage onto the fork, Jacob opened his mouth and took it.
He really . . . really . . . took it.
She found herself dazed by the sight of Jacob Wayne, usually all frost and superior self-control, parting those fine lips for her. His teeth were so white and his tongue was so pink. Those were quite ordinary colors for tongues and teeth to be, and yet Eve found herself unfairly fascinated by the contrast. And then . . . and then he bent his head forward and closed his mouth around the fork. The fork she was holding. She felt the action, the slight pressure, even as she saw it.
His gaze was lowered, focused on the fork, presumably to make sure she didn’t accidentally stab him with it. Which, in fairness, she might, because her limbs were feeling oddly distant and her brain was starting to hum. Behind his glasses, his eyelashes were long and thick. She hadn’t noticed before, since they were the sort of golden color that didn’t exactly catch attention in a face like his. But here, now, all she could do was notice them.
Jacob released the fork, and chewed, and swallowed. His eyes fluttered shut for the barest second, and a slight grunt of pleasure escaped him before he could stop it. Eve knew she should be punching the air with pure, professional satisfaction—or better yet, told-you-so satisfaction.
Instead, all she could do was suck in a breath and press a cool hand to her suddenly feverish throat. Because shit. Jacob made pleasure look and sound rather good.
Wait—no. No, no, no. Eve had an unfortunate habit of forming attractions to unsuitable men. Her sexual choices, like her other choices, had always been utterly terrible. But since she was currently on a voyage of growth and self-discovery, gaining maturity points like the intrepid heroine of a bildungs-whatever-the-fuck, she would not develop the horn for this incredible arsehole of a man. She absolutely refused. She didn’t even like him.
Of course, Eve had certainly lost her head over men she didn’t like before.
But this was different. This was absolutely different. So, she said to her stirring libido, don’t let me catch you mooning again.
Jacob opened his eyes just as she finished scolding her vagina. “Okay,” he said grimly, as if she’d presented him with something awful rather than the very best British breakfast had to offer. “Maybe that was possibly quite decent.”
Thankfully, as soon as he spoke, every ounce of Eve’s physical appreciation drained away like hot water down a plughole. How convenient.
“Is that French toast?” he went on, eyeing the plate. “Let me try some of that.”
“Why? At best it’ll o
nly be maybe possibly quite decent.”
He rolled his eyes, then winced as if the action had hurt. “Fine,” he said, “it was good. You’re hired. Now give me the bloody toast.”
And just like that, she was walking on air. “Really? You mean it?” Her smile practically stretched from ear to ear, so intense her cheeks started to hurt.
“Yes. Toast. Now.”
Still beaming, Eve dropped the fork and picked up a slice of French toast, holding it to his lips. But her mind was elsewhere. Specifically, itching to grab her phone so she could change the music filling the kitchen from Stromae to some miraculous hymn. How odd, to feel this helium balloon of excitement in her chest over a job she barely wanted, one she was only taking for various moral reasons, et cetera. Hm. Satisfaction was such an unpredictable thing.
Maybe she was pleased to have secured a proper job on her own—something her parents assumed she couldn’t do. Yes, that must be it. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that she’d enjoyed cooking this morning. Once she’d gotten over her nerves, chatting to guests and playing with ingredients in the kitchen had been rather fun. Not reading-Vanessa-Riley-in-bed fun, but completing-a-puzzle fun. Which—
Eve sucked in a breath, pulling back her fingers when they touched something soft and warm and . . . human. Before her, Jacob blushed like a traffic light, his chin snapping up so he was staring straight ahead. Or, more specifically, over her head.
“Did you just bite me?” she asked. Except it hadn’t been a bite, because there were no teeth involved. Just the velvet brush of . . .
Jacob’s mouth?
“No!” he barked. “I was—the toast was very good. I, erm, got a bit carried away, and I wasn’t paying attention, so. Sorry.”
Oh. He’d been so busy eating the toast, he’d almost eaten her. Usually, Eve would laugh about that. Tease him mercilessly, at the very least.
Instead she found herself staring at her still-tingling fingertips.
“Well,” Jacob said into the silence. “I think that’s enough breakfast for today.” It wasn’t until he turned and walked away that Eve realized how close they’d been standing. He put his plate down on the counter with a clatter that seemed distinctly un-Jacoblike, then continued speaking with his back to her. It was a very broad back. It seemed to rise and fall with his breaths quite frequently. Or maybe she was just looking very hard.
“Mont must have set you up for this morning,” he said. “Are you aware of afternoon tea?”
Eve bit her lip. RHYTHM AND ROUTINE: Chapter Three, Section A, THE FULL EXPERIENCE: Afternoon tea and cake is to be served in the yellow parlor daily at four o’clock.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I’m aware of afternoon tea.”
“And you can bake?”
“Of course,” she snorted, momentarily affronted.
“Good. Other than that, I’ll need to meet with you at some point to go over basic paperwork, and there’s a meeting this week amongst the Gingerbread Festival organizers that we should both attend. Oh—and, since I’m currently down an arm, I’ll need your help with housekeeping after breakfast.” He paused, cleared his throat, and added quickly, “But not for the next few days. No. Er . . .”
Eve tried to shake the feeling he was making this part up as he went along.
“My aunt,” he said finally, “has rearranged a few appointments so she can help me. Which means your only remaining duties today are afternoon tea. If you need anything, I’m usually in my office. But I’ll probably be very busy so you might not find me there or, you know, I might not answer when you knock.” With that, he turned away from the counter and stalked toward the door.
“Okay,” Eve said. “Erm . . . Jacob, are you—?”
He left.
* * *
Eve had intended to keep the details of yesterday’s disastrous interview private, which is to say, completely off her family’s radar. But later that day, she made the fatal mistake of calling her sisters for a post-shopping phone call that quickly veered from the price of a decent bra (astronomical) to Eve’s latest goings-on. After a valiant three minutes of prevarication, she unfortunately sang like a canary.
“Oh, Eve,” Danika said. “You can always be relied upon for an interesting story. Really, with you to live through vicariously, Chloe and I barely need to leave the house.”
“And a good thing, too,” Chloe murmured absently, “because I’m far too busy to bother.”
For some reason, the word busy made Eve think of Jacob. Too many things were making her think of Jacob, at present—probably because his sudden disappearance earlier had jabbed at an old and much-disturbed scar.
Eve hefted the shopping bags weighing down her arms—she really needed to start working out, if her current exhaustion was any indication—and continued the uphill trek back to Castell Cottage. “I should stop telling you two my stories, then,” she said, “because you both need to get a bloody life.”
Twin gasps hit her, one through each AirPod. Left for Chloe, right for Dani.
“How dare you, darling.” That was the left. “I have a life. I built it myself.”
Eve rolled her eyes.
“I’m simply incredibly bogged down with work at the moment,” Chloe went on, and in fairness, Eve could hear the telltale rapid taps of Chloe working at her laptop in the background.
“And I also have a life,” Dani said.
Somewhere in the background, her boyfriend, Zaf, called, “Nope.”
“Shut up, you.”
“Nope.”
“Zafir.” There was the sound of a scuffle, followed by a few grunts. Then Dani laughed, “Let go of me, you awful man.”
“Are you going to stop throwing cushions?” he asked reasonably.
“Do you two mind?” Chloe demanded. “Eve is in the midst of a crisis.”
At the sound of her name, Eve blinked. She’d been drifting off a little bit, there. Thinking about . . .
Well, not about Jacob. Not specifically. More about people in general—about how her friends never liked her quite as much as she liked them. How they dropped her as soon as someone better came along, or pushed her to the edge of the circle when space was tight, or generally treated her as optional rather than vital. She had a little scar on her heart from all those tiny, vicious prods, and Jacob walking out abruptly this morning had left that scar sore and aching.
Not that she’d wanted Jacob to stick around. She might be slightly hard up for friends—real friends, the kind you read about in books—but that didn’t mean Jacob made the cut.
Which was just as well, since he clearly didn’t want to.
“Is it a crisis?” Dani was saying. “Because it sounds as if she’s landed on her feet completely by accident, what with this insta-job. Are you enjoying yourself, Evie-Bean?”
Enjoyment was something Eve rarely considered, when it came to the world of work. Work was something you did to try and feel useful—until you fucked it up. Work was something you did to help the people around you until you weren’t needed anymore. Work was not something you enjoyed in and of itself, because that would only make the situation worse when everything collapsed.
Yet Eve knew she had enjoyed herself that morning. The creative chemistry of cooking, the social aspect of starting her day with so many people—even working in relative solitude, being in control of her own environment, had given her a little thrill.
It was incredibly odd. She assumed the sensation would wear off soon.
“I’m not having a terrible time,” she hedged to her sisters, and ignored their laughter.
“What glowing praise,” Dani snorted. “Have you told Mum and Dad?”
“Yes,” Eve said, which wasn’t technically a lie. She had sent Mum a text that said,
Parents,
I’ve found a month’s interim employment and secured an event-planning contract beginning in September. My current job has provided temporary lodgings, and I’ll deal with the rest later, so don’t worry about me coming home.
Then she’d muted their texts and firmly ignored all their calls. Nothing personal. She was just afraid that if she heard her parents’ voices again before she’d gotten over their last conversation, she might do something mortifying, like cry.
“So where’s the crisis part?” Dani nudged.
“That would be the bit where she ran over her employer, darling,” Chloe said helpfully.
Eve had finally crested the hill and reached her car. She unlocked it, trying not to look at the bumper where there may or may not be a Jacob-sized dent (she didn’t know, having refused to check), and shoved most of her shopping bags inside. Her current housing situation was . . . well, more like a squatting situation, and until that was resolved, she probably shouldn’t traipse into Castell Cottage with all the new clothing and toiletries she’d just bought.
Since Jacob had no idea she was living in his spare room, and all.
She was going to tell him, of course! At some point.
“I don’t see how that’s crisis-y,” Dani was saying, “unless he’s dead. Or suing. But it doesn’t sound like he’s doing either of those things, is he?”
“No,” Eve muttered, “just killing me slowly via frostbite in revenge.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s a bit of an arsehole, is all.” In fact, she felt a rant on the subject building in her chest, like a bubble that needed popping.
“Due to the car-hitting thing?”
“Yes, and also due to his personality.”
“How unfortunate,” Chloe murmured absently.
“He’s—completely unreasonable,” Eve said, warming to the topic. “Intimidatingly focused and alarmingly straightforward and apparently determined not to like anyone.”
“Sounds like Chlo,” Dani said. Which brought Eve up short for a moment, because actually . . . well. That did sound like Chloe. Very like her, on a superficial level at least.
“Charming,” said the woman herself. “And accurate. Just feed him, Evie, that’ll soften him up. Everyone likes food.”
And now Eve’s mind was thrust backward to that morning, to the curious zip in her belly when she’d felt Jacob’s mouth on her skin. His mouth. On her skin. Goodness gracious. She sucked in a breath and started walking again, stomping over the B&B’s gravel drive. “Maybe. I don’t know. This morning, he did seem like he might . . .” She trailed off, suddenly hot all over and ever so slightly confused.
Act Your Age, Eve Brown Page 9
