“Thank you,” she said softly, a smile spreading across her face.
He shot her a look of mild alarm. “Well. You don’t need to sound so pleased. I am simply updating you on your professional performance.”
A laugh crept up on her. “I can’t believe this.”
He snorted, looking down his nose. “Believe what?”
“I can’t believe that beneath all the indelible rudeness, you apparently possess great buckets of emotional intelligence. Far more than I do, anyway. Where in God’s name have you been hiding that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Evie.” But the words couldn’t erase his blush. “This corner is done. Now, lean here so I can do this side.”
She obeyed in silence, still watching him with a hint of disbelief. Waiting for someone else to rip off the Jacob-costume and jump out at her. But that didn’t happen; of course it didn’t. Because he’d been this way all along.
He just saved it. Like a secret. For those who made him want to share.
The idea that she made Jacob want to share had Eve uncomfortably close to a swoon.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “You’re sweet, you know. Thank you.”
“If you ever call me sweet again, I’ll report you to HR.”
“Who’s HR?”
“I’m HR.”
She grinned, and, judging by the glimpse she caught of his profile as he turned away, so did Jacob.
Then he ruined a perfectly platonic moment by bending over the second corner, this time with Eve standing behind him. Now, she didn’t just assume the action displayed his arse beautifully; she saw. It was a high, tight peach filling the dove-gray trousers he wore today, stretching their seams with its curve as he leaned forward. Eve felt vaguely hypnotized. Her mouth may have hung open. Drool threatened like the promise of rain in May. This did not bode well.
Eve Brown was a generally horny woman; she knew this about herself. She appreciated all kinds of maleness, such as overlong eyelashes or fingers peeling off a beer label or legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. If she tried, she could get going over just about anything. So noticing Jacob in certain ways shouldn’t technically be a cause for concern.
Except she wasn’t simply noticing him. Sometimes his smile drew her eyeballs like fucking gravity, and that was a serious problem. She liked it here at Castell Cottage, liked working hard and feeling semicapable for once, liked acting like a bloody grown-up. She wasn’t going to fuck it up by developing a completely juvenile crush on her boss. Especially not when said boss might also be—kind of—sort of—her friend.
“Are we friends?” she blurted out, just to make sure.
Jacob looked up at her, appearing genuinely startled. Which made sense, since this was kind of a subject change. “Er . . .”
“Sorry, I was just thinking—you know. We get along much better now.”
“Compared to last week, when I was trying to chase you off with rudeness and you were—”
“If you say hitting me with your car one more time, I will eat you.”
“Battering me with a motorized vehicle?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Yes, Jacob. Since then.”
There was a pause before he answered. “Well. I don’t know. We’re certainly more friendly—but then, that wouldn’t be hard.”
“You know, when I started this conversation, I really thought it was a yes/no question.”
“It is,” he said immediately. “I mean, it would be. It should be. I just . . .” He trailed off, and she noticed that familiar blush creeping up his cheeks.
The sight took the sting out of his hesitation and pumped her full of glitter. Eve found herself grinning, leaning closer to him, teasing with a song in her voice. “You just . . . what?”
He cleared his throat. “I just don’t know. How one technically. Officially, that is. Decides, erm. Well, the thing is, when I made friends with Mont, we were children, and he kind of took charge, so. And since then, I haven’t really bothered, so. Hm.”
Eve stared, fighting a grin. “Oh my God, you’re just like Chloe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My oldest sister, Chloe. She spends all her time scowling at the postman and avoiding human contact, so when she actually wants to be friends she doesn’t know how to get started.”
Jacob released a breath that seemed almost relieved. “Ah. Yeah. Chloe does sound quite . . . familiar.”
“Oh, good.” Eve smiled. “Because I know how to deal with her particular brand of social awkwardness. And I know how to deal with yours, too.” In fact, she had the perfect idea already. A silly idea, probably, but she might do it anyway.
Jacob blinked. “That sounds ominous.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but does it?”
“Eve. Yes.”
She grinned. “Just you wait.”
Chapter Twelve
JACOB: What the hell are you doing in there?
While he waited for an answer, Jacob lay back in bed and stared at the sun-washed ceiling. The mysterious groans and thumps from next door continued. He’d had to text Eve about it, not because he thought she was doing something terrible in there, but because the nonstop noise was making it hard to ignore her.
It was always hard to ignore her.
They’d now been semiroommates for a week. He heard her in the mornings, stumbling around at dawn, yawning like some sort of adorable cartoon character. At breakfast, he went down to help, and tried not to marvel at the person she became in the kitchen—the way she whipped around like controlled chaos, like the eye of a storm, cooking and charming and cleaning and still managing to tease him all the while.
Then, later, he’d take her upstairs and watch her wrestle with bedsheets and polish mirrors with impressive determination and place the complimentary biscuits just right, and it turned out that seeing Eve try and try and ultimately succeed—succeed, when she obviously expected to fail—well. It turned out that Jacob struggled not to think about things like that.
Struggled not to roll the memories over his tongue later, like a fine chocolate truffle.
Struggled not to drift off into recollections while he soaped himself in the shower, or while he lay in the dark each night, or even—fuck—even during quiet, less busy moments in his office. Sometimes he thought of Eve’s easy jokes and Eve’s determination and Eve’s bubbly chatter, and his blood almost burned its way out of his body.
He’d decided not to examine why.
His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it with a speed that had nothing to do with expecting a text from Eve. Which was just as well, because it wasn’t a text from Eve; it was a message from a couple arriving in the morning, confirming their check-in schedule for the third time—as if he hadn’t sent them a highly detailed itinerary email complete with FAQ.
Despite priding himself on his swift responses and at-all-hours customer service, Jacob sighed and tossed the phone away.
Another bang sounded through the wall, followed by a yelp. He tensed, ready to jump up and investigate Eve’s welfare, then wondered what the fuck he thought he was doing. She was a grown woman. She didn’t need him running around after her like a nervous parent. He shouldn’t have even sent that text, because he didn’t care what she was up to. He didn’t—
The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it. And smiled.
EVE: Is harassing me in my own home a proper use of employee information, Mr. Wayne?
Because she hadn’t technically given him her phone number; she’d filled it out on her employment forms, and he’d put it in his phone. Which was a perfectly ordinary thing to do—in fact, it was Castell Cottage procedure, enshrined in his personal handbook. He’d had his previous chef’s number too, in case he needed to call her to investigate lateness, or some such.
Of course, with Eve, he could always just go and knock on her temporary bedroom door.
Not that he had, in the days since discovering her presence the
re. Because what if she was—what if she was changing? Or lounging around naked, painting her toenails pink, which seemed like something she would do. Or . . .
He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, not for any particular reason. Just because.
JACOB: YOUR own home, is it?
EVE: Squatter’s rights.
He laughed—actually laughed out loud, and felt the accompanying spark of warmth that had become so familiar around her. He didn’t think he’d ever been this easy with someone so quickly, didn’t think he’d ever learned another person’s rhythms enough to joke around like this without months of observational research first. But she was so open, and so reliably kind, that he couldn’t help himself.
And since she’d called it friendship, he didn’t even have to worry that all this warmth might mean something else.
EVE: Am I being too loud? I didn’t mean to disturb you.
JACOB: You’re fine. Just making me curious. You’re not using my weights, are you?
EVE: Is that not allowed?
JACOB: It’s allowed. I just don’t want you to break your own foot.
EVE: Because it would increase your precious insurance. But it would also be payback for the wrist, so . . .
Truthfully, he’d been thinking less about insurance and more about keeping Eve safe and uninjured. If she hurt herself, she might cry, and if she cried, he might die.
Or something.
At the hospital, they’d told Jacob his concussion was mild. But after a week of thinking increasingly strange thoughts about his chef, he was beginning to suspect they’d misdiagnosed him.
JACOB: Making you change a thousand beds this week was payback for my wrist. So no foot-breaking please. What are you doing?
EVE: It’s a surprise.
A surprise? Jacob turned those words this way and that, examining them from every angle, before deciding that—yep. They kind of suggested she was doing something for him. Or something that would impact him. Maybe she was painting his original antique end table a hideous shade of orange.
Or maybe . . .
EVE: It’s a friendship thing. Are you free this evening? For a friendship thing?
Or maybe that. Maybe that.
* * *
Eve was, not to put too fine a point on things, bricking it.
She stood, arms outstretched, in the center of the sitting room (as if her body could hide the “surprise” directly behind her) and waited for Jacob to come. He hadn’t texted her back, but she could hear him shifting around next door, could hear the springs of his bed creaking as he got up.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she looked quickly at the screen. She had five unread messages from Flo—Pinterest links and theme ideas and various other party-related things that, for some reason, made Eve’s stomach drop. She didn’t want to think about why, so she ignored Flo completely and checked the sisterly group chat instead.
You can’t ignore Florence forever. You can’t ignore your future forever.
No, not forever. Just . . . for now. While she was here, waiting for Jacob. Just for now.
DANI: Who’s up for a phone call tonight? I just finished a horrifically limited essay about the future of feminism and require a palate cleanser.
CHLOE: This is Red. Chloe says she can’t talk right now because she’s playing comp. But I reckon she’ll be done in fifteen.
Eve tapped out her own answer in a rush as she heard Jacob’s bedroom door open.
EVE: Can’t, about to have a meeting w my boss.
DANI: At eight o’clock in the evening?!
EVE: Could last all night, he’s a sticker for details.
And she was looking forward to hearing him nitpick.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. Eve threw her phone onto the nearby weight bench and called, “Come in.”
The door swung open to reveal Jacob in the jeans and shirt he considered casual, his expression uncertain. But there was a relaxation about his mouth, a smile about his eyes, that had developed over the last few days of cooking and bickering and scrubbing bathrooms together. She liked that relaxation. She liked that smile.
Because they were friends, obviously. As she was about to prove.
“Ta-dah,” she said, giving him jazz hands as he looked around the room she’d rearranged. “Friend stuff.”
Jacob didn’t reply. He just . . . stared, in that very sharp and precise way he had, his gaze flicking about the space to catalog it all. She wondered what he saw.
Well—she knew what he saw: his various exercise apparatus pushed to the edge of the space, and the cursed sofa bed she’d been sleeping on—or rather, tortured by—dragged until it sat in front of the window. The curtains spread wide open, revealing the hot, drunken retreat of the sun, which lit up the mountains of pillows she’d stolen from the storeroom. Because Jacob, she remembered from their first strange night—the night he didn’t remember at all—liked nests.
So she’d made him a nest. Not to sleep in, obviously. No, they were just going to sit here and watch the sun set and listen to music because she’d noticed that every song she sang, he seemed to know, and she wanted to test him and show him things he might like and maybe learn new songs she might like. And there were snacks, too, because every friendship date needed snacks.
Although, the longer he stood in silence, and the more Eve thought about the bed she’d moved and the lights she’d lowered, the more this seemed less like a friendship date and more like a clumsy, low-budget, actual date.
Which it absolutely was not meant to be.
And which he certainly would not want.
Oh, good great shit.
“It’s a bonding experience with clear perambulators,” she blurted out, because an explanation suddenly seemed quite urgent. “I mean—per—um—”
“I know what you meant,” he said.
She swallowed and waited for him to say more. He did not. Righto, then. “Because, you know, you weren’t sure how to officially become friends. So I thought . . .” Well, there hadn’t been very much thought involved. It was more instinct that had driven her to this. Or some weird, unexplainable desire to sit beside Jacob with no other distractions, and just . . . talk.
Oh dear.
“I thought,” she said finally, “that I could make a specific evening for you to say, Yep, only friends do that, that’s the moment we became friends, and then—”
“Well,” he cut in, “it’s working. Because I’m pretty sure only friends do something this nice to make their friends feel comfortable with calling them friends. Or—oh, for fuck’s sake, I don’t know. Only you, Eve. Only you.” He shut the door and rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to hide his smile. Except he couldn’t hide it, because gosh, it was big. Big enough that Eve’s clammy palms started to calm down and her hammering heart became a much more respectable drumbeat.
She was relieved, obviously, that he hadn’t taken this the wrong way. She’d been silly to think he would take it the wrong way. Why would he possibly take it the wrong way?
“So,” Jacob said, walking toward her. His eyes slid over everything, everything, again and again, as if he was greedy to see it. And it occurred to her for the first time that Jacob, for all he seemed not to give a shit, might be just as pleased by the thought of being liked as she was.
He looked pleased. She’d made him pleased. The idea started a bloom of happiness in her chest that threatened to grow into a garden.
“So,” he said again. “We’re . . . sitting on your bed?”
“And listening to music and eating crap,” she said firmly. “Basically a teenage girl sleepover.”
“Ah.” He nodded gravely. “Because no one knows how to have fun better than a group of teenage girls.”
“Exactly.”
He started to sit down on the bed, which made Eve realize she wasn’t sitting down at all—just hovering awkwardly around the room like a nervous hostess at her first dinner party.
Arching an eyebrow, Jacob
nudged the bed’s duvet slightly aside to look at the sheets beneath. “Nice corners.”
She flushed. Okay, yes, she’d been practicing her bed making on her own bed. She had to get good somehow. “Thanks.”
He grinned that wolfish grin and finally sat. Eve swallowed. The sofa bed had seemed a perfectly reasonable place for them both to sit, until Jacob had actually done so. Now it looked like a den of lascivious temptation. Possibly because he looked like a lascivious temptation.
He lounged comfortably among the blankets and pillows like a prince, his long, lean body taking up space unapologetically, spread out as if on display. The breadth of his chest was emphasized by that neatly buttoned shirt, the one she’d ironed for him because she’d caught him trying to do it himself and he’d almost set his bloody cast on fire. The length of his thighs was emphasized by those jeans she should find unattractive, because he ironed those, too, but actually found drool-worthy, because they clung to the slight curve of his muscles in a way that told her entirely too much about how he might look naked . . .
And now she was getting all hot between her thighs on their very first friendship date. Perfect. Just perfect. Thoroughly annoyed with herself, Eve sat down.
“What are we listening to?” Jacob asked, all calm and pleasant like a . . . calm . . . pleasant thing. Meanwhile, Eve’s eyes were glued to the shift of his jaw as he spoke, because Eve’s eyes were very badly behaved and had no consideration for her feelings or for the feelings of her vagina.
“I set up a queue,” she said, passing him her phone. “I thought, you know, we could both add to it as we went.”
“I get to add to the queue?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Me? Even though you called me a heathen for not liking Kate Bush?”
“You are a heathen for not liking Kate Bush. But I caught you humming along when I was singing ‘Honor to Us All’ the other day, so you do have some taste.”
In the dying light of the setting sun, his blush was deep and glowing. “Liam had a mild obsession with Disney princesses, growing up.”
“Oh, sure. Your cousin, definitely.”
Act Your Age, Eve Brown Page 15
