She turned and flashed him another look he couldn’t decipher—one completely devoid of levity or even sarcasm. “Right,” she said softly. “Just four weeks.” Then she swallowed, and turned away, skipping ahead of him. “I bet you make sweet promises to all the indentured servants.”
He snorted, then caught a familiar movement up above. Wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her back against him without even thinking. The instant her soft, round arse pressed into his thighs, bird shit splattered on the pavement where she’d stood.
Eve, predictably, screamed. It was only a little scream, but really. “Jesus, woman,” he muttered.
“Poop!”
“Yes. Welcome to the countryside. What were you saying about lovely towns?”
“Fuck you,” she laughed.
He found his own mouth curling into a smile, an automatic response. Then he ruthlessly corralled it back into a straight line, because he’d read many books over the years, and one of those books had been about how not to break under torture. Your tormentors would start with little things, easy concessions to get you used to cooperating with them. If he allowed himself to smile when Eve was lovely—and she was often lovely—next thing he knew he’d be laughing with her, and talking to her properly—and surely the next step was dragging her up to his room and fucking her into the mattress. He could even imagine the sounds she’d make, the way her hands would glide over his skin as if just the feel of him turned her on. He could imagine, when he allowed himself to do so, everything.
Hence why he could give no quarter when it came to smiles.
He rolled his eyes at her instead, and let her go. Well, almost. Two of his fingers snagged the belt loop at the back of her jeans, hooking around the fabric, staying there. But only, he told himself, because someone needed to guide her around. This was unknown terrain. There was bird poop about. It was his responsibility to hold on to her like this.
Clearly she agreed, because she stayed close as they walked.
* * *
The first place on Jacob’s accommodation list was, as it turned out, his aunt’s house.
Lucy’s was a lovely little place, a bungalow being eaten alive by wisteria in a way Eve quite adored. And it had a spare room—the one Jacob and his cousin Liam had shared, growing up, which was now an immaculate double bedroom. Apparently, Eve might rent said bedroom for a nominal fee.
“So he’s chucking you out,” Lucy said from the doorway as Eve looked politely around the space. “Have you pissed him off that badly?”
Eve tried not to be intimidated by the other woman’s impassive expression or horrifyingly mature work boots. (Plain black. Not even a jaunty yellow stitch. Not even a few hearts and daisies doodled in fluorescent highlighter. Good Lord.)
“No comment,” Eve said, and flicked a glance at Jacob, who stood broodingly in the corner. She wasn’t sure what their party line was, since she couldn’t exactly tell his aunt he’d licked her out on a sofa and didn’t trust himself not to do it again.
Unfortunately for her, Jacob didn’t appear to be listening to the conversation. He continued to brood broodily in silence.
“I suppose it can’t be that bad,” Lucy said. “He’d be making a hell of a lot more noise if you’d annoyed him.”
“Or perhaps I’ve annoyed him so much that he’s utterly run out of fury.”
Lucy’s gaze flicked sharply to Eve’s, those frosty eyes narrowed. They studied Eve for one palm-sweating second, as if searching her expression for some sort of mockery or judgment. But she must not have found any, because after a moment, the coldness drained right out of her, replaced by an amused smirk. “Maybe. How are you finding it, then? The job?”
“Jacob thinks he’s working me too hard.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “He has grand ideas about labor and human rights.”
In the corner, Jacob blinked. “Are you talking about me?”
“Darling,” Eve said, “would we ever? Go on, get back to brooding.”
He grunted and recommenced staring at the wall. Apparently, he’d decided to actually follow Eve’s directive. Amazing. Well, one mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
“I’ve been enjoying it,” she said to Lucy. “I like cooking for people.” Eve had always known that, of course—but it had never occurred to her that some things could be even more rewarding on a professional basis. Now, she actually looked forward to work every morning; looked forward to taking care of people not just because she had nothing better to do, but because it was her job. She’d spent days waiting for that feeling to fade.
It was only getting stronger.
“I think,” she said out loud, “that making people happy sort of—fuels me. I like working hard to give them things. I like seeing them enjoy those things. It’s kindness and performance and creation all at once.”
“Hm,” Lucy murmured, looking pleased. “So you’re only moving out to get away from Jacob, then.”
“Actually,” Eve joked back, “he’s trying to get away from me.”
At which point, Jacob’s distant gaze snapped toward Eve. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “Excuse me, Aunt Lucy. I just need to . . .” His voice trailed off, possibly because he couldn’t figure out how to say, I just need to grab Eve by the hand and drag her off into this cupboard. Which is exactly what he did.
Eve, of course, let herself be dragged. Actually, she was thrilled to be dragged—damn her treacherous nervous system. Jacob’s hand was big and calloused in hers, and it held her so tightly. He pushed her into the cupboard, shut the door behind them, and there they stood in the dark.
A curse floated softly between them. “Forgot,” he said shortly. “The switch is on the outside.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, which it didn’t, because he was still holding her hand.
A taut moment passed. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry to drag you in here, I just—Eve—you don’t really think that, do you?”
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. But once she did, the spark of irritation in her chest, the one she’d been ignoring since Sunday, became a teeny, tiny flame. “Well, yes.” She frowned. “Of course I think you’re trying to get away from me. Because you are.”
His grip on her hand tightened, relaxed. “No,” he said firmly, as if the word itself could bend reality. “No.”
“Oh, come on, Jacob,” she whispered, except her whisper sounded alarmingly like a hiss. A very soft and quiet hiss, but still. “We—things went too far, between us. I know that. And then all of a sudden you remembered how desperately you wanted me out of your house. Fine. Your decision. I’m going along with it. But you’re not allowed to pretend it’s something else.”
There was a long pause before he said slowly, “You’re angry. You’re angry with me.”
“No, I’m not,” she snapped, rather angrily. Which gave her pause. Made her examine the irritable little flame in her chest. Made her realize that actually, yes, she was angry, despite her decision to get over this whole thing.
Eve wasn’t used to being angry, especially not for long. She was always aware that most people didn’t want her around badly enough to put up with difficult conversations, with constant complaints. She was used to swallowing her feelings and replacing them with a smile, to playing the role in which she’d been cast.
But these feelings were huge and jagged and spiky in her stomach, and she wanted to spit them out.
“Fine,” she blurted. “Fine, yes, maybe I am. Maybe I’m angry with you because—because I thought we were equals, even if you are my boss, but as soon as you made me orgasm you decided to become my benevolent overlord.” She ignored the alarmed choking sound Jacob made when she said orgasm. “I realize this is awkward for you. I get that. And if you want to throw me out to make it less awkward, fine. But don’t act like you’re doing it for my benefit, and don’t act like you didn’t strong-arm me into it instead of asking what I wanted to do.”
Once all those words
had rushed out, Eve felt a bit like an empty pond, her usually hidden depths suddenly exposed to the light. Belatedly, her cheeks warmed. She’d made that speech intending to demand honesty, and autonomy, and all those lovely things Dani was always talking about. But she was suddenly worried it had come off as simply demanding Jacob. That she’d revealed, somewhere in her little speech, how badly she still wanted him.
But when the seconds ticked by without his reply, Eve steeled her spine and squared her shoulders. So what if he’d heard that sad, horny, far-too-attached part of her? So fucking what? Sometimes, being convenient instead of real was exhausting. So maybe, from now on, she’d stop.
“Nothing to say?” she asked, and surprised herself by sounding as sharp and superior as her eldest sister. Which made Eve feel rather authoritative. If only Jacob weren’t still holding her hand—or rather, if only she weren’t still holding his—her transformation to absolute badass would be complete.
Then Jacob ruined everything by saying quietly, “Eve. I’m sorry.”
Very small, very simple words. They shouldn’t be able to punch a hole through her outrage like this, but clearly, Eve was soft.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice as impassioned as a whisper could be. Which was, apparently, rather impassioned indeed. His hand squeezed hers, and then his other hand joined the party, cast and all, and suddenly he was clutching her like a Regency gentleman about to make a heartfelt declaration. “I did strong-arm you, because I was panicking, and that was wrong of me, and I—I was a shit, and you’re right to be angry with me, but please, please don’t ever think I want to get rid of you. That is the last thing I want. I don’t think I could ever want that. You’re lovely, Evie, and you make me smile every day—multiple times a day”—he managed to sound genuinely shocked by that—“and I can’t believe you’ve been holding this in all week instead of smacking me for it.”
Eve decided it was for the best that she couldn’t see Jacob in here, because hearing his voice was bad enough. The speed of his words, and the way his sentences frayed at the edges, and that thread of desperation through it all as if he really, urgently needed her to understand, was bad enough.
“Say something,” he murmured hoarsely. “Please.”
“I . . .” She took a breath. She had the vague idea that she should remain angry despite his apology, based on principle alone, but, well. She wasn’t angry anymore. He had just popped all her hurt like a balloon and replaced it with several thousand hopeful, happy bubbles, and really, no one should have the power to change her mood so very quickly.
But apparently, Jacob did.
Drat.
“Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. I suppose I understand. And you apologize very well.” She paused. “If you would like to compliment me some more before we make up, feel free.”
To her surprise, he took that joke as a very serious suggestion. “You are extremely sweet and a very good cook and incredibly pretty,” he said without hesitation, “and . . . you have a wonderful sense of humor.”
“Ha! I knew you thought I was funny. I knew it.”
“Maybe I’m just sucking up,” he said. But he squeezed her hand again, and she felt an answering squeeze of pleasure in her tummy.
“I don’t think sucking up is your style, Jacob Wayne,” she said softly.
“If anyone could drive me to it,” he replied, “you could.”
In that moment, Eve decided that getting on with things might be the adult way to live—but blurting out her feelings was officially the Eve Brown way to live. She much preferred it.
“So,” Jacob said after a moment. “Since I never did ask—what do you want to do? About . . . everything?”
Now, there was a question. Her gut instinct was to reply, I want to go home and have my way with you again—but Eve had spent the last week thinking about all the reasons why that was not a sound choice. First and foremost: she had a queasy suspicion that if she spent too much time with her hands on this man, she’d eventually refuse to let go. And she couldn’t refuse to let go; not when Skybriar was just a temporary pit stop on her journey to being her better self. She had a party-planning job to complete. She had parents to make proud, once and for all. She had a mature, adult plan, and staying here in this happy little fairy-tale town with a delightful big bad wolf was not conducive to that plan. It couldn’t be, because she wanted it so badly.
Anyway, Jacob wasn’t asking for a relationship. He was asking how they should go about not-fucking, which was pretty much the opposite, so she’d better rein in all these secret, silly hopes.
If she was smart, she would want what Jacob wanted: distance. Yet the very idea made her come over all gray, like a rainy sky.
“Look,” she said slowly. “I am on a journey to self-ac . . . ac . . .”
“Actualization.”
“Precisely,” she said. “I know sleeping with my emotionally unavailable boss isn’t a mature, sensible choice, so I’m not going to do it again.” Even if she was struggling more and more to accept the idea that Jacob could be a bad choice.
He wasn’t hers to choose, so it didn’t really matter.
“But I still want to be near you,” she continued. “All right? I just want to be near you. So I vote we keep going the way we always have, and we’ll completely forget the inappropriate sex part, and everything will be fine.” She hoped.
After a long, long silence, he said, “I see.” Then, in a sudden flurry of action, he added, “Come on,” and opened the door, and towed her outside like a boat.
Lucy was leaning against the opposite wall with her arms folded and one eyebrow raised. But there was a hint of amusement in her voice when she asked, “Meeting concluded?”
“Yes,” Jacob said. “Really sorry, Luce, but we don’t need the room. Sorry. Just—more convenient at the cottage. Early hours. Free board. I’m not paying Eve enough, you know.”
“No,” Lucy said dryly. “I imagine not.”
“Right, well, we’ll be off now.”
Lucy cleared her throat.
“Oh.” Jacob released Eve’s hand and went over to his aunt. “Thanks, really. Sorry to play silly buggers. I’ll see you for dinner this weekend. Bye.” He bent to kiss her silvery hair.
“Whatever. Love you, kiddo,” Lucy said, and slapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Erm, good-bye,” Eve said brightly, and that was all she managed before Jacob took her hand again and dragged her away.
Chapter Sixteen
Jacob leaned back in his oversized, leather desk chair, his phone pressed anxiously to his ear. “Mont? Are you all right? You sound like you’re hyperventilating.”
“I am hyperventilating,” Mont replied, although now he was speaking again, he sounded more dazed and confused than low on oxygen. “Did you just—Jacob—did you just call me up and tell me, all fucking casual, that you slept with Eve last Sunday night?”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of slept with.”
“My definition involves orgasms.”
“Ah.” Restless, Jacob pushed back his chair and stood. “In that case, I suppose so.” He sounded dry and detached, like he really was as casual about this situation as Mont claimed. But he fucking wasn’t, hence why he’d caved and confessed all to his best friend. It had been an entire week since the Dildo Incident, and he was crumbling like some ancient cliff because God and fuck and shit and God, he wanted to touch her again. To hold her, and taste her, and feel like she was his.
He’d been this close to saying as much on Thursday, in the darkness of Aunt Lucy’s cupboard. If Eve had pushed him then—even a little bit—he would’ve abandoned his common sense and fucked her however, whenever, and wherever she bloody well wanted. But she’d made it clear that she didn’t want anything of the sort—thankfully before he’d made a total fool of himself.
I know sleeping with my emotionally unavailable boss isn’t a mature, sensible choice . . .
That completely factual stateme
nt should not have stung.
“So,” Mont said, “does she know you only sleep with people if you—”
“Shut up,” Jacob said crisply.
“If you adore them and you want to marry them and hide them away in your lair forever and ever?” Mont finished.
“You exaggerate.” Jacob paced his office for the seventy-fifth time today, wishing that was true. But unfortunately, Mont was right: Jacob didn’t like people easily, but once he did like them, it was always too far and too fast. He had to temper himself, had to be careful.
Not that he’d been remotely careful with Eve. And it showed.
Take this morning at breakfast, for example. If he hadn’t been knackered from another sleepless night of overthinking and berating himself, he might have kissed her glossy, orange mouth over the pain au chocolat, and then where would they be? Up to their eyeballs in horrified Trip Advisor reviews, and more importantly, on a treacherous path from safe, long-term friendship to difficult, dangerous romance. Which she didn’t even want. So there was no use thinking about it.
“I mean, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.”
Jacob almost tripped over his own feet. “What?”
“Come on, man. Surely you saw this coming.”
“I say again: what?”
Mont laughed down the phone. “Never mind. Never mind. So, you slept with the attractive woman you haven’t stopped talking about in weeks. Shocker.”
“I—haven’t—” Jacob cut off his outraged sputtering, focused on a nice, blank spot on the wall, and took a breath. “Relaying an employee’s increasingly excellent job performance is not the same as talking about her for weeks. And stop being flippant about the situation, Montrose. It’s horrific.”
“Why? You like the girl. I think she likes you back. Ask her out.”
“No,” Jacob snapped, because he was sensible and logical and would not be led astray by Mont’s shockingly casual attitude toward human connection. Mont didn’t understand these things. Mont was charming and classically handsome and inherently flexible, and Mont didn’t get tied up in knots over the slightest thing, and Mont had almost certainly never had a woman tell him that he was great in bed but a little too intense out of it.
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