A new guest popped up at the window like a video-game toadstool. “What’s that? Someone hit Jacob with a car?”
“No,” Eve said.
“Apparently,” Lucy said.
“Blimey. Any hash browns going?” asked the guest.
Eve bit her lip. “I’m—I’m certain I can whip some up if you give me just a—”
Lucy held up a hand. “Please, don’t let me keep you. I will be upstairs, checking my nephew’s still alive.” She swept out of the room.
Oh dear.
Eve supposed, all things considered, she’d better do a damned good job with this breakfast.
* * *
“Why in God’s name didn’t you call me?!”
Leaning against his dresser, Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his thumbs to his temples. Didn’t help: his headache still flared in time with every outraged lilt in Aunt Lucy’s voice. He sighed and opened a drawer, rifling through it for his spare glasses. “Because you were busy.”
“Busy?! A couple of clients and a weekly book club is not busy, Jacob!”
“I didn’t want you to worry.” He found his old case and pulled out a pair of glasses identical to his current frames, except for the fact that these were undamaged, and also weaker by 0.75 in the right eye. Sliding them on, he blinked until the slight blurriness became almost unnoticeable. These would do, for now.
“It’s my job to worry about you, you plonker,” Aunt Lucy said. He turned to face her, and this time, he could see her furrowed brow and pale cheeks clearly. His gut squeezed with guilt. And with a little pain from the ache in his skull and his back and his stomach. The stomach was hunger. But he hadn’t even managed to shower yet, so hunger would have to wait.
“Sorry,” he said, because he knew from experience that she wouldn’t leave him in peace until he apologized. “But in my defense, I was concussed when I told Mont not to tell you.”
“Ha! I’ll be having a word with young Eric soon enough,” Lucy said, looking menacing.
Sorry, Mont.
“But first—what on earth is the woman who hit you doing in the kitchen? I mean, I’m all for forgive and forget, babe, really, I am, but I know very well that you aren’t.”
Jacob opened his mouth, then closed it. The woman who—? “I’m sorry, what?”
Slowly, Lucy said, “The woman. Who hit you. Is in. Your kitchen.”
Oh. Oh shit. “Eve? Eve is still here?”
“That is what she called herself, yes. Purple hair, about this tall, wearing a T-shirt that I’m sure belongs to one of the twins.”
One of the . . .
Jacob set his jaw and sucked in a breath. No. No way would Montrose actually hire the living terror who literally ran Jacob over yesterday—
Except someone needed to take over, and Mont is even more practical than you sometimes. So this is exactly the kind of thing he would do.
“Fuck,” he hissed. Then, “Sorry, Aunt Lucy.”
“Don’t mind me, sweetheart.” Lucy was already straightening up his perfectly tidy room, throwing back his bedcovers and opening the window. She gave his curtains a considering look. “Would you mind if I just popped these off and gave them a quick iron? They’d look proper smart with a nice crease in the—”
“Whatever you want,” Jacob called over his shoulder. He didn’t have time to argue about the relative merits of curtain ironing. He had an Eve to remove.
* * *
Righteous outrage propelled Jacob out of his private quarters, but when he hit the staircase, reality kicked in. Specifically, the reality of his body, which fucking killed. Gripping the banister with his good hand—his left hand, and what bloody use was that?—Jacob eyed the steps warily before tackling the first one.
Pain sang to life along the length of his spine, from the dull ache near his shoulders to the sharp stab at his tailbone. When his foot made contact with the next stair down, his head throbbed inside his skull like he’d jumped off a building.
“For shit’s sake,” he muttered. “You have got to be kidding me.” His injuries definitely hadn’t hurt this badly yesterday.
Then again, much of what he remembered about yesterday wasn’t exactly coherent. Except for the part where Eve Brown stormed his very serious interviews with her utterly unserious self, thoroughly got on his nerves, made him chase after her like an undignified puppy, then ran him over for his troubles. Yes, that part was crystal bleeding clear.
Gritting his teeth, Jacob took the next step.
By the grace of some merciful god, he made it down all three flights without running into a single guest. Clearly, he’d gotten up during the lull between early birds and those who liked to sleep in—and thank Christ for that, because as he finally reached the polished wood floors of the foyer, he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. When Jacob sweated in front of people, he preferred it to be on purpose: because he’d chosen to run, or he’d chosen to lift, or he’d chosen to go out in some god-awful sun. Not because he’d unexpectedly lost the ability to walk down his own bloody stairs without gasping for breath.
He was swiping the sweat away with an irritable grunt when he heard footsteps approaching from a nearby corridor—the kitchen corridor. And then, wouldn’t you know it, Eve fucking Brown appeared.
She was walking with brisk efficiency, a plate of steaming breakfast balanced in each hand—just one plate per hand, which told him she’d never waitressed before. Inefficient method. Lack of confidence. And yet, her hold was steady and her spine was straight and her focus was undeniable, her trajectory taking her toward the dining room.
Until she noticed him and froze.
Wide-eyed, she gasped, “Jacob?” As if he’d died yesterday and she might be communing with a ghost right now.
“Eve,” he replied. The word was meant to sound dignified, possibly cold—cold was always safe, after all. But instead, her name fell from his lips like a fistful of sand, his voice a strained rasp.
She looked different this morning. It wasn’t her lack of obnoxious T-shirt, or the Castell Cottage apron she wore, but something . . . else. The steadiness of her stride, maybe. The lift of her chin. Yesterday, her braids had spilled around her shoulders and even the soft, baby curls at her hairline had been . . . styled, somehow, but today her braids were pulled back in accordance with health and safety, and her little curls frizzed around her face. Her skin was glowing and he suspected that if he touched her cheek—not that he ever, ever would, dear God, unless he suspected she had some kind of deadly fever, in which case he would of course have to, as an act of human decency, but never mind that, what had he been saying? Oh, yes. If he touched her cheek, he had a feeling she’d be warm like the air in a busy kitchen.
Even though he knew very well that Eve did not belong here, for a second, standing in his hallway with her hands full, she looked as if she might.
Jacob shook his head sharply. Must be the concussion.
“Are you okay?” she asked, frowning as she stepped closer. Her expression screamed such obvious—and unexpected—concern that Jacob looked down at himself reflexively, just to check his arm hadn’t dropped off while he wasn’t paying attention.
What he found was even worse. He was still wearing his fucking pajamas.