Eve smiled, a real smile—the bright, sunshine one that lit up entire rooms, possibly entire worlds. He felt a bit dazed. As a concussed man who’d only just woken up, it probably wasn’t safe for him to be exposed to such things. “I’m sorry,” she said teasingly, “was that a compliment?”
His reply was automatic. “No.”
“A positive comment of some sort directed at me, then? Ah, ah.” She held up a finger to cut off his response. “Don’t bother to answer. I’m quite certain it was.” And then she was off, back to the stove again, leaving Jacob feeling . . . odd. Flushed. Perhaps he should go back to the hospital. His reactions were all wrong this morning, and he was becoming concerned.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he said, which made no sense, because it clearly should be. He was sliding backward down a very steep hill, and Eve was pushing him with one finger and laughing all the way. “The fact remains that I didn’t hire you, and—” He paused beside her, squinting at the flash of white hiding beneath the braids she’d pinned over her ears. “Bloody hell, are you still wearing that fucking earbud?”
She flicked him a cool look. “Language, Mr. Wayne. I’m sure the guests don’t want your foul mouth served with their tea.”
“I—you—” Jacob was pretty sure steam had just shot out of his ears.
“Trust me,” she went on, “you want me to wear the earbud. Music helps me concentrate on the order of things.”
That made not a lick of sense.
But then, Jacob supposed, his own methods of focusing had never made much sense to other people, either.
“And the alternative,” she went on, “is to let me sing to myself, which would probably disrupt the guests’ eggs something awful.”
“I can’t decide if you’re serious or if you’re just being a—”
“Returning to the subject at hand, I think I have a solution to your latest stick up the arse,” she said, briskly cutting him off. “Yesterday, before—well, before—you were blathering on about a trial, correct?”
“Incorrect,” he shot back. “I do not blather.”
She stared at him for a moment before murmuring, “Dear God, you are so much fun.”
He hadn’t picked up any of the usual indicators—excessive emphasis on unexpected words, for example—but that absolutely had to be sarcasm. Even if Eve was currently watching him with a gleam of amusement in her eye.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the point is, you wanted to trial me. So trial me.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?” A trial? Surely she didn’t mean—
“Let me make you breakfast.” Apparently she did mean. Interesting. “Here, sit down.” She wrapped a hand around his elbow, and Jacob jolted like he’d been shocked. Shit. She snatched her hand away. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “Er, sorry. Do you not like to be—I shouldn’t have—”
“Bruises,” he lied through gritted teeth. Because he couldn’t exactly say, It appears physical contact with you has an atypical effect on my nervous system. And yet, it did. An effect that made him hyperaware of the flimsy jersey pajama pants he currently wore, pants that did nothing to hide an erection.
Not that he had an erection. That would be ridiculous. That would be obscene.
He was just a little bit worried that he might eventually get one, perhaps, for some reason. Who knew? You could never be too careful about these things.
“I’m going back upstairs,” he blurted, striding toward the door. “Going upstairs to . . . change. And things. Later. I’ll come down later. To . . . test you. Erm . . . keep up the barely acceptable work.”
“Barely acceptable?!”
“That’s what I said,” Jacob sniffed, and then he made good his escape.
Chapter Seven
It took Jacob so long to come back, Eve was almost convinced he’d forgotten about her.
Almost.
But a man with that level of dogged focus probably didn’t forget much. Except, apparently, for the little chat they’d had last night, while he’d been curled up in bed like the world’s most adorable wolf. Because she had a feeling that if he’d remembered that, he would’ve ramped up the arsehole behavior by at least 50 percent this morning.
As it was, he’d been practically cordial.
Eve was waving off the last of the guests with a smile when the kitchen door swung open behind her. Her tentative glow of success faded like sunlight behind a cloud, because the snick of that door handle brought her earlier challenge flying back like Thor’s hammer.
You wanted to trial me. So trial me. Let me make you breakfast.
A test. She had volunteered herself for a test—also known as her number one weakness and natural enemy.
For fuck’s sake, she didn’t even want this job. What in God’s name had she been thinking?!
That everyone assuming you’re useless and incapable is starting to get old.
Hm. Well. There was that.
Still, she was already feeling the familiar high-pressure jitters that accompanied formal judgment of any kind. Her palms were clammy. Her pulse vibrated in her veins. Had she always produced this much spit? Slowly, she turned around to face the man she knew was waiting.
And almost dropped down dead when she laid eyes on him. “Good Lord,” she murmured.
Jacob—or rather, Super Jacob, because that’s how he looked—arched a pale eyebrow. “Pardon me?”
If he was any other man, this would be the point where she made a comment about his outrageous hotness.
After his earlier disheveled appearance, which had honestly been—gag—cute, Jacob had clearly decided to remind the world exactly how put together he could be. The razor precision of his close shave displayed those unholy cheekbones to unfair advantage. The bladelike part of his blond hair somehow emphasized the sharp line of his jaw, the unfair symmetry of his face, the angular shape of those pale, wolflike eyes. He’d managed to put on a crisp, gray shirt despite his cast, the right sleeve folded up around his biceps. And the jeans he wore hugged his lower half in a way she could only call subtly obscene. One probably wouldn’t notice the slight outline of his massive fucking package, unless you were looking (and Eve had no idea why she’d been looking), in which case, you really couldn’t un-notice it.
Gosh.
He cocked his head. “Eve?”
She swallowed, clearing her throat. Time to say something unaffected and totally professional. “How’d you get the shirt on?”
His eyes narrowed.
Yes, brilliant, Eve. Question him about his clothing habits. Evoke mental images of him naked. Well done.
After a frigid moment, he muttered, “I cut the sleeve.”
Despite herself, she squinted at the sleeve in question. “Did you?”
“I shortened it, then cut along the hem so it would fold higher, then stitched the edges so it would look neater.”
When she moved closer—all the better to stare at his impossible handiwork—Jacob shifted to the side as if to hide it from her. “Christ, woman, don’t inspect it. I’m shit with my left hand.”
She paused. “You mean, when you said you did all that—”