“Yes.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “I did mean the literal interpretation of the word I. Most people do.”
“But your wrist is broken!”
“Believe me,” he said dryly, “I’d noticed.”
Eve flushed. No wonder he’d been gone for hours—from the sound of things, it must have taken him that long to get dressed. “You do realize that broken limbs are usually a valid excuse to dress . . . a little differently than usual?”
“You do realize,” he drawled, “that excuses are not something I’ve ever been interested in?”
Well, yes, she was starting to get that vibe.
“Now,” he continued, “if we could return to the point—you’re supposed to be making me breakfast.”
Oh. Yes. Eve gulped and turned away from him, heading to the shiny, double-doored fridge. “You know, I would’ve cooked for you regardless,” she quipped, except her voice wasn’t as light as she’d like. “You don’t need to dress it up like an exam.”
“If I remember rightly, you were the one who came up with the idea.”
Yes, she was, and she sincerely desired to travel back in time and kick herself. When she faced him again, Jacob had made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. The pose seemed so casual, with his long legs and his lean hips and the easy angles of his body, that it took her a moment to notice the slight wince on his face. He hid it well. But it was still there, shadowing those icy eyes and twisting his fine mouth at the corners.
Throwing sausages into a hot pan, she said, “You should probably sit down.” There were a couple of stools at the central island—uncomfortable, steel-looking stools, but stools all the same.
Jacob grunted and shifted against the wall, a sinuous predator trying to get comfortable. “Can’t.”
Oh. Ah. Yes. Eve remembered Mont’s comment about arse-bruising and tried not to drown in this brand-new influx of guilt.
“Didn’t I tell you to take that out?” he went on, nodding at her.
It took Eve a moment to realize what he meant. Her hand rose automatically to her ear, as if to protect the source of NAO’s “Bad Blood” from his evil eyes. “And didn’t I tell you,” she shot back, “that I work better with it in?” She sounded a hell of a lot more confident than she felt—because that, she’d discovered, was the knack with Jacob: confidence.
He might be tough, might be harsh, but he didn’t do it in the hopes of crushing those around him. He did it with the assumption that if they were stronger, better, right, they’d push back.
So he reacted just as she’d expected, tilting his head like a wolf examining strange prey instead of biting its head off. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You mentioned before that you could sing instead.”
She pressed her lips together as she soaked bread in egg and cinnamon. “Could being the operatic word.”
His lips tilted at the corner into something that was almost—a smile. A smile like slow-dripping honey beneath the summer sun. She faltered, a little bit stunned. Jacob made ice look good, but apparently, he made warmth look even better.
Oh dear.
“Since it’s an option . . . I would rather you sing,” he said, “even if it’s terrible, than appear ignorant toward guests.”
“Ignorant?! I’m only wearing one.”
He straightened, strolling over to the dining room window and pulling down the hatch with his good hand. Eve tried not to be salty about the fact that rolling the thing up had taken two hands and a few hops on her part. “I see that, Eve. I also see a Trip Advisor review titled RUDE CHEF, WEEKEND GETAWAY RUINED. People find unusual habits more charming when they are included. So, if singing is a viable alternative for you—consider it.”
People find unusual habits more charming when they are included. Eve had always known that, in the back of her mind, but it was something she’d resented, and so she tended to ignore it. Now, though—now, here was Jacob, laying it out like a military tactic rather than some sort of moral directive. Like a strategy they were smart enough to deploy upon people who just didn’t understand, rather than a behavioral correction.
Slowly, cautiously, she found herself saying, “I’ll . . . give it a try.”
He met her eyes for a moment. “Well. I appreciate that.” Then he faltered, as if he hadn’t meant to say something so reasonable. Within seconds, his familiar glare was back, scalping her with its mighty force. Eve didn’t mind.
Actually, she found this much easier to deal with than Jacob Masquerading as a Nice Man. That whole us against them routine had threatened to do something terrible and ominous to her nether regions.
“As for right now,” he went on, his tone frostier, “you might as well play your music out loud. Unless you find it more helpful when it’s directly in your ear.”
And there he went again—even cold, he illustrated an understanding of how her needs worked. Or maybe it was simply an attempt at understanding, which, for some reason, Eve found just as satisfying. Either way, he needed to stop before she got all confused and started to accidentally enjoy his presence a bit. This was meant to be a test, damn it. She was supposed to be sick with nerves right now, and also with hating him. He was ruining everything, and it would serve him right if she threw her fried bread mixture over his head.
But Eve was a reasonable, responsible, semiprofessional woman these days, so instead, she set the mixture aside, put her soaked bread in the pan, then pulled out her phone and uncoupled her AirPod. Lilting piano notes filled the room, accompanied by a pounding beat and rhythmic French rap. Watching Jacob as he returned to his spot leaning against the wall, she explained, “It’s—”
“Stromae,” he finished. “What’s this one called?”
She stared. Stromae, he said, all casual, as if it made perfect sense that he’d know such a thing.
He clicked his fingers, then nodded. “‘Papaoutai.’ Right?”
She stared some more. “You listen to Belgian rap from 2013?”
“No,” he said.
Well, at least that made sense.
“I listened to Belgian rap in 2013.”
And, she was back to the staring. “Est-ce que tu parles français?”
“Oui. Toi aussi?”
“Passablement. Mon vocabulaire est faible.”
“Un enfant m’a appris, il y a des années, donc ma grammaire est pauvre.”
“Your grammar doesn’t sound poor to me,” she said pertly.
“And I see no holes in your vocabulary. I suppose we’d have to talk a little longer to discover all that, but this isn’t a tea party.”
Eve huffed out a breath. “Oh, yes. How could I forget? I’m being tested, and you’re impossible.”
“Usually, people who want a job from me are a bit more polite.”
“I’ve come to the conclusion,” she gritted out as she flipped his eggs, “that you are incredibly difficult to be polite to.” And I don’t want your bloody job. Even if she had sort of accidentally enjoyed herself this morning, once she’d gotten the hang of things.
She was jolted out of that unexpected thought when Jacob released a bark of laughter. It was so sudden, and so completely surprising, that she spun to look at him—as if further inspection might reveal that the noise had come from someone else.