Eve shoved the plate of breakfast at him, pleased when he took it reflexively with his good hand. “This’ll probably be cold after all the babbling we’ve done.”
“Excuse me,” he said severely, “I don’t babble.”
“I am ignoring you and your smartarse interruptions,” she replied, “because they do not deserve acknowledgment. As I was saying—”
“You do realize that claiming you won’t acknowledge something is an acknowledgment in itself.”
You already injured him yesterday, Eve. At least let him recover before you beat him over the head. “As I was saying, here is the plan. You hold the plate, and I,” she murmured, fighting a smile as she picked up his fork, “will feed you.”
He reacted just as wonderfully as Eve had expected. Which is to say, his eyes widened with comical horror, that vicious mouth fell into a rather satisfying O, and more strawberry ice cream crept up his pale cheeks—the outraged kind, this time, which had a sort of raspberry tinge.
“Feed me?” he sputtered.
Eve couldn’t hold back her smile anymore. It spread evilly across her face. A snicker might have escaped, too. “That is what I said.”
“Are you taking the piss? I’m not having you feed me. That is unnecessary—”
“Do you have another solution, then?”
“—and completely inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?” Eve blinked, taken aback for a moment. “Oh—you don’t mean to say you’re sensitive about the idea of me shoving a sausage down your throat?”
To her surprise, instead of scoffing at her admittedly risqué joke, Jacob simply blushed harder. “Do you ever shut up?” he muttered.
“Do you?”
“Of course. When I’m alone,” he said, “which I seriously wish I was right now.”
“But then how would you eat my delicious test breakfast?”
“Oh, fuck off. I told you about the logic and the intelligence and the making points. It unsettles me. Stop.”
Eve didn’t mean to grin. It just . . . happened.
“How about this,” Jacob said after a moment. “You hold my plate, and I feed myself.”
“I had considered that,” she said.
“And disregarded it because?”
“Because feeding is a dominant action. A helpful action. An action that inf—infant . . .” Oh dear. There was nothing worse than confusing her words when she was trying to be badass.
She waited for Jacob to pounce on her stutter, but all he did was sigh and drawl acidly, “I’m assuming you are searching for the word infantilize.”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Eve brightened. Let the badassery continue. “Feeding is an action that infantilizes you. Whereas holding something, like a table, is servile, and I am not servile.”
Jacob stared. “First of all, you think like a wolf under all that pastel hair.”
Said the wolf himself.
“And second of all, you literally work for me. You should be servile.”
“I thought I didn’t work for you yet?”
“Well, you’re trying to,” he snapped. “Embrace servility in your soul, and maybe I’ll hire you.”
“Do you often encourage servility in the souls of the black women around you?”
“Do I—the—” He shut his mouth with a click and glared. “Again. You think like a wolf.”
“Thank you. Now open up for the choo-choo train.”
“Murder,” Jacob murmured. “I am going to commit a murder.” But to Eve’s surprise, when she stabbed some egg and a chunk of sausage onto the fork, Jacob opened his mouth and took it.
He really . . . really . . . took it.
She found herself dazed by the sight of Jacob Wayne, usually all frost and superior self-control, parting those fine lips for her. His teeth were so white and his tongue was so pink. Those were quite ordinary colors for tongues and teeth to be, and yet Eve found herself unfairly fascinated by the contrast. And then . . . and then he bent his head forward and closed his mouth around the fork. The fork she was holding. She felt the action, the slight pressure, even as she saw it.
His gaze was lowered, focused on the fork, presumably to make sure she didn’t accidentally stab him with it. Which, in fairness, she might, because her limbs were feeling oddly distant and her brain was starting to hum. Behind his glasses, his eyelashes were long and thick. She hadn’t noticed before, since they were the sort of golden color that didn’t exactly catch attention in a face like his. But here, now, all she could do was notice them.
Jacob released the fork, and chewed, and swallowed. His eyes fluttered shut for the barest second, and a slight grunt of pleasure escaped him before he could stop it. Eve knew she should be punching the air with pure, professional satisfaction—or better yet, told-you-so satisfaction.
Instead, all she could do was suck in a breath and press a cool hand to her suddenly feverish throat. Because shit. Jacob made pleasure look and sound rather good.
Wait—no. No, no, no. Eve had an unfortunate habit of forming attractions to unsuitable men. Her sexual choices, like her other choices, had always been utterly terrible. But since she was currently on a voyage of growth and self-discovery, gaining maturity points like the intrepid heroine of a bildungs-whatever-the-fuck, she would not develop the horn for this incredible arsehole of a man. She absolutely refused. She didn’t even like him.
Of course, Eve had certainly lost her head over men she didn’t like before.
But this was different. This was absolutely different. So, she said to her stirring libido, don’t let me catch you mooning again.
Jacob opened his eyes just as she finished scolding her vagina. “Okay,” he said grimly, as if she’d presented him with something awful rather than the very best British breakfast had to offer. “Maybe that was possibly quite decent.”
Thankfully, as soon as he spoke, every ounce of Eve’s physical appreciation drained away like hot water down a plughole. How convenient.
“Is that French toast?” he went on, eyeing the plate. “Let me try some of that.”
“Why? At best it’ll only be maybe possibly quite decent.”
He rolled his eyes, then winced as if the action had hurt. “Fine,” he said, “it was good. You’re hired. Now give me the bloody toast.”
And just like that, she was walking on air. “Really? You mean it?” Her smile practically stretched from ear to ear, so intense her cheeks started to hurt.
“Yes. Toast. Now.”
Still beaming, Eve dropped the fork and picked up a slice of French toast, holding it to his lips. But her mind was elsewhere. Specifically, itching to grab her phone so she could change the music filling the kitchen from Stromae to some miraculous hymn. How odd, to feel this helium balloon of excitement in her chest over a job she barely wanted, one she was only taking for various moral reasons, et cetera. Hm. Satisfaction was such an unpredictable thing.
Maybe she was pleased to have secured a proper job on her own—something her parents assumed she couldn’t do. Yes, that must be it. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that she’d enjoyed cooking this morning. Once she’d gotten over her nerves, chatting to guests and playing with ingredients in the kitchen had been rather fun. Not reading-Vanessa-Riley-in-bed fun, but completing-a-puzzle fun. Which—