Gosh. Where on earth had that come from? She really needed to read less AO3 smut before bed.
Or possibly more.
Jacob’s reflection frowned at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Good question. No dirty thoughts about your boss, Eve.
“I was thinking,” she said, pushing all illicit fantasies firmly away, “that your arse must be better. Because all you’ve done today is sit on it.”
She’d intended to annoy him with that comment, but instead, he grinned. His sharp, wolfish smile—with its turned-in incisors and the lines of pleasure fanning out from his pale eyes—made her think of sunlight beaming off fresh snow. “If you have enough energy to give me lip,” he said, “you have enough energy to pull that sheet tight.”
“Give you lip? You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Of course I am.” He shifted back in the chair, sprawling like some indolent prince. “I am beginning to think I was born to boss people around.”
“You’re only beginning to think that?” she muttered.
“You’re right. I’ve always known.” He watched her struggle for a moment longer, then sighed and stood up. “But I think that’s enough torture for one day.”
“No,” Eve said, looking away. “It’s just a bed. I can do it.”
“You—”
“I can do it! Just give me a minute.” Except he’d already explained they were on a strict schedule due to check-in times, and Eve knew she’d made him slower today. “I’m supposed to be helping you, not making more work.”
“Eve.” He was standing beside her, looking down with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher. One part frown, two parts something that might be tenderness. Or possibly the urge to tenderly strangle her.
“This is your first day on housekeeping,” he said slowly. “I’m teaching you things. You’re practicing. I do not need or expect you to get everything instantly right, and contrary to your mother hen instincts, help doesn’t mean doing everything for me.”
She huffed out a breath and straightened, inadequacy tangling around her limbs like vines. “I’m not a mother hen,” she mumbled, but she wasn’t really thinking about Jacob’s words. She was thinking about the vines.
Usually, when Eve experienced this feeling of not-good-enoughness, she did the sensible thing and got out. Gave in. Gave up. Anything to stop the inadequacy from dragging her down again. But this time, she refused to—because, for God’s sake, it was only a bloody bed. And because giving up on Jacob’s job would mean giving up on Jacob. It would mean letting him down. Which she didn’t want to do, since she, erm, owed him, or something.
Anyway, she kind of liked this job. She liked Castell Cottage. So. No giving up today.
“You are a mother hen,” Jacob was saying, “but luckily for both of us, I don’t care. Now, come here. Press down there for me, to keep the tension.” He pointed at a spot farther up the bed, then bent over to fold the sheet she’d just been wrestling with. Within seconds, he was making a perfect hospital corner. Left-handed. Eve hurriedly pressed down as instructed, slightly dazed by the sight of his long, dexterous fingers tugging and folding. And by the thought that he was bent over, and what a view she’d have if she were standing behind him. Tragically, though, she was standing in front.
Damn you, situational physics.
“Erm, sorry,” she said awkwardly, “for slowing you down today—”
“Actually,” he cut in, “I accounted for the possibility that things would take a bit longer. We’re not behind schedule.”
“I’ll be better tomorrow,” she offered. “I’m always better at new things once I’ve had a while to wrap my head around it. Or daydream it. Or break it down or—you know.”
He gave her a strange look and said, “Funnily enough, yes. I do know. But—listen . . . Eve . . . you did . . . acceptably . . . today.”
She stared. “Pardon?”
“At breakfast.” He paused, pulling the sheet even tighter—probably tighter than necessary. Possibly so tight he was in danger of ripping the thick, high-quality cotton. At some point during the conversation, his face had become a rigid mask of awkwardness. She had no idea why. “You . . . Good food.”
Dear God, he’d stopped using verbs.
“And you multitask,” he continued. “You . . . you talk to guests very well, you know. As you work. I couldn’t do that. You . . . impress me, when you do that.” He almost choked on the word impress.
But, to be fair, Eve almost choked, too.
You impress me when you do that. Well, all this explained why he sounded so bloody uncomfortable. She tried to remember Jacob praising anyone, ever, including the local milkman who delivered his product in clearly labeled glass bottles and of whom Jacob seemed very fond, and came up a complete blank.
“And the meeting we attended,” he continued. Good fluff, he was still going. He’d straightened now, rubbing his palms against his trousers. He was all raspberry ice cream and diamond-hard jaw and uncertain flicks of those frosty eyes, as if worried Eve might throw his tentative compliments back in his face. But he was still going.
“You were . . . good,” he said. “You—just—you’re not a hot mess, that’s all. Not as far as I can see.”
She looked up at him, dazed and confused by this sudden barrage of what could only be called reassurance. Compliments would be one thing—one strange and unexpected thing—but what really got to her, what hooked her with compelling claws, was the suspicion that he’d started reeling off positives to make her feel better.
He was worried she felt bad. He was trying to comfort her. He’d listened to what she said about bad choices, about being a failure, and he was trying to . . . to disagree.
“Thank you,” she said softly, a smile spreading across her face.
He shot her a look of mild alarm. “Well. You don’t need to sound so pleased. I am simply updating you on your professional performance.”
A laugh crept up on her. “I can’t believe this.”
He snorted, looking down his nose. “Believe what?”
“I can’t believe that beneath all the indelible rudeness, you apparently possess great buckets of emotional intelligence. Far more than I do, anyway. Where in God’s name have you been hiding that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, Evie.” But the words couldn’t erase his blush. “This corner is done. Now, lean here so I can do this side.”
She obeyed in silence, still watching him with a hint of disbelief. Waiting for someone else to rip off the Jacob-costume and jump out at her. But that didn’t happen; of course it didn’t. Because he’d been this way all along.
He just saved it. Like a secret. For those who made him want to share.
The idea that she made Jacob want to share had Eve uncomfortably close to a swoon.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “You’re sweet, you know. Thank you.”
“If you ever call me sweet again, I’ll report you to HR.”
“Who’s HR?”
“I’m HR.”