She grinned, and, judging by the glimpse she caught of his profile as he turned away, so did Jacob.
Then he ruined a perfectly platonic moment by bending over the second corner, this time with Eve standing behind him. Now, she didn’t just assume the action displayed his arse beautifully; she saw. It was a high, tight peach filling the dove-gray trousers he wore today, stretching their seams with its curve as he leaned forward. Eve felt vaguely hypnotized. Her mouth may have hung open. Drool threatened like the promise of rain in May. This did not bode well.
Eve Brown was a generally horny woman; she knew this about herself. She appreciated all kinds of maleness, such as overlong eyelashes or fingers peeling off a beer label or legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. If she tried, she could get going over just about anything. So noticing Jacob in certain ways shouldn’t technically be a cause for concern.
Except she wasn’t simply noticing him. Sometimes his smile drew her eyeballs like fucking gravity, and that was a serious problem. She liked it here at Castell Cottage, liked working hard and feeling semicapable for once, liked acting like a bloody grown-up. She wasn’t going to fuck it up by developing a completely juvenile crush on her boss. Especially not when said boss might also be—kind of—sort of—her friend.
“Are we friends?” she blurted out, just to make sure.
Jacob looked up at her, appearing genuinely startled. Which made sense, since this was kind of a subject change. “Er . . .”
“Sorry, I was just thinking—you know. We get along much better now.”
“Compared to last week, when I was trying to chase you off with rudeness and you were—”
“If you say hitting me with your car one more time, I will eat you.”
“Battering me with a motorized vehicle?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Yes, Jacob. Since then.”
There was a pause before he answered. “Well. I don’t know. We’re certainly more friendly—but then, that wouldn’t be hard.”
“You know, when I started this conversation, I really thought it was a yes/no question.”
“It is,” he said immediately. “I mean, it would be. It should be. I just . . .” He trailed off, and she noticed that familiar blush creeping up his cheeks.
The sight took the sting out of his hesitation and pumped her full of glitter. Eve found herself grinning, leaning closer to him, teasing with a song in her voice. “You just . . . what?”
He cleared his throat. “I just don’t know. How one technically. Officially, that is. Decides, erm. Well, the thing is, when I made friends with Mont, we were children, and he kind of took charge, so. And since then, I haven’t really bothered, so. Hm.”
Eve stared, fighting a grin. “Oh my God, you’re just like Chloe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My oldest sister, Chloe. She spends all her time scowling at the postman and avoiding human contact, so when she actually wants to be friends she doesn’t know how to get started.”
Jacob released a breath that seemed almost relieved. “Ah. Yeah. Chloe does sound quite . . . familiar.”
“Oh, good.” Eve smiled. “Because I know how to deal with her particular brand of social awkwardness. And I know how to deal with yours, too.” In fact, she had the perfect idea already. A silly idea, probably, but she might do it anyway.
Jacob blinked. “That sounds ominous.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but does it?”
“Eve. Yes.”
She grinned. “Just you wait.”
Chapter Twelve
JACOB: What the hell are you doing in there?
While he waited for an answer, Jacob lay back in bed and stared at the sun-washed ceiling. The mysterious groans and thumps from next door continued. He’d had to text Eve about it, not because he thought she was doing something terrible in there, but because the nonstop noise was making it hard to ignore her.
It was always hard to ignore her.
They’d now been semiroommates for a week. He heard her in the mornings, stumbling around at dawn, yawning like some sort of adorable cartoon character. At breakfast, he went down to help, and tried not to marvel at the person she became in the kitchen—the way she whipped around like controlled chaos, like the eye of a storm, cooking and charming and cleaning and still managing to tease him all the while.
Then, later, he’d take her upstairs and watch her wrestle with bedsheets and polish mirrors with impressive determination and place the complimentary biscuits just right, and it turned out that seeing Eve try and try and ultimately succeed—succeed, when she obviously expected to fail—well. It turned out that Jacob struggled not to think about things like that.
Struggled not to roll the memories over his tongue later, like a fine chocolate truffle.
Struggled not to drift off into recollections while he soaped himself in the shower, or while he lay in the dark each night, or even—fuck—even during quiet, less busy moments in his office. Sometimes he thought of Eve’s easy jokes and Eve’s determination and Eve’s bubbly chatter, and his blood almost burned its way out of his body.
He’d decided not to examine why.
His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it with a speed that had nothing to do with expecting a text from Eve. Which was just as well, because it wasn’t a text from Eve; it was a message from a couple arriving in the morning, confirming their check-in schedule for the third time—as if he hadn’t sent them a highly detailed itinerary email complete with FAQ.
Despite priding himself on his swift responses and at-all-hours customer service, Jacob sighed and tossed the phone away.
Another bang sounded through the wall, followed by a yelp. He tensed, ready to jump up and investigate Eve’s welfare, then wondered what the fuck he thought he was doing. She was a grown woman. She didn’t need him running around after her like a nervous parent. He shouldn’t have even sent that text, because he didn’t care what she was up to. He didn’t—
The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it. And smiled.
EVE: Is harassing me in my own home a proper use of employee information, Mr. Wayne?
Because she hadn’t technically given him her phone number; she’d filled it out on her employment forms, and he’d put it in his phone. Which was a perfectly ordinary thing to do—in fact, it was Castell Cottage procedure, enshrined in his personal handbook. He’d had his previous chef’s number too, in case he needed to call her to investigate lateness, or some such.
Of course, with Eve, he could always just go and knock on her temporary bedroom door.
Not that he had, in the days since discovering her presence there. Because what if she was—what if she was changing? Or lounging around naked, painting her toenails pink, which seemed like something she would do. Or . . .
He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, not for any particular reason. Just because.
JACOB: YOUR own home, is it?
EVE: Squatter’s rights.
He laughed—actually laughed out loud, and felt the accompanying spark of warmth that had become so familiar around her. He didn’t think he’d ever been this easy with someone so quickly, didn’t think he’d ever learned another person’s rhythms enough to joke around like this without months of observational research first. But she was so open, and so reliably kind, that he couldn’t help himself.