Very small, very simple words. They shouldn’t be able to punch a hole through her outrage like this, but clearly, Eve was soft.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice as impassioned as a whisper could be. Which was, apparently, rather impassioned indeed. His hand squeezed hers, and then his other hand joined the party, cast and all, and suddenly he was clutching her like a Regency gentleman about to make a heartfelt declaration. “I did strong-arm you, because I was panicking, and that was wrong of me, and I—I was a shit, and you’re right to be angry with me, but please, please don’t ever think I want to get rid of you. That is the last thing I want. I don’t think I could ever want that. You’re lovely, Evie, and you make me smile every day—multiple times a day”—he managed to sound genuinely shocked by that—“and I can’t believe you’ve been holding this in all week instead of smacking me for it.”
Eve decided it was for the best that she couldn’t see Jacob in here, because hearing his voice was bad enough. The speed of his words, and the way his sentences frayed at the edges, and that thread of desperation through it all as if he really, urgently needed her to understand, was bad enough.
“Say something,” he murmured hoarsely. “Please.”
“I . . .” She took a breath. She had the vague idea that she should remain angry despite his apology, based on principle alone, but, well. She wasn’t angry anymore. He had just popped all her hurt like a balloon and replaced it with several thousand hopeful, happy bubbles, and really, no one should have the power to change her mood so very quickly.
But apparently, Jacob did.
Drat.
“Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. I suppose I understand. And you apologize very well.” She paused. “If you would like to compliment me some more before we make up, feel free.”
To her surprise, he took that joke as a very serious suggestion. “You are extremely sweet and a very good cook and incredibly pretty,” he said without hesitation, “and . . . you have a wonderful sense of humor.”
“Ha! I knew you thought I was funny. I knew it.”
“Maybe I’m just sucking up,” he said. But he squeezed her hand again, and she felt an answering squeeze of pleasure in her tummy.
“I don’t think sucking up is your style, Jacob Wayne,” she said softly.
“If anyone could drive me to it,” he replied, “you could.”
In that moment, Eve decided that getting on with things might be the adult way to live—but blurting out her feelings was officially the Eve Brown way to live. She much preferred it.
“So,” Jacob said after a moment. “Since I never did ask—what do you want to do? About . . . everything?”
Now, there was a question. Her gut instinct was to reply, I want to go home and have my way with you again—but Eve had spent the last week thinking about all the reasons why that was not a sound choice. First and foremost: she had a queasy suspicion that if she spent too much time with her hands on this man, she’d eventually refuse to let go. And she couldn’t refuse to let go; not when Skybriar was just a temporary pit stop on her journey to being her better self. She had a party-planning job to complete. She had parents to make proud, once and for all. She had a mature, adult plan, and staying here in this happy little fairy-tale town with a delightful big bad wolf was not conducive to that plan. It couldn’t be, because she wanted it so badly.
Anyway, Jacob wasn’t asking for a relationship. He was asking how they should go about not-fucking, which was pretty much the opposite, so she’d better rein in all these secret, silly hopes.
If she was smart, she would want what Jacob wanted: distance. Yet the very idea made her come over all gray, like a rainy sky.
“Look,” she said slowly. “I am on a journey to self-ac . . . ac . . .”
“Actualization.”
“Precisely,” she said. “I know sleeping with my emotionally unavailable boss isn’t a mature, sensible choice, so I’m not going to do it again.” Even if she was struggling more and more to accept the idea that Jacob could be a bad choice.
He wasn’t hers to choose, so it didn’t really matter.
“But I still want to be near you,” she continued. “All right? I just want to be near you. So I vote we keep going the way we always have, and we’ll completely forget the inappropriate sex part, and everything will be fine.” She hoped.
After a long, long silence, he said, “I see.” Then, in a sudden flurry of action, he added, “Come on,” and opened the door, and towed her outside like a boat.
Lucy was leaning against the opposite wall with her arms folded and one eyebrow raised. But there was a hint of amusement in her voice when she asked, “Meeting concluded?”
“Yes,” Jacob said. “Really sorry, Luce, but we don’t need the room. Sorry. Just—more convenient at the cottage. Early hours. Free board. I’m not paying Eve enough, you know.”
“No,” Lucy said dryly. “I imagine not.”
“Right, well, we’ll be off now.”
Lucy cleared her throat.
“Oh.” Jacob released Eve’s hand and went over to his aunt. “Thanks, really. Sorry to play silly buggers. I’ll see you for dinner this weekend. Bye.” He bent to kiss her silvery hair.
“Whatever. Love you, kiddo,” Lucy said, and slapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Erm, good-bye,” Eve said brightly, and that was all she managed before Jacob took her hand again and dragged her away.
Chapter Sixteen
Jacob leaned back in his oversized, leather desk chair, his phone pressed anxiously to his ear. “Mont? Are you all right? You sound like you’re hyperventilating.”
“I am hyperventilating,” Mont replied, although now he was speaking again, he sounded more dazed and confused than low on oxygen. “Did you just—Jacob—did you just call me up and tell me, all fucking casual, that you slept with Eve last Sunday night?”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of slept with.”
“My definition involves orgasms.”
“Ah.” Restless, Jacob pushed back his chair and stood. “In that case, I suppose so.” He sounded dry and detached, like he really was as casual about this situation as Mont claimed. But he fucking wasn’t, hence why he’d caved and confessed all to his best friend. It had been an entire week since the Dildo Incident, and he was crumbling like some ancient cliff because God and fuck and shit and God, he wanted to touch her again. To hold her, and taste her, and feel like she was his.
He’d been this close to saying as much on Thursday, in the darkness of Aunt Lucy’s cupboard. If Eve had pushed him then—even a little bit—he would’ve abandoned his common sense and fucked her however, whenever, and wherever she bloody well wanted. But she’d made it clear that she didn’t want anything of the sort—thankfully before he’d made a total fool of himself.
I know sleeping with my emotionally unavailable boss isn’t a mature, sensible choice . . .
That completely factual statement should not have stung.
“So,” Mont said, “does she know you only sleep with people if you—”