Then she’d surprised herself in increasingly better ways—by keeping her word and looking after Castell Cottage, and not fucking it up. By getting into this whole chef lark and taking pride in her job. By making friends and settling down and starting to see Skybriar, already, as something like home.
But Eve had never shocked herself quite so thoroughly as she did in the moments following her and Jacob’s rather mind-blowing desk-sex. The moment in which he kissed her, then gave her a sheepish grin and said, “I’m going to deal with the condom.”
“By deal with,” she asked, stretching languidly, “do you mean shower your whole entire body?”
He released a laughing breath, then admitted, “Well, yes. But I’ll be quick.”
She opened her mouth to reply, and the words, I love you, almost fell out.
Thoroughly astonished, Eve snapped her mouth shut. Luckily, Jacob didn’t notice; he was too busy staring at her tits over his shoulder as he left the room. Bless his one-track mind.
And bless his arse, a bitable curve that flexed with every step.
But when he finally disappeared out of the doorway, the evil spell of his backside was broken and Eve mentally returned to the I love you moment. Hm. Interesting. She probably ought to investigate that. Her first instinct was to go to her room and put on some nice, fluffy pajamas—you know, to settle her mind and thus facilitate the feelings investigation—but she found she couldn’t leave the office without setting Jacob’s desk to rights. Or at least attempting to. They’d rather decimated it.
It occurred to Eve, as she was gathering papers in a vague attempt at order and fixing his upended lamp, that this sort of behavior rather matched the words she’d wanted to say. After all, love seemed the only reasonable motivator for tidying someone else’s desk when you yourself could not give a flying fuck about the entire thing.
Of course, it was possible that her love for Castell Cottage had inspired this fit of conscientiousness, and that she’d only felt a momentary swell of love in her heart for Jacob because he’d just given her such impeccable dick.
On the other hand, that momentary swell of love wasn’t actually momentary, because as soon as she thought about him, she felt it again: a flood of tenderness and affection, gentle, yet powerful enough to swallow entire cities whole. Familiar, but magnified. Known, but intense. The sort of love you read about in books.
After two weeks. No way. No fucking way.
And yet, by the time Eve finished in the office, carried herself back to her bedroom, and put on the aforementioned fluffy pajamas, that soft-but-strong emotion hadn’t gone away.
It wasn’t that the idea of loving Jacob bothered her. Actually, when she thought about it, she caught herself grinning so hard her cheeks ached and her eyes squinted and her ears sort of popped, and she felt a bit loopy, like she could fall back against the bed with a film-worthy sigh and do nothing but moon over his very excellent qualities for the next nine hundred hours.
But there was also a part of her, small but loud and rather fierce, that insisted she be reasonable. Rational. Adult. She couldn’t possibly be in love with Jacob already. It was silly. It was reckless. It was the very definition of immature, absolute evidence that she was making bad choices yet again—only, when she tried to think of Jacob as a mistake, she came up against an impenetrable wall in her mind that cut off such a sacrilegious path completely.
In the end, she decided to do as Gigi had advised. Because when attempting to adult, there was no harm in requesting a little assistance.
Eve strained to listen for the sound of the shower running down the hall, and then—satisfied Jacob was still occupied—she adjusted the silk scarf holding back her braids, picked up her phone, and opened the sisterly group chat. After misspelling her request three times in a row, she decided her mind was frazzled enough without bringing typing into the equation, and hit Record on a voice note instead.
“Hello. I have a question that requires only answers; no nosy questions in return, thank you. How does one know when one is really in love? For example, in Beauty and the Beast, how did Belle know she was in love with the Beast and not just Stockholm syndromed? Or, Chloe, how did you know you were in love with Red and not just his excellent hair? Oh, or Dani, how did you know you were in love with Zaf and not just his excellent hair? Yes. That question. That’s my question. Danika, please respond.” Satisfied, she sent the message.
It took a moment for blue ticks and jumping dots to appear, but once they did, responses were fired in quick succession.
DANI: I didn’t know I was in love with Zaf, remember? You told me.
CHLOE: I find this question infinitely suspicious.
CHLOE: Who is Stockholm syndroming you?
Eve rolled her eyes and sent back, “No one. It was a theoretical comparison.”
DANI: Okay, but who are you in love with?
Eve hit Record, opened her mouth, then stopped when she realized she’d been about to say it. She’d been about to say, out loud, I’m in love with Jacob, and she would’ve meant it, too.
Which didn’t entirely obliterate Eve’s doubts—not when those doubts revolved around herself, around who she was and who she wanted to become, and how wide the gulf was between each state. But it certainly helped.
She found herself smiling again. I’m in love with Jacob. It sounded so good, so pure, so precious in her head. So she’d keep it in there for a little while longer, until she was confident enough to say it out loud.
“Were you talking to someone?” As if conjured by her thoughts, Jacob’s voice floated through the door a moment before he stepped inside.
Dripping wet.
In a towel.
“Good God in heaven,” Eve said, “you have to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?” he asked coolly. But there was a slight tilt to the corner of his mouth, a purposeful languor in his movements as he sauntered into the bedroom, raking a hand through his damp hair. He knew exactly what, so she didn’t bother spelling it out.
He was clearly terrible at drying himself off, because she could see tiny droplets of water glistening over his pale skin. It made him look like a delicious can of Coke on a sweltering day, sweating enticingly. The downy trail of blond hair arrowing toward his—well, frankly, toward his dick, had Eve’s heart pumping like a perky aerobics teacher’s biceps, and her clit aching like her head after a tequila hangover. Her mouth went dry. Possibly because all the moisture in her body had moved rapidly down to her pussy.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked softly.
“Hmm?” Eve attempted to scrape her sentiency up off the floor where she’d dropped it. “Oh. Erm, my sisters.”
He came closer, his eyes an electric storm. “That’s nice. Now put the phone down.”
Eve realized belatedly that she was still holding the Record button. “Yes, sir.” She let go, locked the phone, and stood up.
“You should come to my room,” he said.
She blinked. “Sex in a bed? You spoil me.”
“No, not sex in a bed. I mean—” His nostrils flared, even as his mouth curled into a self-deprecating smile. “Well, yes, actually. Sex in a bed. But I meant that you should sleep with me.” He caught her hand. “If you want. That’s what I meant.”