Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(14)
Jacob tried to say, Take your promise and stick it up your arse, Madame Spy, but what came out was a raspy “Jesus, fuck, my head.”
And then the fuzziness got even fuzzier and Mont dragged him away, and Jacob . . . just sort of . . . went.
*
Warm and dry in the B&B, Eve could almost convince herself that the past twenty minutes had been a dream. Of course she hadn’t run over the most infuriating man alive! Of course he hadn’t been dragged off to the hospital by his best friend, leaving Eve behind to watch a goddamn bed-and-breakfast. Really, why not take things even further? Of course Eve hadn’t driven miles in a teary fit of pique before interviewing for the first job she came across as if that would solve all her problems! Because only a spoiled brat, or, alternatively, an adorable dog with a very tiny brain, would ever do such things, and Eve was surely neither.
Which didn’t explain why her jeans were still damp from kneeling beside Jacob’s crumpled form, why her hands were shaking something awful, or why she was currently standing nervous and alone in Castell Cottage’s welcoming foyer.
Well, shit sticks and fudgesicles.
Eve found a handily placed chaise longue by the stairs and summarily collapsed. She’d been aiming for an elegant lounge of the type Gigi might do, but her jeans were stiff and her frigid, fear-stricken bones were stiffer, so she ended up falling like a pile of bricks. The chaise was upholstered in burgundy silk that matched the Edwardian—or was it Victorian? Oh, who gave a shit—wallpaper and rugs. There were a lot of rugs in this high-ceilinged room, she noticed, as well as mahogany floors polished to a gleaming shine, and glowing wall sconces and various other things that said coziness and comfort and gravitas.
Was this really Jacob’s B&B, or did he just manage things? Only, she’d have taken him for a fan of cold, impersonal, modernist decor. Traditional vibes that she actually liked were not what Eve expected from the man.
He’d probably hired a decorator.
And she should probably stop thinking uncharitable thoughts about someone she’d just put in the hospital.
When Eve’s phone buzzed from her back pocket, she jolted in a manner that screamed guilty conscience. The vibration popped her bubble of shock, making her suddenly, uncomfortably aware that she was now responsible for the house in which she lounged. Better make a good show of it. Arsehole or not, Jacob did deserve to have his obvious B&B standards upheld. And she had said . . . She’d said . . .
I promise I will look after your B&B as if it’s my very own.
Which, in hindsight, had been a reckless promise to make. Already regretting her words, Eve huffed out a shaky breath and sat upright (in order to seem more commanding and less, er, collapsing). Unfortunately, regardless of her physical position, she was clearly incapable of looking after a damned flea. This morning alone, she’d failed at running away, failed at her first job interview, and failed at basic car safety. By the time Jacob returned she’d probably have set his roof on fire.
Rolling her lips between her teeth, she wiggled her still-vibrating phone from her pocket. It was set to Do Not Disturb, so someone must have called multiple times. The name FLORENCE LENNOX flashed up on the screen. Eve sighed, hesitated, then pressed Accept. In her experience, the best way to deal with Bad Feelings was to avoid facing them by any means necessary. Whatever Florence wanted would do wonderfully as a distraction.
“Hello?”
“Darling! There you are, I texted twice.”
“Twice?” Eve murmured. “Goodness. Please thank your fingers for their service.”
Florence released a waterfall of tinkling laughter, which was strange, since she never usually laughed at Eve’s jokes. In Florence’s circle, Eve was the Baker Friend—which meant they called her up when they needed event cakes, then invited her to whatever said event happened to be, as a form of payment. Following which, they gently ignored her until the next party.
Eve had a designated status in every friendship group she belonged to. That was how she managed to cling to the periphery of them all.
“Oh, darling, you’re hilarious. But, do listen—I have a proposition for you.”
Eve frowned at the phone. A proposition was not how Florence usually spun, A request for you to bring a three-tiered topsy-turvy cake to my mother’s fiftieth birthday.
“Yeees?”
“Don’t sound so nervous!” Flo had a charming habit of noticing and immediately articulating weakness. A bit like a wolf that could talk. “It’s about your little events company. Now, I know you love to take over the cakes and things for all my parties.”
Love might be an overstatement, but Eve didn’t hate it. Fucking up a favor was nearly impossible—and people were always so pleased when they tasted her double-fudge.
Causing happiness was about the only thing that still made her sparkle.
“I thought cakes were your only real skill,” Florence was droning on, “but it seems you’ve been hiding other talents, you naughty thing. Because I’ve heard amazing things about the wedding you planned.” She paused. “Well, except for that odd rumor about your biting off a dove’s head and spitting feathers into the bride’s face, but never mind that. My point is—it’s little Freddy’s birthday in February, and he’s just given our original party planner the clap, so we need a new one. One he probably won’t give the clap.”