Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(27)

She was jolted out of that unexpected thought when Jacob released a bark of laughter. It was so sudden, and so completely surprising, that she spun to look at him—as if further inspection might reveal that the noise had come from someone else.

But no: judging by the ghost of a smile still on his lips, and the lines fanning from the corners of those piercing eyes, it had definitely been him. Even if he cleared his throat and iced up under her gaze faster than a puddle in December.

Still, she had to ask. “Did you just laugh? Did I just make you laugh?”

“Woman,” he sighed, “you couldn’t make me do anything, even with a gun in your hand.”

Funnily enough, she believed him. But he had laughed. She’d heard him. The sound, wry and rusty, had been a little bit like music.

“Hurry up with the breakfast, would you?” he said, and though his tone was lazy, she had the distinct impression that Jacob was changing the subject. “If you’re not up to scratch, I’ll need to find another replacement, and the clock is ticking.”

Turning her back on him, Eve rolled her eyes. “Up to scratch. It’s only eggs and bloody sausages.”

“Actually,” he said sharply, “it’s much more than that. This is hospitality. Hospitality matters. Creating a home away from home matters. And I prefer staff who take this business—this responsibility—seriously.”

She faltered as his words sank in. Responsibility. Taking things seriously. Those were the things Eve had failed at most of all, and she was supposed to be fixing that.

She swallowed.

“Furthermore,” Jacob went on, “while my standards are high at all times, they are even higher when people from all over the country will soon be tasting Castell Cottage’s food.”

She blinked rapidly, shoving her discomfort aside as she stirred the scrambled eggs. “The whole country?”

“Yes. You do remember the reason I hired—considered hiring you, correct? The festival in Pemberton?”

Oh, shoot. “Yes,” Eve said brightly. “Of course.” Telling the truth—No, actually, I had entirely forgotten—seemed like it might cause an argument. But shit, now she felt even worse, because this Gingerbread Festival (whatever that entailed) was important to Ja—to the business, and it had dropped clean out of her head. She’d planned to stick around until the man she’d injured was somewhat back on his feet. But she couldn’t do that only to disappear when he really needed her, could she? For heaven’s sake, she’d messed him up so badly it took him hours to get dressed, never mind to hunt down another willing human-sacrifice-slash-chef.

Aaand there was her guilt again, like clockwork.

“What would—do I have to do?” she asked casually, her back still to him. “For the festival, I mean. What does it involve?”

Jacob gave a long-suffering sigh, as if she’d asked him to recite the periodic table. (Although, knowing him, he could probably do so with little difficulty.) “Don’t worry,” he drawled. “It’ll be quite simple, since my previous chef already planned everything. A few menu options—similar to those we offer during this breakfast service—will be written up on a board. Some can be prepared in advance; others are simple enough to make using the equipment I’ve already purchased.”

Already purchased? Eve wasn’t the greatest with money, but she did know a new business couldn’t buy equipment without earning something back to make the purchase worth its while. Yet another reason why Jacob was so determined to go forward with this festival, she supposed.

“You will be responsible for cooking to order at the stall, and I’ll serve customers,” he continued.

“Ah—putting your winning personality to good use.”

“You have a very poor sense of humor,” Jacob said steadily. “If I were you, I’d keep that to myself.”

Eve rolled her eyes, but she was too busy wrestling with her own thoughts to really take offense. Because the more Jacob spoke, the more she became dreadfully convinced that staying in Skybriar longer than planned was her only moral course of action. The man needed her help—even if he’d likely rather die than phrase it that way. And Eve owed him said help, probably more than she’d ever owed anyone anything.

Which made her choice crystal clear. For the next month, whether he liked it or not, Eve Brown would work as a chef for Jacob Wayne. She would serve breakfast for dinner at a gingerbread parade or whatever, and only then would she disappear in a puff of smoke to begin her party-planning profession. All things considered, it seemed the least she could do.

Jacob cleared his throat, rudely interrupting her Very Serious Thought Process. “Am I getting this breakfast, or are you going to stand there looking grim all day?”

“Grim?” Eve yelped. “I never look grim. My resting expression is general delight.”

“Your resting expression is princess,” he muttered.

Princess. Her hands curled into fists.

“What?” Jacob barked at her silence. “Are you actually nervous about this? Because if you’ve been merrily feeding my guests substandard food all morning without saying a bloody word—”

For some reason, Jacob questioning the deliciousness of her breakfast was starting to piss Eve off. “Hard to speak to a man who’s asleep,” she pointed out sharply.