Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(29)
“Well, you’re trying to,” he snapped. “Embrace servility in your soul, and maybe I’ll hire you.”
“Do you often encourage servility in the souls of the black women around you?”
“Do I—the—” He shut his mouth with a click and glared. “Again. You think like a wolf.”
“Thank you. Now open up for the choo-choo train.”
“Murder,” Jacob murmured. “I am going to commit a murder.” But to Eve’s surprise, when she stabbed some egg and a chunk of sausage onto the fork, Jacob opened his mouth and took it.
He really . . . really . . . took it.
She found herself dazed by the sight of Jacob Wayne, usually all frost and superior self-control, parting those fine lips for her. His teeth were so white and his tongue was so pink. Those were quite ordinary colors for tongues and teeth to be, and yet Eve found herself unfairly fascinated by the contrast. And then . . . and then he bent his head forward and closed his mouth around the fork. The fork she was holding. She felt the action, the slight pressure, even as she saw it.
His gaze was lowered, focused on the fork, presumably to make sure she didn’t accidentally stab him with it. Which, in fairness, she might, because her limbs were feeling oddly distant and her brain was starting to hum. Behind his glasses, his eyelashes were long and thick. She hadn’t noticed before, since they were the sort of golden color that didn’t exactly catch attention in a face like his. But here, now, all she could do was notice them.
Jacob released the fork, and chewed, and swallowed. His eyes fluttered shut for the barest second, and a slight grunt of pleasure escaped him before he could stop it. Eve knew she should be punching the air with pure, professional satisfaction—or better yet, told-you-so satisfaction.
Instead, all she could do was suck in a breath and press a cool hand to her suddenly feverish throat. Because shit. Jacob made pleasure look and sound rather good.
Wait—no. No, no, no. Eve had an unfortunate habit of forming attractions to unsuitable men. Her sexual choices, like her other choices, had always been utterly terrible. But since she was currently on a voyage of growth and self-discovery, gaining maturity points like the intrepid heroine of a bildungs-whatever-the-fuck, she would not develop the horn for this incredible arsehole of a man. She absolutely refused. She didn’t even like him.
Of course, Eve had certainly lost her head over men she didn’t like before.
But this was different. This was absolutely different. So, she said to her stirring libido, don’t let me catch you mooning again.
Jacob opened his eyes just as she finished scolding her vagina. “Okay,” he said grimly, as if she’d presented him with something awful rather than the very best British breakfast had to offer. “Maybe that was possibly quite decent.”
Thankfully, as soon as he spoke, every ounce of Eve’s physical appreciation drained away like hot water down a plughole. How convenient.
“Is that French toast?” he went on, eyeing the plate. “Let me try some of that.”
“Why? At best it’ll only be maybe possibly quite decent.”
He rolled his eyes, then winced as if the action had hurt. “Fine,” he said, “it was good. You’re hired. Now give me the bloody toast.”
And just like that, she was walking on air. “Really? You mean it?” Her smile practically stretched from ear to ear, so intense her cheeks started to hurt.
“Yes. Toast. Now.”
Still beaming, Eve dropped the fork and picked up a slice of French toast, holding it to his lips. But her mind was elsewhere. Specifically, itching to grab her phone so she could change the music filling the kitchen from Stromae to some miraculous hymn. How odd, to feel this helium balloon of excitement in her chest over a job she barely wanted, one she was only taking for various moral reasons, et cetera. Hm. Satisfaction was such an unpredictable thing.
Maybe she was pleased to have secured a proper job on her own—something her parents assumed she couldn’t do. Yes, that must be it. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that she’d enjoyed cooking this morning. Once she’d gotten over her nerves, chatting to guests and playing with ingredients in the kitchen had been rather fun. Not reading-Vanessa-Riley-in-bed fun, but completing-a-puzzle fun. Which—
Eve sucked in a breath, pulling back her fingers when they touched something soft and warm and . . . human. Before her, Jacob blushed like a traffic light, his chin snapping up so he was staring straight ahead. Or, more specifically, over her head.
“Did you just bite me?” she asked. Except it hadn’t been a bite, because there were no teeth involved. Just the velvet brush of . . .
Jacob’s mouth?
“No!” he barked. “I was—the toast was very good. I, erm, got a bit carried away, and I wasn’t paying attention, so. Sorry.”
Oh. He’d been so busy eating the toast, he’d almost eaten her. Usually, Eve would laugh about that. Tease him mercilessly, at the very least.
Instead she found herself staring at her still-tingling fingertips.
“Well,” Jacob said into the silence. “I think that’s enough breakfast for today.” It wasn’t until he turned and walked away that Eve realized how close they’d been standing. He put his plate down on the counter with a clatter that seemed distinctly un-Jacoblike, then continued speaking with his back to her. It was a very broad back. It seemed to rise and fall with his breaths quite frequently. Or maybe she was just looking very hard.