Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(31)

“Yes,” Eve said, which wasn’t technically a lie. She had sent Mum a text that said,

Parents,

I’ve found a month’s interim employment and secured an event-planning contract beginning in September. My current job has provided temporary lodgings, and I’ll deal with the rest later, so don’t worry about me coming home.

Then she’d muted their texts and firmly ignored all their calls. Nothing personal. She was just afraid that if she heard her parents’ voices again before she’d gotten over their last conversation, she might do something mortifying, like cry.

“So where’s the crisis part?” Dani nudged.

“That would be the bit where she ran over her employer, darling,” Chloe said helpfully.

Eve had finally crested the hill and reached her car. She unlocked it, trying not to look at the bumper where there may or may not be a Jacob-sized dent (she didn’t know, having refused to check), and shoved most of her shopping bags inside. Her current housing situation was . . . well, more like a squatting situation, and until that was resolved, she probably shouldn’t traipse into Castell Cottage with all the new clothing and toiletries she’d just bought.

Since Jacob had no idea she was living in his spare room, and all.

She was going to tell him, of course! At some point.

“I don’t see how that’s crisis-y,” Dani was saying, “unless he’s dead. Or suing. But it doesn’t sound like he’s doing either of those things, is he?”

“No,” Eve muttered, “just killing me slowly via frostbite in revenge.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s a bit of an arsehole, is all.” In fact, she felt a rant on the subject building in her chest, like a bubble that needed popping.

“Due to the car-hitting thing?”

“Yes, and also due to his personality.”

“How unfortunate,” Chloe murmured absently.

“He’s—completely unreasonable,” Eve said, warming to the topic. “Intimidatingly focused and alarmingly straightforward and apparently determined not to like anyone.”

“Sounds like Chlo,” Dani said. Which brought Eve up short for a moment, because actually . . . well. That did sound like Chloe. Very like her, on a superficial level at least.

“Charming,” said the woman herself. “And accurate. Just feed him, Evie, that’ll soften him up. Everyone likes food.”

And now Eve’s mind was thrust backward to that morning, to the curious zip in her belly when she’d felt Jacob’s mouth on her skin. His mouth. On her skin. Goodness gracious. She sucked in a breath and started walking again, stomping over the B&B’s gravel drive. “Maybe. I don’t know. This morning, he did seem like he might . . .” She trailed off, suddenly hot all over and ever so slightly confused.

“What?” Dani prompted. “Like he might what?”

“Never mind. I’ve got to go now.”

“Do you? How sudden and suspicious,” Dani drawled.

“Are you perchance hiding something, little sister?” That was Chloe.

“No,” Eve lied. “It’s just that, if he catches me on the phone, he’ll probably flush it down the toilet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“So I’ll text you later, love you, bye.” Eve hung up with a twinge of guilt toward her sisters and absolutely no guilt toward Jacob, who totally deserved to be mischaracterized as a phone-flushing prison warden so Eve could avoid awkward conversations.

Totally.





Chapter Eight


One upside of having his brain slammed against his skull? It made Jacob sleep like the dead. Or rather, he had slept like the dead last night, and had fallen asleep easily this evening. But now he was awake again, so maybe his sleeping superpower had already gone.

He rolled over and eyed the blinking blue light of his alarm clock in the dark. 1:11 A.M. For fuck’s sake. He was in the process of burrowing deeper into the blankets when a particular awareness zipped down his spine.

He’d woken because something was wrong.

With a grimace, Jacob threw off the covers and dragged his aching bones out of bed. Striding to the window, he snatched open the curtains and was hit in the face by a waft of warm, summer-scented night air. He stared out at the grounds for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight. When adjustment failed to happen, he realized he’d forgotten to grab his glasses.

Bloody concussion. Since when did a man who’d been short-sighted since childhood forget his glasses?

He was just turning back to get them when he heard it. Loud. Harsh. Unmistakable. The sound that’d roused him from his sleep, a siren of danger and destruction.

Quack. Quack. Quack.

Ducks.

Gripping the windowsill with his good hand, Jacob stuck his head out of the window, then remembered that bellowing at ducks at 1 A.M. with a houseful of sleeping guests was not conducive to five-star reviews. Crap. He turned and stomped out of the bedroom, snagging his glasses on the way. Maneuvering quickly and quietly through the B&B was a familiar act, if a little more difficult now his body had become a giant bruise. Still, the knowledge that ducks were defiling his precious, perfectly arranged garden—shitting in his pond, no doubt, the bastards—pushed him harder and faster.