Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(57)

He shuffled away from her flailing arms, then winced and adjusted some cushions. He’d probably fallen foul of the sofa bed’s awful springs. Served him right for shorting out all her circuits with his cuteness.

“Why—this is—”

“Are you all right, Eve?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she managed. “Just trying to come to terms with the fact that you work so hard at this B&B stuff because of your principles. And your passion. And all sorts of other . . . p words.” She paused. “Not penis. I didn’t mean penis.”

“Why on earth would I think you meant penis?”

Genuinely surprised, she cocked her head. “That isn’t the first p word that pops into your mind?”

“Jesus Christ, Eve, no.”

“Ohhh. Is it pussy?”

“Stop saying—” The muscle in his jaw performed a fascinating dance and his left hand dug into a cushion so hard she was worried he might rip it apart. “Stop saying . . . those things.”

Oh dear. She cleared her throat and moved swiftly on. “I’m just in a constant state of mild shock-horror over your high levels of decency.” Mostly because she herself couldn’t fathom such thoughtfulness, and also because he was so good at pretending to live in a mental ice palace.

Jacob shifted uncomfortably under her praise and muttered, “Please. If I was that decent I’d be paying you for all the extra work you do.”

She blinked. He’d said something like this before, but she’d assumed he’d been joking. Apparently, it was actually bothering him. “Don’t be silly. I know you can’t afford overtime.”

Because Jacob was Jacob, he didn’t snarl at the implication or sink into a manly spiral of despair over his reduced circumstances. He just laughed and said, “Oh, so you’ve noticed I’m poor as shit. I wasn’t sure you understood how money worked.”

“Har-har. You’ve told me before that you put all your savings into Castell Cottage. And since I help with the ironing, I am aware you only have three work shirts.” She supposed he spent his clothing budget on those little complimentary soaps, the artisanal ones with local honey in them that he arranged just so in every guest bathroom.

“You’ve been counting my shirts, Evie? That is beyond a man’s dignity.” But he was still smiling beneath his injured expression. It was a tiny quirk to the lips, a brightness in his eyes that made everything between them as golden as the honey in those soaps.

They could tease and they could share and they could be comfortable together, and she loved it. She loved it.

So she did some more teasing, since he took it so well. “I think it’s charming that you are poor as a noble church mouse.”

“I think you must’ve been raised in a palace on Cloud Unicorn because you are the most ridiculous thing.” But he said the words fondly. He said them so fondly, with such tenderness in his eyes, that she felt slightly faint for a moment. She felt like squirming under that gentle smile, like covering her heated face with both hands or collapsing at his feet or . . . or . . .

That was definitely enough teasing for one day. She cleared her throat and got back to business. “Don’t forget the extra work is because I broke your wrist. And anyway, I researched, and I know you actually pay higher than average.”

“I pay a living wage, Eve. The real one, not the government bullshit.”

“Do you pay yourself a living wage?”

“Quiet, baggage.” He reached over and pushed at her shoulder—just the quickest, lightest touch, one that barely connected, as if he was afraid she might topple off the bed and knock herself out on the side table. Or maybe he touched her so lightly because he felt the same thing she did: the electric shiver down her spine, a silver streak of heat, every time his skin brushed hers.

Maybe.

“And what do you mean you researched?” he snorted. “What, you had no point of reference?”

Eve shrugged. “You’ve read my CV.”

“You mean the document you emailed me that included two weeks spent as a fire-eater at a resort hotel? I have to say, Sunshine, I assumed you were taking the piss with that.”

Her mind stuttered and restarted over sunshine. Had he . . . just said that word? Or rather, had he just said it at her? As in . . . she . . . was the sunshine?

“Please tell me you were taking the piss,” he went on. “I am begging you. Because if you weren’t, I now have to come to terms with the fact that you spent a month as an abseiling instructor in Wales.”

This was the part where she passionately denied her checkered past as an abseiling instructor, or threw caution to the wind and boldly admitted to it. But her whole mind, possibly her entire nervous system, was still occupied with that little sunshine slip.

I have to say, Sunshine . . .

Perhaps she’d misheard him. Perhaps he’d developed a stutter or he was so high on sugar he’d started to slur.

Except, after the beat of her silence, he gave a wry smile. “You seem distracted.”

“Mmm,” she managed.

“I can hear you overthinking.”

“Well,” she blurted, “you can’t blame me.”

“Because of the sunshine thing.” He didn’t make it a question, but she answered anyway.