Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(67)

Eve rarely did anything other than ask for help. That was on the list of things she wanted to change. But it struck her now that there was a balance to be observed.

“Thank you, Gigi,” she said softly. “I think you’re right.”

“Of course I am, my precious little plum. Now, what’s gotten you into a tizzy at such a disgraceful hour?”

Eve opened her mouth, then realized that (1) she didn’t want to discuss mind-blowing sex with her grandmother, even if said grandmother would thoroughly approve, and (2) she didn’t actually need to. Eve knew how she felt, what she wanted, and what options were available to her. Just talking to Gigi had calmed her down and untangled her frantic thoughts.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that I don’t exactly need to talk about it. I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“What a sweet little nugget you are, Evie.”

Trust Gigi to end a depressing phone call by making Eve laugh.

By the time Jacob’s shower ended, Eve had restored her bedroom to some semblance of order, put her dildo in a box and put that box in a drawer so she could never stumble upon it again, and gotten into her pajamas. Order. Routine. All very important things for a woman who felt raw inside, yet wanted to appear ordinary, to observe.

She would pretend to be fine until she was fine—because regardless of her feelings, the facts were clear: she wanted something impossible. If Jacob had wanted the same, she might be brave enough to reach for it, anyway. But he didn’t, so she wouldn’t.

She would go back to the way things had been only yesterday, and she would try to be as satisfied as she’d been then.

Which must be the adult choice, because she didn’t bloody like it. Not one bit.

*

Amazing, how quickly Thursday had come despite Jacob’s sleepless nights.

This week, breakfast had continued to go smoothly, as had afternoon tea. Housekeeping had gone less smoothly, at least for him—because controlling himself, even controlling his thoughts, around Eve Brown was a fucking roller-coaster ride. But he’d successfully performed their new, stiff choreography without cracking, never touching her as they worked, talking about nothing but the necessities because any other conversation might see him pulled under the wave of her loveliness. So perhaps he should call that a win.

Now they were walking through the streets toward Aunt Lucy’s to start their tour of local, affordable accommodation, and he should call that a win, too.

He really should.

Less of a win was the fact that he remained utterly fascinated with Eve, and mostly unable to hide it. Like right now; his eyes were staring straight ahead, his feet were obediently walking, step by step, down the street—but his mind was out of control, pouring all its considerable attention onto Eve. He imagined he could feel the warmth of her as she walked beside him, slightly hotter than this mild afternoon. He imagined, every so often, a glittering sensation caused by her gaze on the side of his face. As if she were sneaking looks at him, and he was so in tune with her every move that he could sense it.

But those things were just fantasy; in reality, all Jacob could do was hear her. How lucky for him that she was never silent. After a few awkward moments of quiet at the beginning of their walk, Eve had started up this odd, humming lilt, the same snatch of a tune repeated again and again in slightly different ways. It was a habit of hers, a vocal tic he’d gotten used to. But now, on his way to Aunt Lucy’s—on his way to lose Eve, just a little bit—Jacob found himself desperate to understand everything she did rather than simply enjoying it.

So he asked on an ill-advised rush of curiosity, “What are you doing?”

At his question, Eve looked up sharply. Almost guiltily. “Sorry,” she said. She was so on edge, now. Ever since—well, ever since. It was obviously his fault, and the knowledge squeezed at his lungs.

That tightness, that lack of air, made his next words come out clipped. “I didn’t say to apologize. I said, what are you doing?”

Predictably, his sharpness chased the embarrassment from her eyes. Now she looked pissed off with him, which he far preferred. “You said I could sing. You even said it was better to sing than to wear the AirPods. I told you it would be annoying.”

“I don’t find it annoying.” Which was the truth. He found it . . . familiar.

“You don’t find it annoying?” she echoed skeptically, one eyebrow arched.

“That’s what I said.” Jacob paused, considering his next words. He wasn’t sure if he should say them; after all, this woman wasn’t his business, not in the way he wanted her to be. Restless, he even pulled out his phone, hoping for a distraction that would stop him from speaking. No new notifications. Nothing particularly interesting on his live video feed of the cottage. Fine.

He put his phone away, and next thing he knew, the question he’d been avoiding slipped out. “Have you ever heard of stimming?”

She kicked a twig onto the grassy path beside them, then tipped back her head to squint at the low-hanging sun. “I don’t know. Maybe. Remind me what it is?”

Jacob allowed himself a moment to watch the fall of her hair, the way one fine lavender braid caught and coiled in the soft space between her neck and her shoulder, before dragging his gaze away. “It’s a kind of . . . repetitive action, to find comfort or focus or self-stimulate. Lots of autistic people do it.”