Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(70)

There was a long pause before he said slowly, “You’re angry. You’re angry with me.”

“No, I’m not,” she snapped, rather angrily. Which gave her pause. Made her examine the irritable little flame in her chest. Made her realize that actually, yes, she was angry, despite her decision to get over this whole thing.

Eve wasn’t used to being angry, especially not for long. She was always aware that most people didn’t want her around badly enough to put up with difficult conversations, with constant complaints. She was used to swallowing her feelings and replacing them with a smile, to playing the role in which she’d been cast.

But these feelings were huge and jagged and spiky in her stomach, and she wanted to spit them out.

“Fine,” she blurted. “Fine, yes, maybe I am. Maybe I’m angry with you because—because I thought we were equals, even if you are my boss, but as soon as you made me orgasm you decided to become my benevolent overlord.” She ignored the alarmed choking sound Jacob made when she said orgasm. “I realize this is awkward for you. I get that. And if you want to throw me out to make it less awkward, fine. But don’t act like you’re doing it for my benefit, and don’t act like you didn’t strong-arm me into it instead of asking what I wanted to do.”

Once all those words had rushed out, Eve felt a bit like an empty pond, her usually hidden depths suddenly exposed to the light. Belatedly, her cheeks warmed. She’d made that speech intending to demand honesty, and autonomy, and all those lovely things Dani was always talking about. But she was suddenly worried it had come off as simply demanding Jacob. That she’d revealed, somewhere in her little speech, how badly she still wanted him.

But when the seconds ticked by without his reply, Eve steeled her spine and squared her shoulders. So what if he’d heard that sad, horny, far-too-attached part of her? So fucking what? Sometimes, being convenient instead of real was exhausting. So maybe, from now on, she’d stop.

“Nothing to say?” she asked, and surprised herself by sounding as sharp and superior as her eldest sister. Which made Eve feel rather authoritative. If only Jacob weren’t still holding her hand—or rather, if only she weren’t still holding his—her transformation to absolute badass would be complete.

Then Jacob ruined everything by saying quietly, “Eve. I’m sorry.”

Very small, very simple words. They shouldn’t be able to punch a hole through her outrage like this, but clearly, Eve was soft.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice as impassioned as a whisper could be. Which was, apparently, rather impassioned indeed. His hand squeezed hers, and then his other hand joined the party, cast and all, and suddenly he was clutching her like a Regency gentleman about to make a heartfelt declaration. “I did strong-arm you, because I was panicking, and that was wrong of me, and I—I was a shit, and you’re right to be angry with me, but please, please don’t ever think I want to get rid of you. That is the last thing I want. I don’t think I could ever want that. You’re lovely, Evie, and you make me smile every day—multiple times a day”—he managed to sound genuinely shocked by that—“and I can’t believe you’ve been holding this in all week instead of smacking me for it.”

Eve decided it was for the best that she couldn’t see Jacob in here, because hearing his voice was bad enough. The speed of his words, and the way his sentences frayed at the edges, and that thread of desperation through it all as if he really, urgently needed her to understand, was bad enough.

“Say something,” he murmured hoarsely. “Please.”

“I . . .” She took a breath. She had the vague idea that she should remain angry despite his apology, based on principle alone, but, well. She wasn’t angry anymore. He had just popped all her hurt like a balloon and replaced it with several thousand hopeful, happy bubbles, and really, no one should have the power to change her mood so very quickly.

But apparently, Jacob did.

Drat.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. I suppose I understand. And you apologize very well.” She paused. “If you would like to compliment me some more before we make up, feel free.”

To her surprise, he took that joke as a very serious suggestion. “You are extremely sweet and a very good cook and incredibly pretty,” he said without hesitation, “and . . . you have a wonderful sense of humor.”

“Ha! I knew you thought I was funny. I knew it.”

“Maybe I’m just sucking up,” he said. But he squeezed her hand again, and she felt an answering squeeze of pleasure in her tummy.

“I don’t think sucking up is your style, Jacob Wayne,” she said softly.

“If anyone could drive me to it,” he replied, “you could.”

In that moment, Eve decided that getting on with things might be the adult way to live—but blurting out her feelings was officially the Eve Brown way to live. She much preferred it.

“So,” Jacob said after a moment. “Since I never did ask—what do you want to do? About . . . everything?”

Now, there was a question. Her gut instinct was to reply, I want to go home and have my way with you again—but Eve had spent the last week thinking about all the reasons why that was not a sound choice. First and foremost: she had a queasy suspicion that if she spent too much time with her hands on this man, she’d eventually refuse to let go. And she couldn’t refuse to let go; not when Skybriar was just a temporary pit stop on her journey to being her better self. She had a party-planning job to complete. She had parents to make proud, once and for all. She had a mature, adult plan, and staying here in this happy little fairy-tale town with a delightful big bad wolf was not conducive to that plan. It couldn’t be, because she wanted it so badly.