Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(86)
“Well, I’m glad you’re changing your mind,” he said, “because it absolutely is a skill. I should know. I have to work on it a lot.”
She laughed, and it was like little bubbles of sunlight popping against his skin.
“Your abilities,” he said slowly, “lie in the places people usually overlook. So you’ve been convinced you don’t have any at all. But you’re smart, and you’re capable, and if people struggle to see that, it’s their problem, not yours.” He really hadn’t meant to bring this next topic up, but the words spilled from his mouth without permission. “You know, Eve, you’re—we’re—different. And . . .” He cleared his throat, started again. “Do you feel like things are different when you’re with me? The way we communicate?”
“Well, yes,” she said pertly. “I imagine that’s how we ended up in bed.”
She had him there. “I wasn’t talking about that difference. I meant—you like the fact that I’m straightforward. You say it all the time. Do other people feel . . . less straightforward to you?”
Jacob expected her to reply with confusion, with more questions, with—something ordinary. But she wasn’t ordinary. She was Eve. Which is why she shocked the shit out of him by replying calmly, “Oh, I see. Yes, it feels different—rather like talking to my sisters. Easier and familiar, probably because we’re both on the autistic spectrum.”
His surprise dissolved almost instantly into of-fucking-course laughter. “You already knew.”
“Well, no,” she corrected, “not before I met you. You’ve made me notice my own behavior more. So I did some research and drew the obvious conclusion: it’s likely that I, like you, am autistic. I assume most of my family is, actually, which would explain why almost everyone finds us incredibly strange. It’s an interesting development, but also . . .” She smiled a little, her gaze on the ceiling as she spoke. “I already know who I am and how I am. In fact, I’m learning more about that every day. Having a name for some of those things is satisfying. That’s all.”
Jacob absorbed that for a moment, biting back a smile of his own. “You’re so . . .”
“What?” she asked, rising on one elbow to look at him. The lavender fall of her hair spilled across his chest, and her eyes were like starlit night. “I’m so what?”
“Perfect,” he finished. “Eve Brown, you are absolutely perfect to me.”
She beamed, so obviously happy it made his heart squeeze. Then she kissed him, and that was perfect, too. They were always perfect together, these days, and most of Jacob believed they always would be.
But a tiny little part of him—the young, cold, worthless part—still wasn’t quite convinced. That part had a long memory, and it was filled with loss.
He’d work on that part, Jacob decided. He’d work on it for her.
Chapter Nineteen
Eve was singing.
She’d been singing ever since last night, in fact, and having a jolly good time of it. Today, instead of humming her usual absent-minded refrains, she let every ounce of her joy shine through her voice, creating her own backing track. Luckily, Jacob didn’t seem to mind.
She looked up from the blueberry-and-lemon sponge cake she was icing to gaze at him like a moony, devoted cow. Fortunately, he was studying the Gingerbread Festival event map he’d brought down to the kitchen, and therefore completely missed her heart eyes. She took advantage of the moment to explore his now-familiar face: the golden gleam of his severely parted hair, the deep furrow of his lovely scowl, the sunshine-colored lashes hiding his stormy gray gaze. Beautiful, beautiful man. She was of half a mind to drag him upstairs to the store cupboard and have her wicked way with him before high tea.
Again.
Just as Eve began to seriously consider the idea, the kitchen door swung open, shattering her thoughts. She jumped, dropped her icing bag directly on top of the almost finished cake, and released a deep sigh. “Oh, fudge.”
Jacob saw the mess she’d made of her cake and leapt to his feet with a determined expression. Apparently, he thought he could rescue her from ruined icing like a knight in shining armor. She was tempted to let him try, just to see what happened.
Then Mont, who was leaning in the open doorway with a smirk on his face, finally spoke. “Hm. Well, now. Whatcha doing down here, Jake?” There was more than a little triumph in his voice.
Jacob scowled at his friend. “Stop the Jake shit.” His tone softened as he approached Eve. “How’s the cake?”
“Oh, you know,” she replied, deeply annoyed with herself as she picked the bag out of the icing. “Splotchy. Slightly dented. Ever so appetizing.” She bit her lower lip, her gaze flicking to the clock as she considered her options. “Maybe I can cover up the, er . . . indent with something.”
“Something like this?” Jacob asked, and then he reached over her shoulder to snag the glass of fresh-cut lavender she’d placed on the table that morning.
She stared at the flowers for a moment before a slow smile spread over her face. “Yes. Something exactly like that. Thanks, darling, you’re a peach.” She popped up on her toes and kissed him—just a quick, sweet press of their mouths, already familiar after a single day. Then she remembered Mont, froze, and pulled back sharply—or tried to. But Jacob caught her by the hip, surprise and pleasure merging in his gaze.