Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3) - Talia Hibbert Page 0,11

. . juice.”

Jacob threw up his hands, clearly disgusted. “Are you flirting with her?” he demanded of Mont.

“Of course he is,” Eve said pleasantly. “I’m delicious.” She turned on her heel and sailed out of the room, tossing a look at Mont over her shoulder in the doorway. Call me, she mouthed with an ostentatious wink.

“We don’t even have your bloody contact details!” Jacob yelled after her.

“Darling,” she replied, “if you wanted them so badly, you should’ve asked.”

Eve was fairly sure she heard a volcanic boom from the dining room as she left. Which kept a smile on her face for . . . precisely as long as it took to reach her car and realize she’d found the perfect opportunity to prove herself to her parents and had immediately, childishly, recklessly fucked it up.

At which point, every drop of her satisfaction went right down the drain.

* * *

The minute Eve shut the door behind her, Mont turned to Jacob and demanded, “What the bloody hell was that?”

“You’re asking me? That whole interview was betrayal, Mont. Rank and utter betrayal. Guillotine-worthy. What were you doing, you sack of shit? Bending over backward for that—that chaos demon.”

“You mean the woman who could have saved your arse,” Mont corrected. “She was perfect!”

“She was unprepared, unprofessional—”

“Because you were such a shining star, there,” Mont said. “I bet you know her fucking bra size.”

“I was reading the bloody T-shirt,” Jacob roared.

“You were acting bonkers, is what you were doing. I’ve never seen you . . .” Mont trailed off and narrowed his eyes.

“What?” Jacob demanded. He hated trailing off. Hated unfinished sentences. Hated ominous ellipses that other people could mentally finish, but that left him utterly in the dark.

Mont continued to look weirdly suspicious. “I have never seen you speak so much to a complete stranger.”

Heat crept over the back of Jacob’s neck, prickled at the bends of his elbows. “I lost my temper. You know better than anyone how talkative that makes me.” But the truth was, Mont made a valid point. Jacob didn’t typically waste so much of his breath on interacting with untried strangers, because 90 percent of humanity was eventually proved useless and/or infuriating without any exertion on his part. He suspected Eve Brown was both, but he’d exerted himself for her, anyway, and behaved quite badly, too.

He must be at the end of his tether.

Mont shrugged and shook his head. “Whatever. Look, I know you didn’t like her, but just think for a second. She was charming as fuck, which is something the B&B needs that you don’t provide—I’m sorry, man, no judgment, but you don’t.”

“I know,” Jacob replied sharply. It had never been a problem at the luxury hotel chains he’d used to gain experience in the city. Precision, perfectionism, clear communication—those had all been points in his favor. But it turned out B&Bs had different requirements. People wanted to feel cozy and at home. Well, Jacob had gotten that down with the decor, the amenities, the marketing—but his manner didn’t exactly fit in with the crackling log fire and hot tea.

“Not only that,” Mont went on, “she didn’t bend for you one bit—”

“That’s a bad thing, Montrose.”

“No, it’s not, you absolute tyrant. And finally,” he said with a flourish, “I know she can cook.”

“How?” Jacob demanded.

Mont got a familiar and annoying expression on his face: the Stubborn and Superior one. “I can just tell.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter how, because we’re going to go after her and apologize, and then she’ll cook for us and prove it.”

Jacob shot him a disgusted look. “I hate it when you do this.”

“When I’m right, you mean?”

“When you’re full of shit.” Jacob took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt, thoughts flying. The fact was, Montrose’s points weren’t entirely inaccurate or illogical. Eve was undeniably warm, excessively so in his opinion, but Jacob was aware he had unusual parameters. She was probably funny, too, if you liked that kind of bollocks. Much as Jacob hated to admit it, he could see her making customers laugh, could see the Trip Advisor reviews with little throwaway comments about that adorable cook—and her attitude, while infuriating, suggested she wouldn’t be prone to breaking down in tears when under pressure. Jacob couldn’t abide tears in the kitchen. He didn’t need rogue DNA in his guest’s eggs.

He would never have hired Eve back when he was working hotels, but the dynamic in B&Bs was different, and those who didn’t adapt . . .