Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3) - Talia Hibbert Page 0,14

women tried to remove his glasses in fits of passion, or whatever the fuck they thought they were doing, it usually pissed him off enough to take him out of the mood, and then he had to think about messy blow jobs for a solid five minutes to get going again. So when he realized that a complete stranger was attempting one of his least favorite things in the world, he tensed.

Which hurt like a motherfucker and turned out to be a waste of energy when she pulled off the move without a hitch.

Well, mostly. She avoided all the big no-no’s, like stabbing him in the cheek or the eye or the ear. She didn’t get the glasses quite straight—but he suspected they were no longer straight at all. Plus, one of the lenses had cracked, which was utterly her fault, so he refused to give her 10/10 for cautious glasses-sliding. But still. Pretty impressive.

And now her face was in focus, he could see something unexpected: those huge eyes of hers were shimmering with something that might actually be tears.

But she didn’t let the maybe-tears fall. She offered a smile that was a shadow of the cheerful, dimpled thing she’d flashed in his dining room and said, “There. Now you can glare at me properly.”

Jacob really must be concussed, because instead of telling her to fuck off, he said softly, “Thanks.”

Thanking her. He was thanking her for putting his shattered glasses back on his face after she’d knocked them off with her car.

But her smile was wider and realer now, and if she gave him just a little more, that dimple would appear, and . . .

“Jake?” The shout was Mont’s, clearly nearby. “Where are you, man?”

Eve looked up. Jacob blinked and wondered why he felt so off-balance, now her gaze wasn’t on him anymore.

Concussed. He was definitely concussed.

“Montrose,” she called, and rose to her feet.

Jacob, for some reason, tried to sit up, as if there was a string attached between them. He made it roughly halfway before pain wrapped a fist around him and squeezed. Shit, shit, shit. He clamped his jaw shut because he refused to throw up in front of Eve—or rather, in public—or rather, at all. Then he sat up the rest of the way, realized he’d done something terrible to his arse, and tried to roll up on his knees instead.

“Christ, mate,” came Montrose’s voice from above. “You’re a mess. What the bloody hell happened?”

Eve wailed, “I hit him with my car,” just as Jacob snapped, “She hit me with her car!” Then he registered how teary Eve sounded and felt like a bit of a bastard.

Hang on—she was the bastard. Her! Good God, what the hell was wrong with him?

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” Eve said.

“You bloody well aren’t,” Jacob snorted, then instantly regretted the snort. Could lungs be broken? His lungs were broken. “Ambulance,” he wheezed contemptuously. “What a fuss.”

“Jacob,” Mont said sternly, “don’t be a prick. You need medical attention.”

“I realize that,” Jacob said, “but there’s no need for an ambulance.” Waste of public resources. He was perfectly fit. There were people dying, for Christ’s sake. “I’ll drive myself.” He started to rise to his feet, but the world swung sideways and a gang of vicious pixies set fire to his skull. He was all charred and crumbling inside and he felt violently dizzy again. “Montrose’s going to drive me,” he corrected, and looked up at the man in question, studiously avoiding Eve. Everything would be a thousand times better if she wasn’t here, so he had decided to pretend she wasn’t. “Give us a hand, Mont.”

Mont gave a long-suffering sigh and knelt down, sliding an arm around Jacob’s back—which hurt like a motherfucker, but there was nothing to be done about that—and muttering “Hold on to me. Properly. I mean it, you bastard.”

“Yes, sir.” Jacob attempted to sound grudging or maybe indulgent, as opposed to pathetically grateful. In the end, he missed all of the above and simply sounded drunk.

As they staggered to their feet together, Eve fluttered around like an especially annoying, orange butterfly. “What shall I do?” she asked. “He’s driving you—what shall I do?”

“Disappear,” Jacob suggested wearily. “Down a well, maybe. Or up a mountain. Or to the moon.”

“Watch the cottage,” Mont said.

“What?” Jacob wasn’t sure who said it first—him or Eve.

“Well, I’m taking you to the hospital,” Mont scowled, “my sisters are working, and so’s your aunt Lucy. Looks like Eve’s all we’ve got.” He turned