Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3) - Talia Hibbert Page 0,33

knew she should be punching the air with pure, professional satisfaction—or better yet, told-you-so satisfaction.

Instead, all she could do was suck in a breath and press a cool hand to her suddenly feverish throat. Because shit. Jacob made pleasure look and sound rather good.

Wait—no. No, no, no. Eve had an unfortunate habit of forming attractions to unsuitable men. Her sexual choices, like her other choices, had always been utterly terrible. But since she was currently on a voyage of growth and self-discovery, gaining maturity points like the intrepid heroine of a bildungs-whatever-the-fuck, she would not develop the horn for this incredible arsehole of a man. She absolutely refused. She didn’t even like him.

Of course, Eve had certainly lost her head over men she didn’t like before.

But this was different. This was absolutely different. So, she said to her stirring libido, don’t let me catch you mooning again.

Jacob opened his eyes just as she finished scolding her vagina. “Okay,” he said grimly, as if she’d presented him with something awful rather than the very best British breakfast had to offer. “Maybe that was possibly quite decent.”

Thankfully, as soon as he spoke, every ounce of Eve’s physical appreciation drained away like hot water down a plughole. How convenient.

“Is that French toast?” he went on, eyeing the plate. “Let me try some of that.”

“Why? At best it’ll only be maybe possibly quite decent.”

He rolled his eyes, then winced as if the action had hurt. “Fine,” he said, “it was good. You’re hired. Now give me the bloody toast.”

And just like that, she was walking on air. “Really? You mean it?” Her smile practically stretched from ear to ear, so intense her cheeks started to hurt.

“Yes. Toast. Now.”

Still beaming, Eve dropped the fork and picked up a slice of French toast, holding it to his lips. But her mind was elsewhere. Specifically, itching to grab her phone so she could change the music filling the kitchen from Stromae to some miraculous hymn. How odd, to feel this helium balloon of excitement in her chest over a job she barely wanted, one she was only taking for various moral reasons, et cetera. Hm. Satisfaction was such an unpredictable thing.

Maybe she was pleased to have secured a proper job on her own—something her parents assumed she couldn’t do. Yes, that must be it. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that she’d enjoyed cooking this morning. Once she’d gotten over her nerves, chatting to guests and playing with ingredients in the kitchen had been rather fun. Not reading-Vanessa-Riley-in-bed fun, but completing-a-puzzle fun. Which—

Eve sucked in a breath, pulling back her fingers when they touched something soft and warm and . . . human. Before her, Jacob blushed like a traffic light, his chin snapping up so he was staring straight ahead. Or, more specifically, over her head.

“Did you just bite me?” she asked. Except it hadn’t been a bite, because there were no teeth involved. Just the velvet brush of . . .

Jacob’s mouth?

“No!” he barked. “I was—the toast was very good. I, erm, got a bit carried away, and I wasn’t paying attention, so. Sorry.”

Oh. He’d been so busy eating the toast, he’d almost eaten her. Usually, Eve would laugh about that. Tease him mercilessly, at the very least.

Instead she found herself staring at her still-tingling fingertips.

“Well,” Jacob said into the silence. “I think that’s enough breakfast for today.” It wasn’t until he turned and walked away that Eve realized how close they’d been standing. He put his plate down on the counter with a clatter that seemed distinctly un-Jacoblike, then continued speaking with his back to her. It was a very broad back. It seemed to rise and fall with his breaths quite frequently. Or maybe she was just looking very hard.

“Mont must have set you up for this morning,” he said. “Are you aware of afternoon tea?”

Eve bit her lip. RHYTHM AND ROUTINE: Chapter Three, Section A, THE FULL EXPERIENCE: Afternoon tea and cake is to be served in the yellow parlor daily at four o’clock.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I’m aware of afternoon tea.”

“And you can bake?”

“Of course,” she snorted, momentarily affronted.

“Good. Other than that, I’ll need to meet with you at some point to go over basic paperwork, and there’s a meeting this week amongst the Gingerbread Festival organizers that we should both attend. Oh—and, since I’m currently down an arm, I’ll need your help with housekeeping after breakfast.” He paused, cleared his throat, and added quickly, “But not for the next few days.