Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3) - Talia Hibbert Page 0,89
Eve. To the right, Tessa was doing pretty much the same thing. Eve suddenly realized she’d never met identical twins before. This close up, despite the differences in hair and makeup, it was kind of trippy.
“So,” Tessa said. “You’re a chef. I should tell you, I can’t cook.”
“She doesn’t need to cook,” Alex added. “She’s the provider. She just needs a happy little homemaker husband.”
“I thought you said no man-talk?”
“They’re like ants. They get into everything.”
Eve could see this escalating, so she interjected, “What do you provide?”
Tessa winked and kissed her admittedly impressive biceps. “Everything, baby.”
Alex rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone. “Look, this is Tess.” She opened up a YouTube channel called DIYTessa. The header was a picture of Tessa wearing red lipstick and waving a hot pink drill. “She makes shit. Like, builds furniture and paints walls and whatever else.”
“I create aesthetic spaces,” Tessa said smoothly. “From social media projects to local interior design contracts.” Suddenly she sounded like exactly the kind of person who could make money talking into a camera: confident, put together, with the polished charisma of a radio DJ or a TV newscaster. Then she grinned and turned to holler at her brother, “Hurry it up, big head,” and the moment passed.
Eve took Alex’s phone and scrolled through the videos. Upscaling IKEA Furniture, Creating a Feature Wall, DIY Macramé Planter—no wonder Tessa had been extolling the virtues on their way here.
“Wow,” Eve murmured. So many videos, so many views, so many followers. The woman beside her had built a DIY empire in more ways than one, and instead of feeling envious or lesser, Eve felt inspired. One day, she wanted to have something like this—well, not like this, not YouTube, but something to show for herself. Evidence of a passion committed to.
She would. She was on her way.
Except she realized abruptly that the passion she was imagining was Castell Cottage. Not years of party planning for old school friends who still made her uncomfortable, but years of high tea and recipes. Which was rather a problem, since she planned to leave by the end of the month.
Just the thought was making her queasy. Shit, shit, shit.
She bit her lip and handed back the phone. “That’s amazing, Tess. I’ll subscribe.”
“Oh, thanks. You’re a doll.”
“What do you do?” Eve asked Alex, not just because she needed to change the subject before she overthought—well, everything, but because she really wanted to know.
Alex ran a hand over her buzz cut and offered a sheepish grin. “Oh, I’m a mechanic.”
“She runs the only local autoshop,” Tessa corrected sternly. “And she rebuilds classic cars.”
“That part’s just a hobby.”
“It could be a business, if she was more confident,” Tessa singsonged. It had the cadence of an oft-repeated argument.
Alex waved at Montrose. “Seriously, get me some vodka.”
Eve giggled—and tried not to feel too at home with these wonderful people, in this wonderful place. Tried not to feel more and more threads twining between her soul and Skybriar. Tried, and spectacularly failed.
But she was still scheduled to leave in less than two weeks.
“Anyway,” Alex said, turning back to the group. “Eve. What’s your thing?”
“I take care of people,” Eve replied. Nothing had ever sounded so right.
* * *
Jacob found himself staring sightlessly at the clock for what must be the thousandth time and dragged his eyes back to his computer. Technically, he supposed, he didn’t need to update the accounts at 1:15 A.M. on a Thursday. Technically, it wasn’t even the end of the month yet, so he shouldn’t be doing this at all. But he needed to do something while Eve was out—something other than lying in bed, thinking about her, wondering if she was having fun. Something other than calling Mont to report on her movements, which Mont would almost certainly refuse to do, and which would make Jacob an actual, official creep.
It wasn’t that he wanted to monitor her, exactly. It was just—every five minutes, he found himself wondering if he’d done the right thing, if this evening was making her happy, and the desire to know for sure was kind of eating him alive.
But. No creepy phone calls. Watching people too closely could stifle them. He’d learned that after his first girlfriend had found his spreadsheet tracking the details of their relationship and dumped him outside the local library.
So these accounts would have to do as a distraction. He turned back to his spreadsheet—this one thoroughly legitimate—and typed in a few more numbers before he heard it: