Take a Hint, Dani Brown - Talia Hibbert Page 0,118

Its main road unraveled down an impressive hill, with woods standing tall on either side of the pavement. It was the kind of deep and vivid greenery that looked like it must, by rights, contain pixies and toadstools and all the rest. The air through Eve’s open window tasted fresh and earthy and clean as she drove deeper into the town, past adorable, old-fashioned, stone-built houses and people in wellies walking well-behaved little dogs.

Another turn, taken at random, and she struck gold. Up ahead, guarded by a grand oak tree and fenced in by an old, low wall of moss-covered stone, was an impressive redbrick Victorian with a wine-red sign outside that read CASTELL COTTAGE. EXCELLENT ACCOMMODATION, DELICIOUS CUISINE.

She was feeling better already.

Actually, that was a categorical lie. But she would feel better, once she ate, and took a moment to think, and generally stopped her drama queen behavior.

Eve threw the car into the nearest sort-of parking space—well, it was an empty spot by the pavement, so it would do—and cut off her music. Then she slipped in an AirPod, chose a new song—“Shut Up and Groove,” Masego—to match her new determinedly positive mood, and pressed Play. Flipping down the car’s mirror, she dabbed at her red eyes and grimaced at her bare mouth. Her waist-length braids, lavender and brown, were still tied back in a bedtime knot. She set them free to spill over her shoulders, then rifled through her glove box and found a glittery, orange Chanel lip gloss.

“There.” She smiled at her reflection. “Much better.” When in doubt, throw some color at it. Satisfied, she got out of the car and approached the cute little countryside restaurant thingy through softly falling drizzle. Only when she reached the grand front door, which had yet another sign pinned over it, did she notice what she’d missed the first time.

CASTELL COTTAGE.

BED AND BREAKFAST.

Eve checked her watch and discovered that it was now far from breakfast time.

“Gabriel’s burning bollocks, you have got to be kidding me.” She glared at her warped reflection in the front door’s little stained-glass window. “Has the trauma of the morning’s events killed off your last remaining brain cells, Eve? Is that it?”

Her reflection did not reply.

She let out a hangry little growl and started to turn—when a laminated notice pinned up beside the door caught her eye.

CHEF INTERVIEWS: FIRST DOOR ON THE RIGHT.

Well, now. That was rather interesting. So interesting, in fact, that Eve’s witchy sister Dani would likely call this literal sign . . . a sign.

Of course, Eve wasn’t Dani, so she simply called it a coincidence.

“Or an opportunity,” she murmured slowly.

Eve, after all, could cook. She was forced to do so every day in order to survive, and she was also quite good at it, having entertained brief fantasies of opening a Michelin-starred restaurant before watching an episode of Hell’s Kitchen and developing a Gordon Ramsay phobia. Of course, despite her private efforts, she had never actually cooked professionally before—unless one considered her ill-advised foray into 3D genital cakes cooking.

Still, the more she thought about it, the more this seemed like the perfect job for her. Wedding planning had been too satisfying, too exhilarating, the kind of career she could easily fall in love with—which meant that when she inevitably failed at it, she’d be left broken. But cooking at some small-town bed and breakfast? She certainly couldn’t fall in love with that.

“Your father and I would like you to hold down a job for at least a year before we restart your trust fund payments.”

Her parents didn’t think she could get a job on her own and clearly doubted her ability to keep one. They thought she needed supervision for every little thing, and if she was honest with herself, Eve understood why. But that didn’t stop their doubt from biting like too-small leather boots. So, securing her own job the day she left home? And also, quite conveniently, not having to return home with her tail between her legs after this morning’s tantrum-like disappearance? That all sounded ideal, actually.

One year to prove herself. She could do that. In fact, Eve knew better than anyone that she could do anything.

She opened the door.

Contrary to popular belief, Jacob Wayne did not create awkward situations on purpose. Take right now, for example: he didn’t mean to subject his latest interviewee to a long, glacial pause that left the other man pale and jittery. But Simon Fairweather was a certified prick and his answers to