Jacob’s carefully considered interview questions were nothing less than a shit show. With each meaningless response, Jacob felt himself growing even colder and more distant than usual. Perfect conditions for the birth of an accidental awkward pause.
Simon stared at Jacob. Jacob stared at Simon. Simon began to fidget. Jacob reflected on how bloody irritating he found this man and did nothing to control the derisive curl of his lip. Simon started, disturbingly, to sweat. Jacob was horrified, both by the rogue DNA rolling down Simon’s temples and by his obvious lack of spine.
Then Jacob’s best friend (all right, only friend) Montlake heaved out a sigh and leapt into the breach. “Cheers, Simon,” he said. “That’ll be all, mate. We’ll get back to you.”
“That’s true,” Jacob allowed calmly, because it was. He watched in silence as Simon scrambled up from his chair and exited the room, nodding and stuttering all the while.
“Pitiful,” Jacob muttered. As the dining room door swung shut, he wrote two careful words on his notepad: FUCK. EVERYTHING.
Not his most adult choice, granted, but it seemed more mature than flipping the goddamn table.
Beside him, Montlake cleared his throat. “All right. Don’t know why I’m bothering to ask, but . . . Thoughts on Simon?”
Jacob sighed. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Probably not.” Montlake rolled his eyes and tapped his pen against his own notepad. He, Jacob noticed, had written a load of intelligent, sensible shit about today’s applicants, complete with bullet points. Once upon a time, Jacob had been capable of intelligence and bullet points, too. Just last week, in fact. But then he’d been forced to sit through the seven-day-straight parade of incompetence these interviews had become, and his brain had melted out of his fucking ears.
“Well,” Mont went on, “here’s what I put: Simon’s got a lot of experience, but he doesn’t seem the sharpest tool. Bit cocky, but that means he’ll eventually be confident enough to handle that thing you do.”
Jacob narrowed his eyes and turned, very slowly, to glare at his friend. “And what thing is that, Montlake?”
“That thing, Bitchy McBitcherson,” Mont said cheerfully. “You’re a nightmare when you’re panicking.”
“I’m a nightmare all the time. This is my ordinary nightmare behavior. Panic,” Jacob scowled, “is for the underprepared, the out-of-control, and the fatally inconsistent.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. From you. Every time you’re panicking.”
Jacob wondered if today would be the day he murdered his best friend and decided, after a moment, that it was entirely possible. The hospitality industry had been known to drive men to far worse. Like plastic shower curtains and brown carpets.
To lessen the risk of imminent homicide, Jacob pushed the fine frames of his glasses up his nose, rose to his feet, and began to pace the B&B’s spacious dining room, circling the antique table that took up its center. “Whatever. And you’re wrong about Simon—he isn’t right for Castell Cottage.”
“You don’t think anyone’s right for Castell Cottage,” Mont said dryly. “That’s kind of why I’m here. Voice of reason, and all that.”
“Actually, you’re here because you’re a respected local business owner, and proper interviews need more than one perspective, and—”
“What’s wrong with Simon?” Montlake interrupted.
“He’s a creep.”
Mont, who had a habit of leaning everywhere—probably something to do with his ridiculous height and the natural effects of gravity—sat up straight for once. “Who told you that? The twins?”
A reasonable assumption, since Mont’s sisters were the only women in town who actually spoke to Jacob—aside from Aunt Lucy, of course. “No one told me. Just watch the guy some time. Women bend over backward to avoid being alone with him.”
“Christ,” Mont muttered, and ripped a page out of his notepad. “All right. I know you hated the first two, and you’ve written off all the previous candidates.” He paused significantly. If he was waiting for Jacob to feel bad or something, he’d be waiting a long fucking time. “So that leaves us with Claire Penny.”
“Nope,” Jacob said flatly. “Don’t want her.” He stopped mid-pace, noticing that one of the paintings on the aubergine wall—a landscape commissioned from a local artist—was slightly crooked. Scowling, he stalked over and adjusted it. Bloody doors banging all day, knocking things out of whack, that was the reason. “Can’t have a chef who slams my doors,” he muttered darkly. “Doesn’t create a restful atmosphere. Bastards.”
“Is that the issue with Claire?”
“What? Oh.” Jacob shook his head and went back to his pacing. “Claire knows how to shut a door properly, so far as I can tell. But