Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(11)

“I know,” Jacob replied sharply. It had never been a problem at the luxury hotel chains he’d used to gain experience in the city. Precision, perfectionism, clear communication—those had all been points in his favor. But it turned out B&Bs had different requirements. People wanted to feel cozy and at home. Well, Jacob had gotten that down with the decor, the amenities, the marketing—but his manner didn’t exactly fit in with the crackling log fire and hot tea.

“Not only that,” Mont went on, “she didn’t bend for you one bit—”

“That’s a bad thing, Montrose.”

“No, it’s not, you absolute tyrant. And finally,” he said with a flourish, “I know she can cook.”

“How?” Jacob demanded.

Mont got a familiar and annoying expression on his face: the Stubborn and Superior one. “I can just tell.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter how, because we’re going to go after her and apologize, and then she’ll cook for us and prove it.”

Jacob shot him a disgusted look. “I hate it when you do this.”

“When I’m right, you mean?”

“When you’re full of shit.” Jacob took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt, thoughts flying. The fact was, Montrose’s points weren’t entirely inaccurate or illogical. Eve was undeniably warm, excessively so in his opinion, but Jacob was aware he had unusual parameters. She was probably funny, too, if you liked that kind of bollocks. Much as Jacob hated to admit it, he could see her making customers laugh, could see the Trip Advisor reviews with little throwaway comments about that adorable cook—and her attitude, while infuriating, suggested she wouldn’t be prone to breaking down in tears when under pressure. Jacob couldn’t abide tears in the kitchen. He didn’t need rogue DNA in his guest’s eggs.

He would never have hired Eve back when he was working hotels, but the dynamic in B&Bs was different, and those who didn’t adapt . . . well, they died out. He refused to die out. Although, if he spent too much time with such an infuriating woman, he might die anyway—of frustration. Or frustrated rage. Or—something.

So what was more important—his survival, or the B&B’s?

Absolutely no question.

Jacob sighed, put his glasses back on, and stood. “If she can’t cook, I’m going to skin you alive.”

They broke out of the cottage’s front door and into a steady drizzle that was rather typical of the Lake District, even in August. Less typical was the angry yellow tinge of the clouds, the roar of thunder in the distance, and the near-instant flash of lightning that followed.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jacob muttered as tiny raindrops beaded on the lenses of his glasses in record time. “Electrical storm,” he shouted over the thunder. “Better get inside, Mont.”

“Really? Height jokes? Now?”

“Always.”

Mont rolled his eyes. “You go left, I’ll go right.”

They split up just as the sky above them cracked open. Rain spilled to the earth as if each drop weighed a ton, and in the few seconds it took Jacob to scan the cottage’s small gravel driveway, he was already soaked to the skin. His shirt clung to him, his jeans grew stiff and heavy, and his glasses slid down his rain-wet nose. He cursed, pushed them back up, and squinted at the cars lining the gravel. Every space was taken by a familiar vehicle—guests—so he jogged out onto the street and turned left.

“This bloody woman,” he shouted to no one in particular over the rain. An irritating voice at the back of his brain reminded him that he wouldn’t be looking for her if he hadn’t chased her off in the first place, but Jacob swept the voice aside with only a whisper of guilt. Who the fuck wore ironic T-shirts to a job interview, showed up without a CV, and rambled on about her posh mate’s juicing experiences? Who? Feckless, irresponsible ne’er-do-wells, that’s who. He knew the kind. He’d been plagued with the consequences of their actions since birth, the same consequences they always seemed to outrun.

But he was desperate, and he did try to listen to Mont every six months or so, which meant Jacob had no choice but to continue searching. He passed parked but deserted cars on the street—and pulled up short when he found a moon-blue vintage Beetle he’d never seen before, parked at an outrageous angle a good two feet from the curb. There was a pink sticker on the back window that read SEYCHELLES SLUTS OF ’16—dear God—and he could see a familiar silhouette in the driver’s seat.

Great. He’d found her. Now he’d have to actually say something to her, something that would convince her to come back and try again.

Clearly Mont hadn’t thought this through, or he never would’ve sent Jacob to do this on his own.

“Get on with it, Wayne,” he muttered under his breath, and ran both hands through his dripping wet hair, pushing it off his face. Then he stepped out onto the street, ready to walk around the car and knock on her window.

But in the end, he never made it there. Because the moment Jacob left the safety of the pavement, the car’s lights flicked on, and the car itself jerked backward. Directly into him.

Hard.

Trust Eve fucking Brown.





Chapter Four


Jacob wasn’t an expert in physics, but he didn’t think the force of one little Beetle should hurt this bad. Then again, the whole event took him completely by surprise, so he didn’t do much to save himself.