Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(16)

Even if a little voice in her head suggested she was absolutely supposed to ask about the towel thing.

Oh, well.

Eve was considering calling the local hospital and demanding to know if she was an accidental murderer when she heard the distinctive heave of the front door opening. As had become her habit, she leapt to the window and craned her neck to see who was there.

It wasn’t a guest. Nor was it a rogue burglar she’d have to fight off to protect Jacob’s livelihood. No; it was Jacob himself. She only caught the barest glimpse: a head of ice-blond hair resting on Mont’s broad shoulder, and then they were gone.

Suddenly, all those hours of wishing they’d hurry back turned into a desperate wish for them to not be here. Because it finally occurred to Eve that Jacob coming back probably meant Jacob ripping her a new arsehole for, you know, running him over. Which she would richly deserve.

Wincing, Eve tiptoed over to the dining room door—which she’d left open a crack, in case any of the guests rang the bell at the front desk or screeched “Argh! A murder most foul!” or something like that. Nudging it slightly wider, she peered out into the foyer just as Mont used his free hand to shut the door. His other hand, you understand, was engaged in Jacob-hoisting.

And Jacob clearly needed a lot of hoisting. The viciously upright posture she’d noticed earlier that day had vanished; his long, lean body now wobbled like a kite in the wind, except for his right arm, which was held at a rigid angle by . . . oh, bloody hell, was that a cast? She had literally broken him. Fabulous.

It occurred to Eve that Mum might not be pleased about this new party-planning contract if it came alongside a lawsuit for dangerous driving.

Sigh. Ever the disappointment, Eve.

Was that Mum’s voice, or Eve’s own?

“Nope, nope, nope.” Mont’s words dragged Eve back to the scene playing out before her. She choked on a yelp of laughter when she saw Jacob trying to get behind the ornately carved reception desk. By climbing over it.

Mont yanked him back with both hands. Jacob grunted, “Gerroff. Gotta check the—the check-in—ow!”

“Sorry, mate. Bit difficult, at the minute, to grab you without grabbing a bruise.”

Eve bit her lip and attempted not to die of guilt. She estimated she could survive another three to four minutes without perishing, but then Jacob turned, and she finally saw his face, and her survival time dropped to approximately five seconds.

He looked absolutely nothing like himself. She barely knew the man, but his transformation was dramatic enough to be obvious. Behind his glasses—which he’d knocked askew during his attempt to vault the desk—those blue-gray ice-chip eyes had melted into hazy springs, his pupils big enough that she could see them from here. His high cheekbones were flushed like strawberry ice cream.

Strawberry was Eve’s favorite flavor. (Which wasn’t remotely relevant.)

And his perfectly coiffed hair, with its severe side part, had turned into baby duck fluff. That was really the only way to put it. He looked like a toddler who’d been tossing and turning in bed. A drunk toddler. Wearing a cast.

At this rate, Eve was going to bite her own lip bloodless.

“Now, come here,” Mont was saying, “and be good, or I’ll go into your sock drawer and unpair all your—”

“No!” Jacob gasped, as if this threat was too dire to bear.

Eve slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Good Lord. If you’d asked her this morning whether Jacob Arsehole Wayne was capable of being adorable, she’d have bet her left tit the answer was no. And Eve’s left tit had always been her favorite.

“Jus’ lemme do the . . . thing,” Jacob scowled as Mont tugged him toward the stairs. “The work things . . . and thing . . . We going to my office? Yeah? Yeah, Mont?”

“Christ,” Mont muttered, “when did you get so heavy?”

“I have heavy bones,” Jacob said proudly.

Mont snorted. “If I’d known concussions could be this funny, I’d have borrowed my sister’s GoPro. And don’t worry about work stuff, Jake. Eve’s watching the place, remember?”

The sound of her own name made Eve jump. And then Mont’s dark gaze swung directly to hers through the gap she’d made in the door, and she jumped again. So much for her cunning spy skills.

Mont arched an eyebrow as if to say, Now would be a great time to come out.

Eve shook her head as if to say, No, thank you, I am a monumental coward.

“Eve,” Jacob muttered darkly. So darkly that, for a moment, she worried he’d seen her, too. But no—he was staring into space, glaring with impressive focus at a spot on the wall. “Eve,” he repeated. “She! Broke my arm.”

“Yeah, Jacob. She did.”

Well! So much for Mont’s comparatively sweet and kind nature, the bastard. And he had the audacity to grin as he spoke!

“She can’t watch Castell Cottage,” Jacob growled as Mont dragged him up the stairs. “She is a disaster!”

“Bit harsh, mate.”

“She has no idea of the proper—the proper—protocols!”

“Well, we were in a pinch, so—”

“She’s obnoxious and disorganized and posh.” This last was said as if it might be the most grievous crime of all. “And,” Jacob went on, as Mont towed him away, “she is hideously pretty.”