Act Your Age, Eve Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  He’d probably hired a decorator.

  And she should probably stop thinking uncharitable thoughts about someone she’d just put in the hospital.

  When Eve’s phone buzzed from her back pocket, she jolted in a manner that screamed guilty conscience. The vibration popped her bubble of shock, making her suddenly, uncomfortably aware that she was now responsible for the house in which she lounged. Better make a good show of it. Arsehole or not, Jacob did deserve to have his obvious B&B standards upheld. And she had said . . . She’d said . . .

  I promise I will look after your B&B as if it’s my very own.

  Which, in hindsight, had been a reckless promise to make. Already regretting her words, Eve huffed out a shaky breath and sat upright (in order to seem more commanding and less, er, collapsing). Unfortunately, regardless of her physical position, she was clearly incapable of looking after a damned flea. This morning alone, she’d failed at running away, failed at her first job interview, and failed at basic car safety. By the time Jacob returned she’d probably have set his roof on fire.

  Rolling her lips between her teeth, she wiggled her still-vibrating phone from her pocket. It was set to Do Not Disturb, so someone must have called multiple times. The name FLORENCE LENNOX flashed up on the screen. Eve sighed, hesitated, then pressed Accept. In her experience, the best way to deal with Bad Feelings was to avoid facing them by any means necessary. Whatever Florence wanted would do wonderfully as a distraction.

  “Hello?”

  “Darling! There you are, I texted twice.”

  “Twice?” Eve murmured. “Goodness. Please thank your fingers for their service.”

  Florence released a waterfall of tinkling laughter, which was strange, since she never usually laughed at Eve’s jokes. In Florence’s circle, Eve was the Baker Friend—which meant they called her up when they needed event cakes, then invited her to whatever said event happened to be, as a form of payment. Following which, they gently ignored her until the next party.

  Eve had a designated status in every friendship group she belonged to. That was how she managed to cling to the periphery of them all.

  “Oh, darling, you’re hilarious. But, do listen—I have a proposition for you.”

  Eve frowned at the phone. A proposition was not how Florence usually spun, A request for you to bring a three-tiered topsy-turvy cake to my mother’s fiftieth birthday.

  “Yeees?”

  “Don’t sound so nervous!” Flo had a charming habit of noticing and immediately articulating weakness. A bit like a wolf that could talk. “It’s about your little events company. Now, I know you love to take over the cakes and things for all my parties.”

  Love might be an overstatement, but Eve didn’t hate it. Fucking up a favor was nearly impossible—and people were always so pleased when they tasted her double-fudge.

  Causing happiness was about the only thing that still made her sparkle.

  “I thought cakes were your only real skill,” Florence was droning on, “but it seems you’ve been hiding other talents, you naughty thing. Because I’ve heard amazing things about the wedding you planned.” She paused. “Well, except for that odd rumor about your biting off a dove’s head and spitting feathers into the bride’s face, but never mind that. My point is—it’s little Freddy’s birthday in February, and he’s just given our original party planner the clap, so we need a new one. One he probably won’t give the clap.”

  Little Freddy Lennox was Florence’s twenty-year-old brother. Eve considered several responses—for example, I actually just closed my company down, or, All I did was free the doves, that lying cow. But in the end, she settled on stammering, “Er—Florence, does that—well, what I mean to ask is . . . Erm, the clap is some sort of euphemism, isn’t it?”

  Florence laughed. “Silly goose. Of course it is!”

  Eve relaxed.

  “It’s a euphemism for Freddy shagging the party planner and giving her chlamydia, darling. And what a frightful fit she’s thrown about it, too.”

  “I . . . see,” Eve croaked. I see was a lovely, neutral phrase. Much more socially acceptable than Bloody hell, Florence, what the fuck is your family on?

  But really. If you were going to sleep with staff, practicing safe sex seemed the very least you could do. Or perhaps she was being judgmental?

  “Now, darling, we will of course be paying you—you’re an entrepreneur now!” Florence trilled. As Eve wasn’t particularly close to, well, any of her friends, none of them had a complete picture of just how many times she’d been an entrepreneur. Her failures were her own private wounds to lick, thank you very much. “And since the party’s not until February,” Florence went on, “we won’t need to start consultations until . . . September.”

  Eve blinked. “That’s six months before the actual party, Flo.”

  “Well,” came the frosty reply, “this is Freddy’s twenty-first, Eve. If you can’t take that fact seriously—”

  “No,” Eve blurted, that disapproving tone making her stomach roil. It reminded her of being at school, when life had revolved around avoiding too much soul-shriveling attention from students or teachers. “No, that’s not what I meant. But, Flo . . . I’m not sure if I’m up to this at the moment.” Understatement of the year. Eve had rather a lot on her plate, what with today’s mild familial disowning and mild vehicular maiming. Plus, September was only a month away, and she should probably spend that month job-hunting.

  She braced herself for a Hurricane Florence tantrum, and possibly for temporary ostracism from one of her many friendship groups. Instead, after a slight pause, she heard . . .

  A sniffle?

  “Evie,” Flo said, sounding rather damp. “Please. I know it’s a sudden ask, and Freddy can be a bit difficult, but he’s really fluffed things up with this party planner woman and our parents are going absolutely bonkers and—well, I need your help, Eve. You wouldn’t let me down, would you? Not when I need your help? It would be so terribly cruel.”

  Eve bit her lip, a worried frown creasing her brow. Florence sounded quite upset, which made the stress and annoyance sloshing around Eve’s stomach swirl predictably into concern. The fact was, Flo had a problem, and Eve—her currently messy life aside—could fix it.

  So after a moment’s internal wobbling, she inevitably gave in. “Oh, all right. If you need me, Flo, you know I’ll do my best. So . . . six months of party planning it is.” What were friends for, after all?

  “Really?” Florence squealed. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Eve, absolutely wonderful. Knew you’d see reason.” Her tone zipped from squeaky pleasure to smooth business in the blink of an eye. “Since I’ve got you on the phone, we might as well talk details. Venues are the priority at this point, of course—when are you available for viewings? Never mind, I’ll email you an invite to the Google Calendar.”

  Eve blinked. Gosh. Florence was very focused when it came to this birthday party.

  And the more Eve thought about it, the more she realized this might be a blessing in disguise. Party planning was different from planning a wedding—significantly less time, less pressure—but still a job. The beauty of it dawned on her slowly, like an early-morning sun. Six months spent planning Freddy’s twenty-first, then another six months planning some other party, and she’d have done it. She’d have held down a job for a year, proved her parents wrong . . .

  And maybe done them proud?

  Let’s not get out of hand, here. Scraping together a couple of parties was hardly running a business like Chloe or being a professional genius like Danika. But Eve had officially secured gainful employment—even if it wasn’t precisely what Mum and Dad had had in mind—and she really, really intended to keep it this time.

  Absolutely nothing would go wrong.

  Chapter Five

  By the time Jacob returned, Eve was beginning to worry she’d actually killed the man.

  Hours had passed. The sun hung low in the sky, and several guests had already returned from their d
ays out. She knew that the National Health Service, being currently underfunded, came with heftier waiting times, but good Lord—how long did it take to check a man’s skull and whack a bandage on him?

  In the time since he and Mont had left, she’d found the (rather impressive, if terrifyingly clean) kitchen, helped herself to a sandwich (plus a teeny, tiny baked potato with beans and cheese, for dinner), and relocated to the dining room to avoid any further guests. She found undefined interactions with strangers to be incredibly awkward and had decided not to expose her delicate nerves any further. And anyway, this was a bed-and-breakfast—not a bed and make uncomfortable eye contact with the strange woman hovering in the foyer. She was here to prevent grand disasters and answer urgent requests, not to ask various hikers if they needed fresh towels.

  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.”

  Eve blinked. Had she . . . had she misheard that last part?

  “Interesting phrasing,” Mont said mildly. “Would you mind explaining . . .” His voice faded as they disappeared, and Eve barely restrained herself from kicking the wall. She wanted that explanation, too, goddamn it. Hideously pretty? What on earth did that mean? Jacob must be confused. He must have said it wrong. He probably meant hideously petty or something along those lines.

  She shook her head and backed away from the door, considering her options. Since Jacob was now back—and clearly under proper supervision—Eve was technically free to go. She’d promised to watch the B&B, but it no longer needed watching. She could run from the scene of the crime right this second, return home in time for a late yoga class with Gigi and Shivs, and tell Mum and Dad all about her day’s successes while completely leaving out the part where she bombed an interview and drove over the interviewer.

  Except . . .

  Well. Except that seemed a little bit terrible. Jacob might be an arsehole, but in this situation, she was even arseholier, which was really saying something. She should stick around to make sure he was okay, attempt to apologize to his annoying, strawberry ice cream face, et cetera.

  Plus, whispered a voice inside her head, no job in the world will regain Mum and Dad’s respect if you keep running away from the trouble you make.

  Hm. Eve usually kept that annoyingly sensible voice—a voice that sounded irritatingly like her eldest sister, Chloe—under strict lockdown. The stress of the day must have released it from its chains.

  After a few moments of deep breathing and loin-girding, Eve swallowed her anxiety and forced herself out of the dining room, across the foyer, and up the stairs. She hadn’t ventured onto the upper floors of Castell Cottage at all today, but now she found them much the same as the lower ones—if a little lighter and brighter, the c
orridors narrow but well-lit, the walls covered in ditsy, yellow flower prints and the floors covered in plush, emerald carpet. She kept an eye out for Jacob or Mont as she climbed to the first floor, then the second.

  Only at the top of the third set of stairs did she see the door that might lead to her doom. It was a slab of imposing mahogany with a pearlized handle and a gold sign marked PRIVATE.

  Yep. Jacob was probably in there.

  She smoothed out her braids and straightened her T-shirt as she approached. Then she hovered, awkward and uncertain, for a few seconds before raising a hand to—knock? Shove the bastard open like a TV detective?

  In the end, it didn’t matter, because the door swung open before she could touch it. There stood Mont, who looked surprised for a moment, then pleased. “Oh,” he said. “You came up.”

  “Well.” Eve fidgeted on the spot. “It seemed as if there were things to discuss.”

  Mont arched an eyebrow. “Interesting. And here I had you for a runner.”

  “A runner?” she repeated with all the righteous outrage of a woman who had totally been moments away from running. “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Right.” He grinned. “Then what I’m about to say won’t bother you at all.”

  Eve experienced a deep and powerful sense of foreboding. “Have at it.” Her voice squeaked on the last word. Oops.

  “Come in,” Mont ordered—and it clearly was an order. Eve stepped through the doorway, jumping a little when he closed the door behind her. She looked around to find herself in what could only be described as Jacob’s quarters. This section of hallway had five doors: one that showed a glimpse of bathroom counter and neatly folded towels, one open cupboard with a washer-dryer thrumming away, two doors that remained neatly closed, and one at the end of the corridor that was slightly ajar—but not enough to see through it.

  Eve’s nosiness was therefore thwarted.