She’d never told anyone that. She’d gotten her last coursework grade just before finals and accepted, once and for all, that even a perfect score couldn’t save her. All the hours at the library making her eyes bleed, all the desperate emails to professors clarifying this point or that point because she struggled to follow the lectures, it had been for nothing.
She’d tried and she’d failed. So she’d told her parents she was bored, and weathered their disapproval, and chosen a new course and tried again.
And failed, of course.
But she didn’t need to get into all that—even if she had a sneaking suspicion that she just had, that Jacob could read between her every line even if she stopped the pity party here. Which she fully intended to do. How had she gotten this far off the rails? He’d asked about her voice. She’d told him . . .
Everything.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” he asked. Except it didn’t sound like he was really asking; it sounded like he was giving her an opening to keep going, to talk more, to release the rest of the bottled-up poison inside her. To say things like, I think I’m only capable of fuckups and not-quite-enoughs, just to get it out there before it burned up her insides.
She was about to take that opening. She could feel the words crowding the tip of her tongue. But then something else came along: a memory of the way she’d felt that morning, serving a fluffy tomato omelet and having old Mr. Cafferty from the Rose Suite dimple up at her and say, You know how I like it, Eve. Oh, you are a wonder.
That hadn’t felt like failure at all. It had felt like creation and nourishment and openhearted generosity—and syrup-sweet success.
“I told you before,” Jacob said into the silence, “that there are different ways to fail. Imperfection is inevitable. That’s life. But it doesn’t sound to me like you’ve failed at all, Eve. It sounds like your dream broke, and you’ve been picking up shattered pieces and blaming yourself when your hands bleed.” In the low light, his gaze almost seemed to shine at her, slices of summer sky warming her up. “Performing was your dream, yeah. Is it still?”
She blurted out the truth without thinking twice. “No.” Because she really did hate being told what to do—or she had, when it came to something that should stem from her soul. To have someone directing her voice, her emotions, her interpretation of words and characters she’d understood in her own way; that had seemed a violation every time, and deep inside she’d hated it.
She loved music, loved performing, but she didn’t want to make it her livelihood. It wouldn’t suit her. She’d learned that at some point over the years.
“Well,” Jacob said reasonably, “do you know what you want instead?”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t answer because she’d never had a chance to ask herself that question. She’d been too busy expecting herself to simply know, and get on with it already, and succeed.
Oh, gosh.
Oh, fudge.
What if the thing she’d failed hardest was . . . herself?
Some thoughts were too big to accept all at once. She shoved this one frantically to the back of her mind before it could crack her wide open, but traces of it still lingered—like the ghost of a sparkler after you’d waved it through the air. Bright and dangerous and not-really-there.
“I like it here,” she said out loud. “I like—my job.”
Jacob’s serious expression dissolved into a beaming smile. “You do?”
Oh, she did. And not just because so much of it revolved around this man, with his insatiable curiosity and his blunt impatience and his intense eyes. Not just because of Jacob.
But he was on the list of things to like.
“I do,” she confirmed, and for a moment that pleased her—she had a job, just like her parents wanted, and she was getting along very well, and she was even having fun. But then she remembered that all this was temporary. It was a favor Jacob didn’t know he’d asked for. It wasn’t real. In three weeks, she’d be gone, back to her old world, planning obnoxious parties for Florence’s shitty brother even though she barely liked Florence or Florence’s brother or anyone else she knew.
Fuck.
But maybe that was why Castell Cottage came so sweet and so easy; because it wasn’t really for her.
She shoved the last bite of her Mars Bar in her mouth and chewed as the music went from introspective piano to the staccato beat of Hayley Kiyoko’s “Curious.” This conversation was dragging her down, down, down into a mire of confusion when what she wanted was to stay up. For goodness’ sake, this was a friendship date. She was supposed to be enjoying Jacob’s rare and adorably earnest happiness, not sloshing her life’s woes all over him.
So she turned to face him with an almost-smile that would become real in a minute, if he’d take the hint and help. “I think that’s enough talk about my life choices.”
He hesitated, but she saw the moment when he decided to let it go.
She also saw that he wouldn’t let this go forever.
“How did you know,” she asked, “that you wanted to do this? Run a place like this, I mean?”
He shrugged, turning to stare out of the window. “I . . . you know about my childhood. I never did enjoy traveling. But when I was twelve—a couple of years after I arrived in Skybriar—Lucy said we were going on holiday. I was horrified. I suppose, in my mind, you either went on holiday forever or you stayed at home, and one of those things was good and one was bad.”
Her heart squeezed for all the things he didn’t say. Because the fact was, plenty of people lived their lives on the road—entire communities, entire cultures. And those travelers never seemed hollow and restless when they talked about a life on the move.
But those travelers had homes and families that moved with them, and it sounded like Jacob’s parents had provided neither.
“I didn’t want to go, but Liam was excited, and Lucy was pleased she’d managed to save up, so.” He shrugged again. “I kept my mouth shut. And in the end . . .” A slow smile spread over his face, unexpected and twice as lovely for it. “In the end, I had a great time. It was nothing like before. I could shower whenever I wanted, I didn’t have to stay with strangers or be alone in strange places. We all stuck together—we enjoyed things together. It was the best week of my life, at that point. We stayed at a bed-and-breakfast, and it almost felt like being at home. I left wanting to be that—wanting to do that for people. Any way I could. To provide everyone with a home, so when they traveled, they could enjoy it instead of wanting to die.”
The way he said everyone—the burning passion in his voice, it made her heart smile. “And that’s why you mention additional needs so prominently on your website,” Eve realized out loud.
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“Oh.” Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t—she felt heat flood her cheeks and wanted to roll her eyes. All she’d done was read the man’s bloody website, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t as if she’d spied on him naked or . . . or hovered by the partially open doorway of his bedroom to take another look at the cool world of order hiding inside and enjoy the sheer Jacobness of it.
Ahem.
Okay, maybe she had done that last one a few times.
“I ordered a tablet,” she said casually. “I’ve been researching Castell Cottage. Amongst other things.”
He gave her a look of squint-eyed disbelief, but she couldn’t tell if checking out the website had been that weird, or if he was hung up on her ordering a tablet. She had noticed that her own idea of No money and Jacob’s idea were vastly different. Trying to be sensitive about that difference was an interesting learning curve.
Her sisters weren’t like this. Her sisters already knew how to budget, how to work hard and pay bills and all those other normal, adult things. Eve really was a joke.
Used to be, she corrected herself. But she was changing, now.
“It was on sale,” she said quickly,
which it had been, “and you mentioned I’d be getting paid, soon, so—”
“You don’t have to justify what you buy to me, Eve. But I should’ve thought to offer you my computer.”
“It’s fine. Anyway. Back to the point,” she said, because something about the tap of Jacob’s long fingers against his thighs told her he was avoiding this topic. “On your website, I noticed you have a section encouraging people to contact you directly about any particular needs, including those relating to sensory or other issues.”
He flushed beautifully, which she enjoyed more than a friend should. “Erm. Yes. Well. Some people like different sheets, or weighted blankets, or they can’t cope with certain scents, or a thousand other things, and I like to be sure that—that everyone who stays here is perfectly comfortable.”
Eve bit her lip on a hopeless grin. This man wasn’t just softer and kinder and sweeter than anyone suspected, he was practically made of cake. Good cake. With chocolate-fudge icing. She wanted to eat him so badly. Instead, she waved her hands around and sputtered, “For God’s sake, Jacob, you—do you have to be so bloody—”
He shuffled away from her flailing arms, then winced and adjusted some cushions. He’d probably fallen foul of the sofa bed’s awful springs. Served him right for shorting out all her circuits with his cuteness.
“Why—this is—”
“Are you all right, Eve?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fine,” she managed. “Just trying to come to terms with the fact that you work so hard at this B&B stuff because of your principles. And your passion. And all sorts of other . . . p words.” She paused. “Not penis. I didn’t mean penis.”
“Why on earth would I think you meant penis?”
Genuinely surprised, she cocked her head. “That isn’t the first p word that pops into your mind?”
“Jesus Christ, Eve, no.”
“Ohhh. Is it pussy?”
“Stop saying—” The muscle in his jaw performed a fascinating dance and his left hand dug into a cushion so hard she was worried he might rip it apart. “Stop saying . . . those things.”
Oh dear. She cleared her throat and moved swiftly on. “I’m just in a constant state of mild shock-horror over your high levels of decency.” Mostly because she herself couldn’t fathom such thoughtfulness, and also because he was so good at pretending to live in a mental ice palace.
Jacob shifted uncomfortably under her praise and muttered, “Please. If I was that decent I’d be paying you for all the extra work you do.”
She blinked. He’d said something like this before, but she’d assumed he’d been joking. Apparently, it was actually bothering him. “Don’t be silly. I know you can’t afford overtime.”
Because Jacob was Jacob, he didn’t snarl at the implication or sink into a manly spiral of despair over his reduced circumstances. He just laughed and said, “Oh, so you’ve noticed I’m poor as shit. I wasn’t sure you understood how money worked.”
“Har-har. You’ve told me before that you put all your savings into Castell Cottage. And since I help with the ironing, I am aware you only have three work shirts.” She supposed he spent his clothing budget on those little complimentary soaps, the artisanal ones with local honey in them that he arranged just so in every guest bathroom.
“You’ve been counting my shirts, Evie? That is beyond a man’s dignity.” But he was still smiling beneath his injured expression. It was a tiny quirk to the lips, a brightness in his eyes that made everything between them as golden as the honey in those soaps.
They could tease and they could share and they could be comfortable together, and she loved it. She loved it.
So she did some more teasing, since he took it so well. “I think it’s charming that you are poor as a noble church mouse.”
“I think you must’ve been raised in a palace on Cloud Unicorn because you are the most ridiculous thing.” But he said the words fondly. He said them so fondly, with such tenderness in his eyes, that she felt slightly faint for a moment. She felt like squirming under that gentle smile, like covering her heated face with both hands or collapsing at his feet or . . . or . . .
That was definitely enough teasing for one day. She cleared her throat and got back to business. “Don’t forget the extra work is because I broke your wrist. And anyway, I researched, and I know you actually pay higher than average.”
“I pay a living wage, Eve. The real one, not the government bullshit.”
“Do you pay yourself a living wage?”
“Quiet, baggage.” He reached over and pushed at her shoulder—just the quickest, lightest touch, one that barely connected, as if he was afraid she might topple off the bed and knock herself out on the side table. Or maybe he touched her so lightly because he felt the same thing she did: the electric shiver down her spine, a silver streak of heat, every time his skin brushed hers.
Maybe.
“And what do you mean you researched?” he snorted. “What, you had no point of reference?”
Eve shrugged. “You’ve read my CV.”
“You mean the document you emailed me that included two weeks spent as a fire-eater at a resort hotel? I have to say, Sunshine, I assumed you were taking the piss with that.”
Her mind stuttered and restarted over sunshine. Had he . . . just said that word? Or rather, had he just said it at her? As in . . . she . . . was the sunshine?
“Please tell me you were taking the piss,” he went on. “I am begging you. Because if you weren’t, I now have to come to terms with the fact that you spent a month as an abseiling instructor in Wales.”
This was the part where she passionately denied her checkered past as an abseiling instructor, or threw caution to the wind and boldly admitted to it. But her whole mind, possibly her entire nervous system, was still occupied with that little sunshine slip.
I have to say, Sunshine . . .
Perhaps she’d misheard him. Perhaps he’d developed a stutter or he was so high on sugar he’d started to slur.
Except, after the beat of her silence, he gave a wry smile. “You seem distracted.”
“Mmm,” she managed.
“I can hear you overthinking.”
“Well,” she blurted, “you can’t blame me.”
“Because of the sunshine thing.” He didn’t make it a question, but she answered anyway.
“Yes indeed.”
“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.”
“Silly of you.”
“Yes. I have come to realize you notice everything.” He looked personally inconvenienced by that fact. “I know you think you aren’t clever, Eve. You are.”
“Are you trying to distract me from the sunshine comment?” she asked hoarsely. Because it was sort of working. He gave a lovely compliment, did Jacob. The part where it seemed like pulling teeth for him made it extra genuine.
“Yes, I was trying to distract you.”
“Ah.”
He ran a hand through the soft mess of his hair. Eve’s own fingers twitched, just a little, in her lap. “I expect it’s thrown you. The sudden nickname thing.”
“Oh, it has,” she said. Into a pool of pleasure.
“But we are official friends, now. You should’ve known I might get carried away.”
Truthfully, she murmured, “I didn’t think anything could carry Jacob Wayne away.”
He met her gaze. “Apparently, you can.”
She tried not to choke on her rocketing heart or her sudden, horny feelings.
“Usually, I try to compliment you,” he said, “and it comes out like an insult. So. When I accidentally say something true, something that matches what’s in my head . . .” He lifted his chin and looked at her steadily, as if daring her to argue. “I’m not going to take it back.”
Slightly breathless, she murmured, “I don’t think you should. Take it back, I mean. You should be as . . . yourself as you can.”
“It takes practice, around people I haven’t known very long. But with you
it’s coming along nicely.”
She swallowed hard. “Practice makes perfect. Do it again.”
“No.”
“I’ll wait.” A smile spread across her face. “Hey—does this mean I get to give you a nickname?”
He gave her a withering look. “Absolutely not.”
“But, Mushroom!”
“Piss off, Eve.”
“But—my dear, sweet Raspberry!”
“Just for that,” he said, and then he snagged the box of Jaffa Cakes and ate the last one.
She released a gasp of genuine horror. “Jacob!”
“That’s better.”
“You bastard.”
“You were warned, woman.”
“Don’t you mean Sunshine?”
He swallowed the last bite and grinned. “Don’t let it go to your head.” Just as quick, the smile was replaced by a frown as he shifted and looked down at the bed. “For fuck’s sake, these springs. What . . .” He trailed off as he rummaged among the sofa cushions. “Oh. I think I’m sitting on something.”
And then he rummaged some more and produced a giant purple dildo that may or may not have belonged to Eve.
Chapter Fourteen
If there was one thing Jacob hadn’t seen coming, it was to find himself holding a glittery, silicon dick before the day was out. But he should’ve known to expect the unexpected around Eve.
Still, the idea that he could’ve predicted this was . . . he wanted to think impossible or maybe even horrifying, but all his brain threw up was fascinating. He gripped the sturdy length—Christ, what was this thing, twelve inches?—and held it up to the moonlight, watching it sparkle. Because of course, Eve’s dildo sparkled.
And now that he’d actually thought the phrase Eve’s dildo, every filthy desire he’d crammed into his mental Don’t Think About It cupboard simultaneously kicked down the door and burst free.
Act Your Age, Eve Brown Page 17