Act Your Age, Eve Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  She laughed a little. “Ouch.”

  Great. He was fucking up already. “What? What’s ouch?”

  “You know that you’re a very good friend is code for I don’t want to sleep with you again, right?”

  Ah. “Well, yes, I did know that, but I more meant that we shouldn’t sleep together, not that I don’t want to.”

  Eve bit her lip, pulling the covers over her chest as she sat up. “Oh. Okay. Well . . . yeah. Honestly, you’re probably right. I mean—” She laughed, though the usual sparkle in her eyes was absent. “Why did we even do this? It’s not like we could date.”

  Those words really shouldn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but Jacob was apparently ridiculous over this woman, so they did.

  “Right,” he said awkwardly, when what he wanted to ask was, Why? Why couldn’t we date? Am I so unsuitable? Or are you thinking of the problems I’m thinking of? Or—

  Didn’t matter. Couldn’t ask. If she said something all sweet and brilliant and overwhelmingly Eve, he might throw caution to the wind and do whatever it took to make her his . . . person. And she couldn’t be his person because his people didn’t last.

  “Well. Then we’re in agreement,” he managed. “The trouble is, whether we agree on this or not, we will probably continue to be attracted to each other.” He was impressed with himself for making such an understatement with a serious face. “And we spend so much time around each other, mistakes might easily be made.” Even as he said the words, a solution presented itself, glaringly obvious and wonderfully convenient. “But,” he said slowly, his mind still whirring, “there’s an easy way to reduce the risk.” An easy way to put you out of my reach, at least some of the time.

  “Is there?” She arched an eyebrow, yet he couldn’t shake the impression that all her expressions were less full of life than usual, a little more mechanic.

  Of course, that couldn’t be the case. Because if something was wrong with Eve, she’d just—well, she’d say. She always said. She was beautifully blunt, even now, during the most awkward conversation they’d ever had. So it was probably wishful thinking on his part, his mind searching for evidence that she was dying inside, just like him.

  Which she obviously wasn’t, because it was insensible for Jacob to feel this way and no reasonable person should. Not after so little time and so little encouragement. For God’s sake, this time last week they’d hated each other.

  “Go on, then,” she said, her voice strangely sharp. Irritated with him already, no doubt. “Give me this mystical solution.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well—we agreed, last week, that you couldn’t stay here forever.” Then she’d charmed him so thoroughly that he’d forgotten to mind the fact she was sleeping in his sitting room. But he certainly minded now. For entirely different reasons. “Perhaps the best thing is for you to move out. I—I have alternative accommodations in mind.” Or rather, he did as of ten seconds ago. “We could go and take a look on . . .” He flicked through his mental diary, the pieces of this half-arsed plan flying together because he was that desperate to avoid temptation. “Thursday. No check-ins on Thursday. We could make that our house-hunting day.”

  There: that meant he’d only have to live beside her, to know she was in here alone at night with nothing but the toy he’d used to make her come, for another four days.

  Dear God, it was going to be hell.

  “Fine,” Eve said after a moment’s pause. “Fine. Yes. Thursday. If that’s what you want.”

  “Yes. Thursday. Good.” He forced the words out of his throat.

  She lifted her chin. “Good.”

  His eyes caught on her mouth, and he remembered the moment he’d kissed her, and he wanted to relive it again and again and again for the rest of his life.

  “I should go,” he said stiffly.

  She didn’t stop him.

  * * *

  Eve held her breath and counted to ten. The door clicked shut behind Jacob before she’d hit four, because he wasn’t the long, lingering-looks sort, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have given them to her.

  Sigh.

  She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, because it didn’t. Or rather, it shouldn’t. She barely knew the man, and she wasn’t permitted to have him. He was a bad choice, of course he was: her employer. Her temporary employer. A high-handed, frosty, impossible man who’d probably end up married to someone severe and put together and dear God, why the bloody hell was Eve thinking about marriage right now? The point was, sleeping with Jacob had been one of her life’s many terrible, thoughtless, immature choices, and she should be grateful he’d put such a firm stop to things.

  It was both senseless and pathetic to wish that Jacob had said something entirely different. To wish that he’d asked her for something she couldn’t give and shouldn’t want. Eve repeated this mantra to herself several thousand times over, until it took on a little rhythm inside her mind, one she was too hollow to actually sing. Then she heard the faint sound of the shower turning on down the hall, and instead of smirking because she knew exactly what Jacob must be doing in there, her lower lip wobbled dangerously because he wouldn’t be doing it with her.

  She looked around the room that had been filled with so much hope and happiness at the start of the evening, and then breathless lust, and now disappointment, and she sort of cracked right down the middle.

  Which is how she found herself sitting butt naked by the window, crying very quietly, while waiting for her grandmother to pick up the phone.

  The moment Gigi answered with a drawled, “Sugar lump. Is something on fire?” Eve’s senses returned.

  “Oh, God,” she said, swiping the tears from her cheeks. “It must be so late—”

  “Shush, shush. Not to worry. Vani and I were just watching Cat People.”

  “Sorry,” Eve sniffled, her voice a whisper. Because Jacob could get out of the shower at any minute, and then he might hear her.

  “Why are you whispering, my darling little Coco Pop? Cough twice if you’re in a hostage situation.”

  Eve laughed, but somewhere along the way her voice got confused and the laugh turned into a sob.

  “Shivani,” she heard Gigi say, voice slightly muffled. “I require a recess. Yes. No, darling, don’t worry.”

  Oh, God; now her grandmother was interrupting date night to deal with the sobbing granddaughter on the phone. Eve was suddenly mortified by the childish behavior she’d reverted to. Steeling herself, she said quickly, “No, please, don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Sweetness, you quite obviously need to talk. And so, we shall talk.”

  “No—that’s not—I’m terribly sorry, Gigi. I suppose I called you out of habit, but I’m a big girl and I can solve my own problems.” She didn’t even have a problem, for heaven’s sake: she was just a bit upset by a decision that made perfect sense.

  And slightly annoyed, perhaps, by the fact that it hadn’t been her decision. That Jacob had so cleverly and decisively taken it all out of her hands. It didn’t take two people to decide they wouldn’t sleep together again; it only took one. But it certainly took two people to decide that Eve urgently needed to move out, didn’t it? Surely it wouldn’t kill him to discuss things rather than bossing her about as if they were—well, as if they were at work?

  The sadness in her chest became a sudden, unexpected spark of irritation.

  “Darling,” Gigi was saying, “are you listening to me?”

  Oh, Christ. Not only had she disturbed her poor grandmother in the middle of the night, she’d then completely zoned out of their conversation. “Yes. Absolutely. Sorry, Gigi.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know how you get when you’re thinking. But I have to say, my little muffin case, I cannot allow you to behave as if calling me when you’re upset is some sort of childish tantrum.”

  Gigi sounded unusually disapproving, her severe tone unfamiliar enough to capture Eve’s attention. “Erm . . . you . . . can’t?”

  “N
o. I’m glad you’re taking life by the bollocks, and what have you, darling, but that doesn’t mean renouncing all human connection to become an invulnerable monk type out in the woods. It’s perfectly reasonable to call someone you trust when something’s bothering you.”

  “Oh. Well,” Eve said slowly, “when you put it like that, I suppose it is.” She certainly wouldn’t think her sisters were childish if they reached out to her with a problem or just a dark mood—in fact, she wished they’d do that sort of thing more often. They were very self-sustaining, but they’d also struggled with certain things for far longer than necessary, simply because they refused to ask for help.

  Eve rarely did anything other than ask for help. That was on the list of things she wanted to change. But it struck her now that there was a balance to be observed.

  “Thank you, Gigi,” she said softly. “I think you’re right.”

  “Of course I am, my precious little plum. Now, what’s gotten you into a tizzy at such a disgraceful hour?”

  Eve opened her mouth, then realized that (1) she didn’t want to discuss mind-blowing sex with her grandmother, even if said grandmother would thoroughly approve, and (2) she didn’t actually need to. Eve knew how she felt, what she wanted, and what options were available to her. Just talking to Gigi had calmed her down and untangled her frantic thoughts.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that I don’t exactly need to talk about it. I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “What a sweet little nugget you are, Evie.”

  Trust Gigi to end a depressing phone call by making Eve laugh.

  By the time Jacob’s shower ended, Eve had restored her bedroom to some semblance of order, put her dildo in a box and put that box in a drawer so she could never stumble upon it again, and gotten into her pajamas. Order. Routine. All very important things for a woman who felt raw inside, yet wanted to appear ordinary, to observe.

  She would pretend to be fine until she was fine—because regardless of her feelings, the facts were clear: she wanted something impossible. If Jacob had wanted the same, she might be brave enough to reach for it, anyway. But he didn’t, so she wouldn’t.

  She would go back to the way things had been only yesterday, and she would try to be as satisfied as she’d been then.

  Which must be the adult choice, because she didn’t bloody like it. Not one bit.

  * * *

  Amazing, how quickly Thursday had come despite Jacob’s sleepless nights.

  This week, breakfast had continued to go smoothly, as had afternoon tea. Housekeeping had gone less smoothly, at least for him—because controlling himself, even controlling his thoughts, around Eve Brown was a fucking roller-coaster ride. But he’d successfully performed their new, stiff choreography without cracking, never touching her as they worked, talking about nothing but the necessities because any other conversation might see him pulled under the wave of her loveliness. So perhaps he should call that a win.

  Now they were walking through the streets toward Aunt Lucy’s to start their tour of local, affordable accommodation, and he should call that a win, too.

  He really should.

  Less of a win was the fact that he remained utterly fascinated with Eve, and mostly unable to hide it. Like right now; his eyes were staring straight ahead, his feet were obediently walking, step by step, down the street—but his mind was out of control, pouring all its considerable attention onto Eve. He imagined he could feel the warmth of her as she walked beside him, slightly hotter than this mild afternoon. He imagined, every so often, a glittering sensation caused by her gaze on the side of his face. As if she were sneaking looks at him, and he was so in tune with her every move that he could sense it.

  But those things were just fantasy; in reality, all Jacob could do was hear her. How lucky for him that she was never silent. After a few awkward moments of quiet at the beginning of their walk, Eve had started up this odd, humming lilt, the same snatch of a tune repeated again and again in slightly different ways. It was a habit of hers, a vocal tic he’d gotten used to. But now, on his way to Aunt Lucy’s—on his way to lose Eve, just a little bit—Jacob found himself desperate to understand everything she did rather than simply enjoying it.

  So he asked on an ill-advised rush of curiosity, “What are you doing?”

  At his question, Eve looked up sharply. Almost guiltily. “Sorry,” she said. She was so on edge, now. Ever since—well, ever since. It was obviously his fault, and the knowledge squeezed at his lungs.

  That tightness, that lack of air, made his next words come out clipped. “I didn’t say to apologize. I said, what are you doing?”

  Predictably, his sharpness chased the embarrassment from her eyes. Now she looked pissed off with him, which he far preferred. “You said I could sing. You even said it was better to sing than to wear the AirPods. I told you it would be annoying.”

  “I don’t find it annoying.” Which was the truth. He found it . . . familiar.

  “You don’t find it annoying?” she echoed skeptically, one eyebrow arched.

  “That’s what I said.” Jacob paused, considering his next words. He wasn’t sure if he should say them; after all, this woman wasn’t his business, not in the way he wanted her to be. Restless, he even pulled out his phone, hoping for a distraction that would stop him from speaking. No new notifications. Nothing particularly interesting on his live video feed of the cottage. Fine.

  He put his phone away, and next thing he knew, the question he’d been avoiding slipped out. “Have you ever heard of stimming?”

  She kicked a twig onto the grassy path beside them, then tipped back her head to squint at the low-hanging sun. “I don’t know. Maybe. Remind me what it is?”

  Jacob allowed himself a moment to watch the fall of her hair, the way one fine lavender braid caught and coiled in the soft space between her neck and her shoulder, before dragging his gaze away. “It’s a kind of . . . repetitive action, to find comfort or focus or self-stimulate. Lots of autistic people do it.”

  “Oh,” she said. There was a pause. “Well, if you want to . . . stim, go for it. I don’t mind. I’m never going to mind.”

  Jacob blinked, then narrowed his eyes. She thought—she was giving him permission to—? He didn’t know whether to be pleased or pissed.

  Not pleased. Pleased is not allowed.

  Fine, then: pissed. “I don’t need permission to be myself, nor would I ever ask you for it.” He’d grown out of that the hard way.

  She huffed. Folded her arms. Flicked Jacob an utterly unreadable look. “So—do you think—” She broke off, pressing her lips together. “Then why did you bring it up?”

  Good fucking question. His feelings for her must be causing some kind of brain hemorrhage, because this conversation wasn’t his to have. You couldn’t just tell a woman that she often behaved in a way you read as autistic. Not if you weren’t said woman’s behavioral therapist. There were rules—or—ethical boundaries, or—something. Or maybe there weren’t; Jacob didn’t fucking know. He’d only been twelve when Aunt Lucy had told him they were just going to the doctor’s to sort something out, and really, the something didn’t matter, except school might be easier if people knew what she already suspected, that was all.

  So he didn’t really know how this stuff worked for adults. He did know that he could very easily be wrong, and that he’d already crossed enough lines with this woman, so he should stop while he was ahead.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said finally. “Just—don’t worry about it.”

  She seemed to deflate, though he didn’t understand why. “Okay. Whatever.” A moment later, he watched as her odd mood drifted away like clouds from the sun—because she was Eve, and Eve was never one thing for long. She turned the golden ray of her attention upward as they wandered down an avenue of old oak trees. The sunlight through the verdant leaves sent dappled patterns across her skin and brought out the ocher in her dark eyes. She released a sigh that thrust him right back
to last weekend, to her shaky breath when he’d kissed between her thighs.

  He wrenched himself back to the present before his dick could start to react. Wandering down the streets of Skybriar with a hard-on wouldn’t do his reputation much good, professional or otherwise.

  “Oh look,” she said, pointing. “A gingerbread sign.”

  Jacob eyed the banner advertising the Gingerbread Festival, and instead of his usual anxiety to get said festival absolutely right, all he felt was a quiet confidence in Eve. Which wasn’t a feeling conducive to caring about her less, so he squashed it down and simply grunted.

  “This is such a lovely town,” she murmured. “I don’t know how you manage to stay so grumpy when you live here.”

  “Through great force of will,” he replied.

  “I’ve never seen this street before. It’s pretty.”

  “Never seen—?” But no, he supposed she wouldn’t have. He knew that Eve had gone shopping, and that she made trips to the supermarket, but aside from that, well.

  “There’s not much time for exploring,” she said. The words were light and even, a simple statement of fact, but they hit him like a hammer made of guilt. Christ. The more he thought about it, the more Castell Cottage looked like some kind of labor camp, lately.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted. And it was the truth. As a child, he’d caught a butterfly in a jar, and though he’d given it air holes and fed it as advised by the quick facts section of his insect encyclopedia, it had still died.

  Aunt Lucy had told him butterflies needed somewhere to flutter about. Just like Eve.

  Eve, who was looking at him with a hint of surprise, probably because he never apologized more than three times per annum. “That’s okay,” she said. “I could explore, if I wanted to, after tea, or—”

  “Except you’re usually bone-tired because I work you like a dog.”

  She laughed out loud. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Jacob, you’re wrong.”

  “Things will be different when my wrist is healed. In four weeks, your workload will be greatly reduced, I promise.”