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 corridors 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.”