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.”

She turned and flashed him another look he couldn’t decipher—one completely devoid of levity or even sarcasm. “Right,” she said softly. “Just four weeks.” Then she swallowed, and turned away, skipping ahead of him. “I bet you make sweet promises to all the indentured servants.”

He snorted, then caught a familiar movement up above. Wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her back against him without even thinking. The instant her soft, round arse pressed into his thighs, bird shit splattered on the pavement where she’d stood.

Eve, predictably, screamed. It was only a little scream, but really. “Jesus, woman,” he muttered.

“Poop!”

“Yes. Welcome to the countryside. What were you saying about lovely towns?”

“Fuck you,” she laughed.

He found his own mouth curling into a smile, an automatic response. Then he ruthlessly corralled it back into a straight line, because he’d read many books over the years, and one of those books had been about how not to break under torture. Your tormentors would start with little things, easy concessions to get you used to cooperating with them. If he allowed himself to smile when Eve was lovely—and she was often lovely—next thing he knew he’d be laughing with her, and talking to her properly—and surely the next step was dragging her up to his room and fucking her into the mattress. He could even imagine the sounds she’d make, the way her hands would glide over his skin as if just the feel of him turned her on. He could imagine, when he allowed himself to do so, everything.

Hence why he could give no quarter when it came to smiles.

He rolled his eyes at her instead, and let her go. Well, almost. Two of his fingers snagged the belt loop at the back of her jeans, hooking around the fabric, staying there. But only, he told himself, because someone needed to guide her around. This was unknown terrain. There was bird poop about. It was his responsibility to hold on to her like this.

Clearly she agreed, because she stayed close as they walked.

* * *

The first place on Jacob’s accommodation list was, as it turned out, his aunt’s house.

Lucy’s was a lovely little place, a bungalow being eaten alive by wisteria in a way Eve quite adored. And it had a spare room—the one Jacob and his cousin Liam had shared, growing up, which was now an immaculate double bedroom. Apparently, Eve might rent said bedroom for a nominal fee.