“My name is Eve Brown,” she said, coming to sit down. More confidence. Good. He circled one of the Os again.

“I’m Eric Montrose,” Mont said. “I run the Rose and Crown over on Friar’s Hill. And my silent friend here is the owner of Castell Cottage, Jacob Wayne.”

Silent? Oh, yeah. That was Jacob right now. He was just taking things in. He had things in his head. Eve Brown, she said her name was, but it seemed so unassuming compared to the lip gloss and the T-shirt and the way all those long, fine braids spilled over her shoulders. Very dramatic, was the spilling. And the wetness of her skin made it look less like skin and more like some kind of precious metal or silk or whatever. Her neck reminded him of a wood pigeon’s breast, that soft sort of curve. But no feathers here, he assumed. Just kind of velvety, the way they looked. He was still circling the O on his notepad. Crap.

Jacob put down his pen and cleared his throat. “Sorry. Autism. I occasionally hyperfocus.”

She nodded and kept her mouth shut. No thrilling stories about her sister’s husband’s cousin’s neighbor’s five-year-old autistic son. Wonderful. Another O.

Jacob made the mark, then got down to business. “Obviously, we weren’t expecting you.”

“No,” she smiled. Again. For what possible reason, Jacob couldn’t say. Perhaps she was trying to be charming? Definitely suspicious. “I was actually just passing through,” she went on, “when I saw the notice on your door.”

Jacob stiffened. Disorganized, unintentional, just passing through. Bad, bad, bad, X, X, X. “Do you often roam the Lakes, passing through random small towns, looking for work?”

“The Lakes?” She blinked, then smiled again. “Is that where we are? Good Lord, I drove quite far.”

Jacob had changed his mind. Her neck did not look like a wood pigeon’s breast. It looked like the rest of her: untrustworthy and highly annoying and possibly on drugs. He was allergic to coke-heads. He had been overexposed during his childhood, and now they made him leery. “You don’t even know where you are?”

Beneath the table, Montrose kicked him again. He followed it up with a glare, which Jacob knew from experience was code for, Tone, man. Eve, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes until they went from wide, innocent, puppy-dog things to flashing slits of night. Then they returned to normal, so fast he wondered if he’d imagined that moment. “I’m afraid not,” she said sweetly. “Or at least, I didn’t know before. Thank goodness you were so chevalier as to tell me.”

Jacob stared, perplexed. Then Mont said, “Er . . . did you mean chivalrous?”

“No,” she replied calmly. “I’m quite certain I meant chevalier. Would you like to hear about my experience now?”

The answer should be no. She was disorganized and unreliable; therefore, Jacob did not want her anywhere near his masterpiece of hospitality. On the other hand, she was clearly cool under pressure and very self-assured, and he appreciated the firm conviction with which she spoke utter nonsense. Conviction was a very important quality. He jotted down another O. Her pros and cons were practically even, although the fact that she had any cons at all should make her an automatic failure.