But when the seconds ticked by without his reply, Eve steeled her spine and squared her shoulders. So what if he’d heard that sad, horny, far-too-attached part of her? So fucking what? Sometimes, being convenient instead of real was exhausting. So maybe, from now on, she’d stop.

“Nothing to say?” she asked, and surprised herself by sounding as sharp and superior as her eldest sister. Which made Eve feel rather authoritative. If only Jacob weren’t still holding her hand—or rather, if only she weren’t still holding his—her transformation to absolute badass would be complete.

Then Jacob ruined everything by saying quietly, “Eve. I’m sorry.”

Very small, very simple words. They shouldn’t be able to punch a hole through her outrage like this, but clearly, Eve was soft.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice as impassioned as a whisper could be. Which was, apparently, rather impassioned indeed. His hand squeezed hers, and then his other hand joined the party, cast and all, and suddenly he was clutching her like a Regency gentleman about to make a heartfelt declaration. “I did strong-arm you, because I was panicking, and that was wrong of me, and I—I was a shit, and you’re right to be angry with me, but please, please don’t ever think I want to get rid of you. That is the last thing I want. I don’t think I could ever want that. You’re lovely, Evie, and you make me smile every day—multiple times a day”—he managed to sound genuinely shocked by that—“and I can’t believe you’ve been holding this in all week instead of smacking me for it.”

Eve decided it was for the best that she couldn’t see Jacob in here, because hearing his voice was bad enough. The speed of his words, and the way his sentences frayed at the edges, and that thread of desperation through it all as if he really, urgently needed her to understand, was bad enough.

“Say something,” he murmured hoarsely. “Please.”

“I . . .” She took a breath. She had the vague idea that she should remain angry despite his apology, based on principle alone, but, well. She wasn’t angry anymore. He had just popped all her hurt like a balloon and replaced it with several thousand hopeful, happy bubbles, and really, no one should have the power to change her mood so very quickly.

But apparently, Jacob did.

Drat.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Fine. I suppose I understand. And you apologize very well.” She paused. “If you would like to compliment me some more before we make up, feel free.”

To her surprise, he took that joke as a very serious suggestion. “You are extremely sweet and a very good cook and incredibly pretty,” he said without hesitation, “and . . . you have a wonderful sense of humor.”

“Ha! I knew you thought I was funny. I knew it.”

“Maybe I’m just sucking up,” he said. But he squeezed her hand again, and she felt an answering squeeze of pleasure in her tummy.