Jacob opened his mouth to tell her as much, but Mont, the bastard, interjected.

“Sure. Tell us all about it.”

“Do you have a CV?” Jacob demanded, because he wasn’t about to let this process go to the dogs, thanks very much.

“No,” she told him with another one of those sweet little smiles. She really was like a Disney princess, except her clothes were awful and everything that came out of her mouth was wrong. He felt a bit dizzy, which in turn made him more than a bit irritated.

Who in the bloody hell was this woman, anyway, turning up at his B&B with her posh, southern accent, making him draw far too many Xs and Os? He didn’t like her, Jacob decided, his mind snapping into a new direction like a whip. He didn’t like her at all.

“I studied at a pastry school in Paris for, er, a period of time,” she went on, which was the vaguest bullshit he’d ever heard, “and I’m an excellent baker. Really, since this is a practical position, I was hoping I could simply take you to the kitchen and prove my abilities.”

Jacob was frankly appalled. “No. Nope. No. For one thing, practical skill doesn’t cover things like health and safety experience.”

“Oh, but I have all of that,” she said brightly. “I had to, so I could join my friend Alaris’s Mindful Juicing Experience back in 2017. Juice recipe development,” she told them in a conspiratorial tone, “is an underrated form of meditation.”

“Really?” Mont asked.

“Mont,” Jacob said, “why are you responding to this rubbish?”

Eve ignored him, or perhaps she didn’t hear. He’d noticed she was wearing one of those earbud things, peeking through the braids, as if her T-shirt wasn’t offensive enough.

“Oh, yes,” she was saying, her eyes on Mont as she nodded pleasantly. “It does work. My grandmother is a great fan.”

“Hmmm. You know, I’ve been looking for ways to turn the pub into a kind of events hub for the town. Maybe something like that would work. Holding classes, or . . .”

“I’d be happy to discuss it with you,” Eve said. “I could even give you Alaris’s number. She’s a true pioneer.”

Jacob wondered if perhaps, when he had gotten up to pace twenty minutes ago, he had actually tripped and fallen and hit his head and was now in a coma. “Look,” he said sharply, attempting to drag the conversation back into the land of good sense and logic. “I can’t interview you without a CV. You have no references, no solid evidence of education or employment—”

“I studied at St. Albert’s,” she told him, her tone a little colder, “from two thousand—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted. “What I’m trying to say is, applications are still open, and if you’re serious about this, I’m sure you’ll email me your CV as soon as you can get to a computer.” If you’re serious about this. Ha. Clearly, this woman had never been serious about anything in her life.