He wouldn’t go out to see her. That would be weird. That would be like handing someone an unexpected and unasked-for gift, then hovering as they opened it and demanding to know if they liked it. He also couldn’t go out there because he’d made a private vow to himself: no being alone with Eve at night. He could not be trusted. Jacob was certain of that.

So he typed nonsense into his spreadsheet, completely fucking up his equations, as the creak of her footsteps sounded down the hall. Ignore. Ignore. Ig—

A knock came at his office door.

Well, shit.

“Jacob?” she called softly. “The light’s on.”

She’d hated it. She’d hated the entire night and was horrified by his presumption. She’d felt corralled into an evening of socializing, like a child, which was frankly Jacob’s worst nightmare, so—

“Can I come in?”

To hit him with a brick, probably. Ah, well. Better face the consequences of his actions like a man. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough with—tiredness. Probably.

The door opened, and Eve didn’t look like she was going to hit him with a brick. For one thing, she didn’t even have a brick. Just a pair of white Converse with neon, rainbow laces, hanging from one hand—Converse that had presumably been on her feet, once, because now her feet were bare. And she probably didn’t intend to hit him with the shoes, because she was smiling. She was smiling so big that her cheeks plumped and her eyes crinkled at the corners and his heart began to thump a frantic dance beat against his ribs.

“Hi,” she said, leaning against the doorway. God, he wished she hadn’t done that. She was wearing this tiny white dress, a silky, strapless thing with random flecks of color, that clung to every last one of her curves. And there were many. Her hips strained the fabric, pulling it so tight she might as well be fucking naked. She leaned forward slightly, her movements lazy and loose, and her cleavage basically spilled over the neckline. That dress was precarious, to say the least. It was clearly his duty, as the nearest authority figure, to watch her breasts as closely as possible. The minute they bounced free, he would spring into action and . . . put them back in? No, that didn’t seem right.

“I know what you did,” she murmured, and he immediately thought back to this morning—to the way he’d fucked his hand underneath the spray of the shower while she sang “Good Morning Baltimore,” of all things, on the other side of the wall.

But obviously, she wasn’t talking about that.

“Jacob Wayne,” she said as she finally stepped into the room, “you are the sweetest man alive.”

He flinched. “No.”

She sprawled in the chair opposite his desk. “Yes.” She raised her legs and put her feet on said desk. Her toes were painted glittery pink. Her lip gloss was glittery pink, too. Bright and brilliant and obnoxious as fuck. He wanted to see it all over his dick.