Most of all, he seemed irritated by Eve.

Which was, frankly, his loss. Eve was an absolute delight, everyone knew that—yet it was abundantly clear that Jacob believed himself to be better than her. And perhaps, in certain respects, he might be right . . . but she wasn’t overly fond of people who made judgments like that without the proper evidence. She wasn’t fond of them at all.

Honestly, she barely wanted to work here anyway. In fact, what she wanted to do with Jacob sneering Wayne, after just ten minutes of acquaintance, was conk him on the head with a saucepan.

But watching a scarlet flush creep up his chiseled cheeks was also enjoyable, and since that’s what happened when Mont said, Jacob here is knee-deep in the shit, Eve decided to listen instead of storming off.

“Jacob’s last chef won the lotto down at the corner shop last week,” Mont went on. “Fifty grand, so she’s jacked work in and moved back to Scotland to marry her fella—long distance, they were—and start her own business.”

Eve arched a dubious eyebrow. “Well, that’s nice for her. But I doubt she’ll get far with fifty thousand.”

“That’s what I said,” Jacob burst out. “What’s a house deposit without a guaranteed income to pay the mortgage?” He frowned and snapped his mouth shut as soon as the words escaped, looking thoroughly displeased at having agreed with Eve on any level.

Of course, Eve hadn’t realized fifty thousand pounds was a house deposit. What she’d meant was that fifty thousand pounds hadn’t been even half of the budget of the wedding she’d planned for Cecelia. But she decided to keep that minor detail to herself.

You waste time and opportunities like—like a spoiled brat.

She pursed her lips and turned away from Jacob’s sharp, clear energy, focusing on Mont, who was considerably less unsettling in every way. Oh, he was as handsome as Jacob, with his smiling mouth, dark skin, and warm eyes—but he didn’t vibrate with iron control and never-ending judgment, which made him far easier to look at. “Please,” she said politely, “do continue.”

Mont smiled a little wider. Jacob, meanwhile, narrowed those frosty eyes of his. Not that Eve was looking.

“Point is,” Montrose went on, “the chef’s gone, and Jacob doesn’t know how to boil an egg.”

“Yes,” Jacob growled, “I do.”

“Correction: Jacob was cursed by a witch at birth, so no matter how carefully he follows a recipe, it always comes out like shit.”

Jacob opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, then closed it again as if, on second thought, he really couldn’t. Eve was suddenly glad she’d stayed; though she had no intention of taking this job, hearing all about Jacob’s problems was rather entertaining.

“Plus,” Mont said, “it’s the Gingerbread Festival over in Pemberton at the end of the month.” He must have seen Eve’s expression, because he explained: “Old-school gingerbread bakery with a bit of a cult following. You should try some, it’s bloody good. Anyway, they have this annual foodie event and Castell Cottage is running a breakfast-for-dinner stall.”