Eve hadn’t realized that breakfast for dinner was a legitimate thing, as opposed to evidence of her own chaotic lifestyle, but she decided to take this new knowledge in stride. “So they chose your B&B—”

“My B&B,” Jacob interrupted. God, what a prat.

“This B&B,” Eve went on smoothly—she was rather proud of herself—“to lead such an important event, despite your not even having a chef?”

Jacob’s jaw tensed and his cold eyes flashed with irritation, which was rather fun to see. It was rare that Eve’s natural skill at annoyance gave her such satisfaction. “We did have a chef when I secured the opportunity,” he corrected her. “An excellent one.”

“Also,” Mont cut in, “there are multiple food stalls, all with different themes and providers. Pemberton Gingerbread is a bit of a patron for local business, like in the olden days with kings and . . . harp players. Or whatever.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Point is, tourists come from all over the place, so it’s an unmissable chance to reach new customers. Plus, there’s always press. Jacob wants it to go well. Badly. But, as you pointed out, it kind of requires a chef.”

Eve assumed that last part was the understatement to end all understatements.

“Suffice to say, we really can’t afford to be picky at the moment. So here’s what I think: let’s go to the kitchen right now—”

Jacob’s head whipped around as he glared at his friend. “What are you doing?”

Somehow, Montrose ignored the rigid command of that tone. In fact, he ignored it with a smile. “You show us what you can do, Eve, and if you’re good—”

“Mont, no.”

“If you’re good,” Mont continued firmly, “maybe Jacob will get his head out of his arse and take you seriously.”

“I bloody won’t,” snapped the man in question.

Her patience snapping, too, Eve produced her sweetest smile. “You won’t get your head out of your arse? Aren’t you concerned about potential suffocation?”

A muscle began to tick at his jaw. “I—you—that is not—” Jacob cut off his own spluttering with a sharp inhalation. In an instant, he went from flustered irritation to rigid disdain, his gaze drilling into her.

For some reason, Eve’s breath hitched a little. As if that harsh focus was something other than rude and alienating. Which it was not.

Jacob said, steel braided through every word, “I’m sorry, Ms. Brown, but my friend is mistaken. It’s clear to me, based on this interview, that the two of us would not suit.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Eve said calmly, and she had the great satisfaction of making Jacob Wayne look like he’d swallowed a wasp. She rose to her feet and said to Mont, “It was absolutely wonderful to meet you. Perhaps I’ll loiter around a certain pub this evening. Where did you say it was?”

Mont had been shooting Jacob some serious side-eye, which was rather enjoyable, but now he turned his attention to Eve and gave her the sort of charming and indulgent smile she should always be treated to. “Friar’s Hill, sweetheart. You come and see me. Don’t worry,” he added darkly with another glare at his friend, “Jacob won’t be there.”