Jacob, I wasn’t going to leave. I’d changed my mind. Okay? I wanted to stay.

She’d said that to him. She’d said that, out loud, and he’d dismissed it as not enough because . . .

Because he hadn’t believed her. He hadn’t been able to believe her. She hadn’t meant it, was just trying not to hurt him. Any other interpretation had felt impossible—still felt impossible now. His heart slammed up against old fears, fears that swore he should tread carefully or end up broken.

But instead of focusing on that—on the threat of his own pain—now Jacob focused on hers. Eve’s. She’d looked so fucking sad. And then so hurt. Because—what had he said to her?

Did you tell anyone?

As if he didn’t trust her. Well, he hadn’t trusted her. Only now did he realize what a fucking insult that must be. Only now did he realize that thinking so lowly of his own worth required him to think badly of Eve in turn. And he refused to do that. He’d promised her he wouldn't do that. God, he’d told her he wouldn't let go, and then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d pushed.

A scale tipped back and forth inside him like a seesaw, making him nauseous. On the one side was his own self-doubt, the weight of the idea that no one could stick around. But on the other side was Eve herself. The woman he knew her to be. Sweet, and sparkly, and a little chaotic—and smart, and caring, and real.

Eve could do anything. He definitely believed that. Which meant if she wanted to, she could choose Jacob.

But only if he let go of scales and doubts and all the little things that had made him shove her away. Only if he believed in himself, too.

He stood, swallowed, then picked up the note and the AirPod, shoving both in his pocket. Checking the clock, he strode out of his office and down the hall. He managed to restrain himself until he stepped out of Castell Cottage completely and into the cool night. Then he ran all the way to the Rose and Crown.

* * *

“Jesus, man, are you okay?”

Jacob stood in the doorway of the Rose and Crown, one hand on his thigh as he bent double, breathing hard. He hadn’t been for a run since fracturing his wrist, and according to his doctor’s advice, he probably shouldn’t have taken that one. But this was an urgent situation, so . . .

Catching his breath, he looked up at Mont, who was all wide-eyed astonishment and obvious alarm. He had a mop and bucket in his hands, and behind him, Katy, the barmaid, was drying glasses at the bar—or rather, she’d frozen in the act of drying glasses, and was also staring at Jacob.

He briefly considered dragging Mont off somewhere private for this little chat, then decided there was no time. If he didn’t get answers soon, he might die. Of uncertainty. Or love. Or regret. At least one of those had to be deadly, and possibly all three.