So he straightened up and just blurted it out. “I love Eve and I didn’t tell her. Do you think I should’ve told her?”

Mont blinked rapidly. At the bar, Katy made a strangled noise before putting down a glass and grabbing her phone in what she probably thought was a very subtle move. Fucking teenagers.

“I—I don’t know, mate,” Mont said finally. “Maybe. Probably. Are we going to talk, now, about why she left?” Because Mont had been bugging him since yesterday about it. So had Aunt Lucy. So, for God’s sake, had Liam, the man who never called or texted, managing to get on Jacob’s arse all the way from the United bloody States.

“She left because I told her to go,” Jacob said. “She’d been planning to—eventually—so I told her to go. Because I thought she’d always leave anyway. I just, I really fucking believed it, Mont, and it seemed so reasonable at the time, I swear it did, but now I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t, and I don’t know which half of my brain is the smart half and which half is all emotional and shit.”

Mont sighed and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Jacob. Mate. Maybe the smart half is all emotional and shit.”

Jacob collapsed at the nearest table. “Yes, I’ve been afraid of that.” And afraid of facing just how badly he’d fucked up, hurting Eve with all his insecurities. Shit. Shit.

He had to fix it. He had to. Even if she wanted nothing to do with him after the crap he’d pulled, she had to know exactly how vital, how powerful, how perfect she was. He had to make her know, even if she despised him. Even if he’d ruined the fledgling magic between them.

“I don’t think you need me to tell you all this, Jake,” Mont said. “I think you just want me to confirm you’re not completely deluded before you run off and do something wild.”

Yes. Yes, that was true.

“So ask,” Mont continued. “Just ask me.”

His voice hoarse, Jacob managed the hardest question of all. “Do you think Eve could love me? If I told her I was sorry, and I—I trusted her, and she—gave me a chance?”

“Yeah, genius. I do. Aside from anything else, you’re pretty fucking lovable.”

Something in Jacob wanted to ignore those words, to brush them aside as unlikely or impossible. But that something didn’t have permission to lead—not anymore. It was old and battered and bruised. It was toxic and it told him such utterly believable lies. It belonged to a far younger version of himself, and it also belonged to his parents. Worst of all, that thing had hurt Eve.

He decided to squash it.

It would definitely pop back up again, but in order to maintain the level-headed analysis he so prized, Jacob would happily—and ruthlessly—continue to squash.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Thanks. Going now.” He turned to leave.

“Hey.” A viselike hand clamped onto his shoulder. “Reminder: it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.”