“Not only that,” Mont went on, “she didn’t bend for you one bit—”

“That’s a bad thing, Montrose.”

“No, it’s not, you absolute tyrant. And finally,” he said with a flourish, “I know she can cook.”

“How?” Jacob demanded.

Mont got a familiar and annoying expression on his face: the Stubborn and Superior one. “I can just tell.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter how, because we’re going to go after her and apologize, and then she’ll cook for us and prove it.”

Jacob shot him a disgusted look. “I hate it when you do this.”

“When I’m right, you mean?”

“When you’re full of shit.” Jacob took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt, thoughts flying. The fact was, Montrose’s points weren’t entirely inaccurate or illogical. Eve was undeniably warm, excessively so in his opinion, but Jacob was aware he had unusual parameters. She was probably funny, too, if you liked that kind of bollocks. Much as Jacob hated to admit it, he could see her making customers laugh, could see the Trip Advisor reviews with little throwaway comments about that adorable cook—and her attitude, while infuriating, suggested she wouldn’t be prone to breaking down in tears when under pressure. Jacob couldn’t abide tears in the kitchen. He didn’t need rogue DNA in his guest’s eggs.

He would never have hired Eve back when he was working hotels, but the dynamic in B&Bs was different, and those who didn’t adapt . . . well, they died out. He refused to die out. Although, if he spent too much time with such an infuriating woman, he might die anyway—of frustration. Or frustrated rage. Or—something.

So what was more important—his survival, or the B&B’s?

Absolutely no question.

Jacob sighed, put his glasses back on, and stood. “If she can’t cook, I’m going to skin you alive.”

They broke out of the cottage’s front door and into a steady drizzle that was rather typical of the Lake District, even in August. Less typical was the angry yellow tinge of the clouds, the roar of thunder in the distance, and the near-instant flash of lightning that followed.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jacob muttered as tiny raindrops beaded on the lenses of his glasses in record time. “Electrical storm,” he shouted over the thunder. “Better get inside, Mont.”

“Really? Height jokes? Now?”

“Always.”

Mont rolled his eyes. “You go left, I’ll go right.”

They split up just as the sky above them cracked open. Rain spilled to the earth as if each drop weighed a ton, and in the few seconds it took Jacob to scan the cottage’s small gravel driveway, he was already soaked to the skin. His shirt clung to him, his jeans grew stiff and heavy, and his glasses slid down his rain-wet nose. He cursed, pushed them back up, and squinted at the cars lining the gravel. Every space was taken by a familiar vehicle—guests—so he jogged out onto the street and turned left.

“This bloody woman,” he shouted to no one in particular over the rain. An irritating voice at the back of his brain reminded him that he wouldn’t be looking for her if he hadn’t chased her off in the first place, but Jacob swept the voice aside with only a whisper of guilt. Who the fuck wore ironic T-shirts to a job interview, showed up without a CV, and rambled on about her posh mate’s juicing experiences? Who? Feckless, irresponsible ne’er-do-wells, that’s who. He knew the kind. He’d been plagued with the consequences of their actions since birth, the same consequences they always seemed to outrun.