But he was desperate, and he did try to listen to Mont every six months or so, which meant Jacob had no choice but to continue searching. He passed parked but deserted cars on the street—and pulled up short when he found a moon-blue vintage Beetle he’d never seen before, parked at an outrageous angle a good two feet from the curb. There was a pink sticker on the back window that read SEYCHELLES SLUTS OF ’16—dear God—and he could see a familiar silhouette in the driver’s seat.

Great. He’d found her. Now he’d have to actually say something to her, something that would convince her to come back and try again.

Clearly Mont hadn’t thought this through, or he never would’ve sent Jacob to do this on his own.

“Get on with it, Wayne,” he muttered under his breath, and ran both hands through his dripping wet hair, pushing it off his face. Then he stepped out onto the street, ready to walk around the car and knock on her window.

But in the end, he never made it there. Because the moment Jacob left the safety of the pavement, the car’s lights flicked on, and the car itself jerked backward. Directly into him.

Hard.

Trust Eve fucking Brown.

Chapter Four

Jacob wasn’t an expert in physics, but he didn’t think the force of one little Beetle should hurt this bad. Then again, the whole event took him completely by surprise, so he didn’t do much to save himself.

First, the car’s bumper slammed him bodily into the Porsche Cayenne behind him. His head jerked back and hit the windscreen so hard, it was a miracle he didn’t crack the glass—or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure, since a moment later, he was busy sliding to the ground like a stunned sack of potatoes. Landing was awkward as fuck, his right wrist taking almost all his weight and bending hideously. So he gave up on the whole “staying upright” thing and let his body flop back onto the road like a fish.

After all that, Jacob decided the most sensible thing he could do was lie very still and make sure he wasn’t dead.

“Oh, shit in a sweet pea.”

His thoughts exactly, but the voice that floated to him over pounding rain definitely wasn’t his own. It was too posh and too pretty. Could voices be pretty? Jacob wasn’t sure. He’d take a look at the voice and check.

He opened his eyes, felt a stab of pain shoot through his head like a sharpened ice pick to the skull, and closed them again. His glasses were missing, anyway. No point doing eye stuff. Bugger eyes. Who needed them?

“Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.” There was that voice again, strange and yet familiar. His mind was hot and sticky like fudge. Yum, fudge. Was this a guest, maybe? A yummy, fudgy guest? Fuck. No lying around in the street in front of guests. It was inappropriate and irresponsible and very bad business.