God, concussions were strange.

“Jacob?”

“What?” he bit out.

“Did you hear me?”

“Did I—?” He stopped. Oh. Had the tits comment not been some kind of auditory hallucination? “Dunno,” he slurred. “Maybe it would help. Wait, no it—what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Several things.” She’d disappeared from his line of sight, which was honestly a blessing, and her voice came as if from a distance. “I only asked because when I came to the interview you seemed very distracted by my chest, so—”

“I was reading the T-shirt,” he insisted for what felt like the thousandth time.

“If you say so,” she murmured, clearly amused and absolutely infuriating. Then she cried, “Ah! Found them,” and reappeared again. Slowly, carefully, she slid his glasses back onto his face.

His glasses. She’d found his glasses. He hadn’t even asked. And now here she was, putting them on for him.

Of course, that task was not as easy as certain films and TV shows liked to make it look. As a general rule, Jacob made sure no one ever did it to him. Similarly, when women tried to remove his glasses in fits of passion, or whatever the fuck they thought they were doing, it usually pissed him off enough to take him out of the mood, and then he had to think about messy blow jobs for a solid five minutes to get going again. So when he realized that a complete stranger was attempting one of his least favorite things in the world, he tensed.

Which hurt like a motherfucker and turned out to be a waste of energy when she pulled off the move without a hitch.

Well, mostly. She avoided all the big no-no’s, like stabbing him in the cheek or the eye or the ear. She didn’t get the glasses quite straight—but he suspected they were no longer straight at all. Plus, one of the lenses had cracked, which was utterly her fault, so he refused to give her 10/10 for cautious glasses-sliding. But still. Pretty impressive.

And now her face was in focus, he could see something unexpected: those huge eyes of hers were shimmering with something that might actually be tears.

But she didn’t let the maybe-tears fall. She offered a smile that was a shadow of the cheerful, dimpled thing she’d flashed in his dining room and said, “There. Now you can glare at me properly.”

Jacob really must be concussed, because instead of telling her to fuck off, he said softly, “Thanks.”

Thanking her. He was thanking her for putting his shattered glasses back on his face after she’d knocked them off with her car.

But her smile was wider and realer now, and if she gave him just a little more, that dimple would appear, and . . .

“Jake?” The shout was Mont’s, clearly nearby. “Where are you, man?”

Eve looked up. Jacob blinked and wondered why he felt so off-balance, now her gaze wasn’t on him anymore.

Concussed. He was definitely concussed.