There was a startled pause before Mont said sadly, “Look what you’ve done to him.”

Eve winced and focused on Jacob, speaking as if to an infant. “I’m not a serial killer,” she told him slowly, “or . . . any of the other things you just said, whatever they were. But I am really, really, awfully, terribly sorry about hitting you with my car. And I promise I will look after your B&B as if it’s my very own.” Or at least, that’s what he thought he heard. It was hard to tell over the ringing in his ears.

Jacob tried to say, Take your promise and stick it up your arse, Madame Spy, but what came out was a raspy “Jesus, fuck, my head.”

And then the fuzziness got even fuzzier and Mont dragged him away, and Jacob . . . just sort of . . . went.

* * *

Warm and dry in the B&B, Eve could almost convince herself that the past twenty minutes had been a dream. Of course she hadn’t run over the most infuriating man alive! Of course he hadn’t been dragged off to the hospital by his best friend, leaving Eve behind to watch a goddamn bed-and-breakfast. Really, why not take things even further? Of course Eve hadn’t driven miles in a teary fit of pique before interviewing for the first job she came across as if that would solve all her problems! Because only a spoiled brat, or, alternatively, an adorable dog with a very tiny brain, would ever do such things, and Eve was surely neither.

Which didn’t explain why her jeans were still damp from kneeling beside Jacob’s crumpled form, why her hands were shaking something awful, or why she was currently standing nervous and alone in Castell Cottage’s welcoming foyer.

Well, shit sticks and fudgesicles.

Eve found a handily placed chaise longue by the stairs and summarily collapsed. She’d been aiming for an elegant lounge of the type Gigi might do, but her jeans were stiff and her frigid, fear-stricken bones were stiffer, so she ended up falling like a pile of bricks. The chaise was upholstered in burgundy silk that matched the Edwardian—or was it Victorian? Oh, who gave a shit—wallpaper and rugs. There were a lot of rugs in this high-ceilinged room, she noticed, as well as mahogany floors polished to a gleaming shine, and glowing wall sconces and various other things that said coziness and comfort and gravitas.

Was this really Jacob’s B&B, or did he just manage things? Only, she’d have taken him for a fan of cold, impersonal, modernist decor. Traditional vibes that she actually liked were not what Eve expected from the man.

He’d probably hired a decorator.

And she should probably stop thinking uncharitable thoughts about someone she’d just put in the hospital.

When Eve’s phone buzzed from her back pocket, she jolted in a manner that screamed guilty conscience. The vibration popped her bubble of shock, making her suddenly, uncomfortably aware that she was now responsible for the house in which she lounged. Better make a good show of it. Arsehole or not, Jacob did deserve to have his obvious B&B standards upheld. And she had said . . . She’d said . . .