Sorry, Mont.

“But first—what on earth is the woman who hit you doing in the kitchen? I mean, I’m all for forgive and forget, babe, really, I am, but I know very well that you aren’t.”

Jacob opened his mouth, then closed it. The woman who—? “I’m sorry, what?”

Slowly, Lucy said, “The woman. Who hit you. Is in. Your kitchen.”

Oh. Oh shit. “Eve? Eve is still here?”

“That is what she called herself, yes. Purple hair, about this tall, wearing a T-shirt that I’m sure belongs to one of the twins.”

One of the . . .

Jacob set his jaw and sucked in a breath. No. No way would Montrose actually hire the living terror who literally ran Jacob over yesterday—

Except someone needed to take over, and Mont is even more practical than you sometimes. So this is exactly the kind of thing he would do.

“Fuck,” he hissed. Then, “Sorry, Aunt Lucy.”

“Don’t mind me, sweetheart.” Lucy was already straightening up his perfectly tidy room, throwing back his bedcovers and opening the window. She gave his curtains a considering look. “Would you mind if I just popped these off and gave them a quick iron? They’d look proper smart with a nice crease in the—”

“Whatever you want,” Jacob called over his shoulder. He didn’t have time to argue about the relative merits of curtain ironing. He had an Eve to remove.

* * *

Righteous outrage propelled Jacob out of his private quarters, but when he hit the staircase, reality kicked in. Specifically, the reality of his body, which fucking killed. Gripping the banister with his good hand—his left hand, and what bloody use was that?—Jacob eyed the steps warily before tackling the first one.

Pain sang to life along the length of his spine, from the dull ache near his shoulders to the sharp stab at his tailbone. When his foot made contact with the next stair down, his head throbbed inside his skull like he’d jumped off a building.

“For shit’s sake,” he muttered. “You have got to be kidding me.” His injuries definitely hadn’t hurt this badly yesterday.

Then again, much of what he remembered about yesterday wasn’t exactly coherent. Except for the part where Eve Brown stormed his very serious interviews with her utterly unserious self, thoroughly got on his nerves, made him chase after her like an undignified puppy, then ran him over for his troubles. Yes, that part was crystal bleeding clear.

Gritting his teeth, Jacob took the next step.

By the grace of some merciful god, he made it down all three flights without running into a single guest. Clearly, he’d gotten up during the lull between early birds and those who liked to sleep in—and thank Christ for that, because as he finally reached the polished wood floors of the foyer, he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. When Jacob sweated in front of people, he preferred it to be on purpose: because he’d chosen to run, or he’d chosen to lift, or he’d chosen to go out in some god-awful sun. Not because he’d unexpectedly lost the ability to walk down his own bloody stairs without gasping for breath.