He was swiping the sweat away with an irritable grunt when he heard footsteps approaching from a nearby corridor—the kitchen corridor. And then, wouldn’t you know it, Eve fucking Brown appeared.

She was walking with brisk efficiency, a plate of steaming breakfast balanced in each hand—just one plate per hand, which told him she’d never waitressed before. Inefficient method. Lack of confidence. And yet, her hold was steady and her spine was straight and her focus was undeniable, her trajectory taking her toward the dining room.

Until she noticed him and froze.

Wide-eyed, she gasped, “Jacob?” As if he’d died yesterday and she might be communing with a ghost right now.

“Eve,” he replied. The word was meant to sound dignified, possibly cold—cold was always safe, after all. But instead, her name fell from his lips like a fistful of sand, his voice a strained rasp.

She looked different this morning. It wasn’t her lack of obnoxious T-shirt, or the Castell Cottage apron she wore, but something . . . else. The steadiness of her stride, maybe. The lift of her chin. Yesterday, her braids had spilled around her shoulders and even the soft, baby curls at her hairline had been . . . styled, somehow, but today her braids were pulled back in accordance with health and safety, and her little curls frizzed around her face. Her skin was glowing and he suspected that if he touched her cheek—not that he ever, ever would, dear God, unless he suspected she had some kind of deadly fever, in which case he would of course have to, as an act of human decency, but never mind that, what had he been saying? Oh, yes. If he touched her cheek, he had a feeling she’d be warm like the air in a busy kitchen.

Even though he knew very well that Eve did not belong here, for a second, standing in his hallway with her hands full, she looked as if she might.

Jacob shook his head sharply. Must be the concussion.

“Are you okay?” she asked, frowning as she stepped closer. Her expression screamed such obvious—and unexpected—concern that Jacob looked down at himself reflexively, just to check his arm hadn’t dropped off while he wasn’t paying attention.

What he found was even worse. He was still wearing his fucking pajamas.

He realized with a jolt that he’d jumped out of bed and rushed down here to throw her out without even making himself presentable first. He was roaming the halls of Castell Cottage in gray jersey and flannel, which meant he’d come to work inappropriately dressed, which made him undeniably unprofessional. Even worse, Eve Brown was looking at him like he was an adorable but endangered baby animal, which was especially annoying, for some reason.

Shit. Shoving a self-conscious hand through his hair, Jacob set his jaw and steeled his spine. He was already down here, and he wouldn’t be climbing those fucking stairs without a ten-minute breather and a cup of tea, so he might as well act natural.