But this disaster, just like everything else wrong with the world, was completely Eve’s fault.

Coating himself in ice like armor, he said stiffly, “I’m fine.” The no thanks to you part was unspoken, but he hoped she sensed it. “You and I need a word.”

Literally just one word: Go.

“Well, that sounded appropriately omniscient,” Eve muttered. Then she paused, shaking her head. “Or is it—?”

“I know what you meant,” Jacob snapped.

“Really.” She gave him a skeptical look, then rolled her eyes and lifted the plates. “Look, if you don’t need anything—I’ll be right with you, but I need to serve these before they get cold. No one likes cold tomatoes, Jacob. Be reasonable. All right?” Before he could begin to formulate a response to that, she’d swept off into the dining room.

Leaving him and his annoyance with the uncomfortable feeling that they’d just been dismissed.

And with the—admittedly obvious—realization that he was late for breakfast. He’d slept in by his own standards, and now, according to his watch, it was 6:44. Breakfast had already begun without his supervision.

Jacob rushed into the kitchen, expecting chaos, chaos, more chaos, and a flagrant disregard for the health and hygiene posters he’d stuck to the walls. You know: filth, disorganization, rats scurrying toward the open pantry, maybe. At least a small microwave fire. Instead, he stared in shock at a kitchen that appeared to be . . . absolutely fine. Exactly as it should be. Clearly in use, but safe and orderly all the same.

Well. That was a bit fucking anticlimactic.

Eve had even opened the dining hatch, a feature that provided an authentic behind-the-scenes glimpse for guests and one that Mont had steadfastly refused to use. I’m not a fucking fry cook anymore, he’d bitched, and I look like a twat in this apron. Blah, blah, blah. Well, apparently Eve had no such concerns, because the window was rolled up and Jacob had a direct view into the dining room.

A direct view of her, actually. She sailed into his line of sight, approaching one end of the mammoth dining table with that infuriating smile. Although, now Jacob saw the smile directed at guests, he had to admit its obnoxious beauty and objective cuteness had some benefits. Feeling himself bamboozled by the thing was unsettling, but watching it have the same effect on Mrs. and Mrs. Beatson wasn’t all bad.

He stared, semimesmerized, as she fetched salt and pepper for the couple from two feet down the table—as if they couldn’t reach it themselves. He frowned, genuinely perplexed, as she poured tea for another party like the three of them didn’t have six clearly functional hands. He glowered with increasing annoyance as Eve whipped around the room being infuriatingly, impressively, undeniably helpful.

It was like she saw people’s needs before they’d even noticed themselves. Which was, obviously, an excellent skill for a hospitality employee to possess.

But goddamn it, he wasn’t supposed to think this kind of thing. He wasn’t supposed to think anything complimentary about Eve. She’d fractured his bloody wrist, for fuck’s sake. Had anyone else broken Jacob’s arm, and therefore messed with his ability to carry out key aspects of his daily routine—push-ups, sudoku, et cetera—he’d be fuming for at least a week.