Gosh.

He cocked his head. “Eve?”

She swallowed, clearing her throat. Time to say something unaffected and totally professional. “How’d you get the shirt on?”

His eyes narrowed.

Yes, brilliant, Eve. Question him about his clothing habits. Evoke mental images of him naked. Well done.

After a frigid moment, he muttered, “I cut the sleeve.”

Despite herself, she squinted at the sleeve in question. “Did you?”

“I shortened it, then cut along the hem so it would fold higher, then stitched the edges so it would look neater.”

When she moved closer—all the better to stare at his impossible handiwork—Jacob shifted to the side as if to hide it from her. “Christ, woman, don’t inspect it. I’m shit with my left hand.”

She paused. “You mean, when you said you did all that—”

“Yes.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “I did mean the literal interpretation of the word I. Most people do.”

“But your wrist is broken!”

“Believe me,” he said dryly, “I’d noticed.”

Eve flushed. No wonder he’d been gone for hours—from the sound of things, it must have taken him that long to get dressed. “You do realize that broken limbs are usually a valid excuse to dress . . . a little differently than usual?”

“You do realize,” he drawled, “that excuses are not something I’ve ever been interested in?”

Well, yes, she was starting to get that vibe.

“Now,” he continued, “if we could return to the point—you’re supposed to be making me breakfast.”

Oh. Yes. Eve gulped and turned away from him, heading to the shiny, double-doored fridge. “You know, I would’ve cooked for you regardless,” she quipped, except her voice wasn’t as light as she’d like. “You don’t need to dress it up like an exam.”

“If I remember rightly, you were the one who came up with the idea.”

Yes, she was, and she sincerely desired to travel back in time and kick herself. When she faced him again, Jacob had made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. The pose seemed so casual, with his long legs and his lean hips and the easy angles of his body, that it took her a moment to notice the slight wince on his face. He hid it well. But it was still there, shadowing those icy eyes and twisting his fine mouth at the corners.

Throwing sausages into a hot pan, she said, “You should probably sit down.” There were a couple of stools at the central island—uncomfortable, steel-looking stools, but stools all the same.

Jacob grunted and shifted against the wall, a sinuous predator trying to get comfortable. “Can’t.”

Oh. Ah. Yes. Eve remembered Mont’s comment about arse-bruising and tried not to drown in this brand-new influx of guilt.

“Didn’t I tell you to take that out?” he went on, nodding at her.

It took Eve a moment to realize what he meant. Her hand rose automatically to her ear, as if to protect the source of NAO’s “Bad Blood” from his evil eyes. “And didn’t I tell you,” she shot back, “that I work better with it in?” She sounded a hell of a lot more confident than she felt—because that, she’d discovered, was the knack with Jacob: confidence.