But Eve was a reasonable, responsible, semiprofessional woman these days, so instead, she set the mixture aside, put her soaked bread in the pan, then pulled out her phone and uncoupled her AirPod. Lilting piano notes filled the room, accompanied by a pounding beat and rhythmic French rap. Watching Jacob as he returned to his spot leaning against the wall, she explained, “It’s—”

“Stromae,” he finished. “What’s this one called?”

She stared. Stromae, he said, all casual, as if it made perfect sense that he’d know such a thing.

He clicked his fingers, then nodded. “‘Papaoutai.’ Right?”

She stared some more. “You listen to Belgian rap from 2013?”

“No,” he said.

Well, at least that made sense.

“I listened to Belgian rap in 2013.”

And, she was back to the staring. “Est-ce que tu parles français?”

“Oui. Toi aussi?”

“Passablement. Mon vocabulaire est faible.”

“Un enfant m’a appris, il y a des années, donc ma grammaire est pauvre.”

“Your grammar doesn’t sound poor to me,” she said pertly.

“And I see no holes in your vocabulary. I suppose we’d have to talk a little longer to discover all that, but this isn’t a tea party.”

Eve huffed out a breath. “Oh, yes. How could I forget? I’m being tested, and you’re impossible.”

“Usually, people who want a job from me are a bit more polite.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” she gritted out as she flipped his eggs, “that you are incredibly difficult to be polite to.” And I don’t want your bloody job. Even if she had sort of accidentally enjoyed herself this morning, once she’d gotten the hang of things.

She was jolted out of that unexpected thought when Jacob released a bark of laughter. It was so sudden, and so completely surprising, that she spun to look at him—as if further inspection might reveal that the noise had come from someone else.

But no: judging by the ghost of a smile still on his lips, and the lines fanning from the corners of those piercing eyes, it had definitely been him. Even if he cleared his throat and iced up under her gaze faster than a puddle in December.

Still, she had to ask. “Did you just laugh? Did I just make you laugh?”

“Woman,” he sighed, “you couldn’t make me do anything, even with a gun in your hand.”

Funnily enough, she believed him. But he had laughed. She’d heard him. The sound, wry and rusty, had been a little bit like music.

“Hurry up with the breakfast, would you?” he said, and though his tone was lazy, she had the distinct impression that Jacob was changing the subject. “If you’re not up to scratch, I’ll need to find another replacement, and the clock is ticking.”

Turning her back on him, Eve rolled her eyes. “Up to scratch. It’s only eggs and bloody sausages.”

“Actually,” he said sharply, “it’s much more than that. This is hospitality. Hospitality matters. Creating a home away from home matters. And I prefer staff who take this business—this responsibility—seriously.”