He really . . . really . . . took it.

She found herself dazed by the sight of Jacob Wayne, usually all frost and superior self-control, parting those fine lips for her. His teeth were so white and his tongue was so pink. Those were quite ordinary colors for tongues and teeth to be, and yet Eve found herself unfairly fascinated by the contrast. And then . . . and then he bent his head forward and closed his mouth around the fork. The fork she was holding. She felt the action, the slight pressure, even as she saw it.

His gaze was lowered, focused on the fork, presumably to make sure she didn’t accidentally stab him with it. Which, in fairness, she might, because her limbs were feeling oddly distant and her brain was starting to hum. Behind his glasses, his eyelashes were long and thick. She hadn’t noticed before, since they were the sort of golden color that didn’t exactly catch attention in a face like his. But here, now, all she could do was notice them.

Jacob released the fork, and chewed, and swallowed. His eyes fluttered shut for the barest second, and a slight grunt of pleasure escaped him before he could stop it. Eve knew she should be punching the air with pure, professional satisfaction—or better yet, told-you-so satisfaction.

Instead, all she could do was suck in a breath and press a cool hand to her suddenly feverish throat. Because shit. Jacob made pleasure look and sound rather good.

Wait—no. No, no, no. Eve had an unfortunate habit of forming attractions to unsuitable men. Her sexual choices, like her other choices, had always been utterly terrible. But since she was currently on a voyage of growth and self-discovery, gaining maturity points like the intrepid heroine of a bildungs-whatever-the-fuck, she would not develop the horn for this incredible arsehole of a man. She absolutely refused. She didn’t even like him.

Of course, Eve had certainly lost her head over men she didn’t like before.

But this was different. This was absolutely different. So, she said to her stirring libido, don’t let me catch you mooning again.

Jacob opened his eyes just as she finished scolding her vagina. “Okay,” he said grimly, as if she’d presented him with something awful rather than the very best British breakfast had to offer. “Maybe that was possibly quite decent.”

Thankfully, as soon as he spoke, every ounce of Eve’s physical appreciation drained away like hot water down a plughole. How convenient.

“Is that French toast?” he went on, eyeing the plate. “Let me try some of that.”

“Why? At best it’ll only be maybe possibly quite decent.”

He rolled his eyes, then winced as if the action had hurt. “Fine,” he said, “it was good. You’re hired. Now give me the bloody toast.”

And just like that, she was walking on air. “Really? You mean it?” Her smile practically stretched from ear to ear, so intense her cheeks started to hurt.