Jacob put a fast and violent stop to that train of thought. It wasn’t hard. All he had to do was look at the ducks and fury welcomed him back into its cold embrace.

“Yes,” he agreed, “Jacob. Me. Here.” Hm. Maybe he hadn’t fully woken up yet. “Which means,” he continued, trying to snatch his thoughts back from their duck-Eve-boob precipice, “you are caught.”

She blinked slowly. “Caught . . .”

“Feeding ducks!”

She blinked some more. “Should I . . . not be feeding ducks?”

“No!” he burst out, then realized he was almost loud enough to wake the dead, never mind Castell Cottage’s guests. “No,” he repeated again, more quietly.

“But they seemed so hungry,” she said, and the worst part was that Eve appeared genuinely concerned. For ducks. For the vermin of the waterfowl world. Good God.

“They’re not hungry,” Jacob scowled, “they’re wild animals who know how to feed themselves, so stop it. You’ll encourage the bastards. They’ll make a habit of returning. They’ll treat my pond like a common watering hole and bring their friends. Next thing you know, the whole garden will be duck shit and duck sex—which is an extremely disturbing event, let me tell you—and aggressive duck demands for food. Aside from which, you’re not even supposed to give them bread.”

A pause. Eve cocked her head. Then, instead of addressing the substance of his speech, she asked in tones of great surprise, “You aren’t? Oh dear. Why on earth not?”

“It’s bad for the digestion! Christ, woman, read a waterfowl blog.”

“Which you do because . . .”

“Because,” Jacob sniffed, suddenly aware that this conversation had spiraled out of his control. “Know thine enemy.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “Yes. Of course.” The moon had shifted, so Jacob could no longer see her face. But he had the strangest suspicion that she was smiling.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded. “Aside from sabotaging my garden.”

“Nothing.” Which was a nonsense answer if he’d ever heard one, but she rose to her feet and went on. “If you’re so antiduck, I’ll get rid of them. Not that I brought them here in the first place.”

Bloody ducks. They should know by now that Jacob’s property was off-limits to their foul ways.

“Well,” he muttered. “Good.” Except it wasn’t good, because Eve was still here, and he really didn’t want her to be. He was starting to find her . . . charming. Jacob usually saw charm as useless and insubstantial, but somehow, she made the damn thing stick. Made it solid and welcoming, like a well-built brick house rather than smoke and mirrors.

That was technically a good thing, but he hadn’t expected it, and so he decided to resent it. He’d always hated surprises. “What possessed you to come over here at this time of night and waste perfectly good bread? My perfectly good bread?”

“I’ll buy some more tomorrow,” she said, throwing what remained of the bag—yes, throwing it!—casually on the ground.