“Are you nervous?” she demanded, shocked and yet utterly certain.

He flushed, but his expression remained severe. “No. Are you wearing glitter?”

“Absolutely.” She waited for a glower of disapproval. Instead, he studied her for a long moment before sucking in his cheeks and looking away. “What?” she prompted.

“What?” he shot back.

“What have you got to say about my glitter, Wayne?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. Be a big boy.”

“Fuck off.”

“Just say it—”

“I think you look nice,” he blurted.

Eve’s mouth fell open, but her capacity for words had been stolen by the power of her astonishment.

Setting his jaw, Jacob met her eyes again. “What? You asked. Pink suits you. It’s my opinion. I think you look nice. Okay?”

She choked. “Um. You’re saying a lot of words right now.”

“You were right,” he said shortly. “I’m nervous. And concussed, don’t forget. Your fault, of course. Oh, look, here’s the car.”

A black Volvo with a taxi company logo on the side pulled up just beyond the gate, and Eve blinked, momentarily distracted. “You ordered a taxi?”

“Of course I ordered a taxi,” he said, striding across the gravel.

“I thought you were going to drive.”

He gave her a pointed look, one she supposed she deserved. “Eve. My wrist. Is broken.”

“Well—well—I can drive!”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

Before she could defend herself, the taximan stuck his head out of the window and asked, “Jacob Wayne?”

“Yeah. Cheers.” Jacob opened the door and stood aside.

Eve stared, uncomprehending. Was he—opening the door—for her? She rather thought he might be, unexpected as such politeness was.

Before she could overcome her surprise enough to actually move, however, Jacob rolled his eyes, slid into the car, and slammed the door shut.

Bastard.

* * *

Pemberton was a bustling town with a booming food industry, multiple nature walks, and a history of producing mildly famous writers and engineers. It was also responsible for 100 percent of Skybriar’s fledgling tourism trade: they were the overflow town, offering Pemberton’s sightseers a quaint home base that possessed regular transport links to the county’s main attraction.

Jacob had always planned to take advantage of that fact, but he’d never expected an opportunity like this: the chance to take part in the widely known Gingerbread Festival, to have Castell Cottage’s brand stamped into the minds of Pemberton regulars. It was an incredible marketing opportunity that would take what he’d done with the business so far and boost it into the next stratosphere. Or rather, it could boost the business—if the food they served at the festival was actually mind-blowingly good.

This time last week, he’d been quietly disintegrating with worry that he wouldn’t have any food, never mind the good stuff. And now—well. Now, he had a chef who’d recently run him over, who was squatting in his sitting room, and who sang made-up nursery rhymes about his grumpiness every morning at breakfast. He really shouldn’t feel as confident as he did.