But he entered Pemberton’s town hall feeling rather good about the entire situation.

Pessimism was Jacob’s natural state, but today, his dark thoughts were vague and abstract, rather than real and specific. And he knew that fact was down to Eve. Over the past few days she’d proved herself shockingly competent, culinarily talented, and, most importantly, bloody hardworking. He was starting to actually admire her. It was sickening, and slightly worrying—because Jacob knew himself, and admiration would only worsen his inappropriate physical attraction to this woman. Which was something he really couldn’t afford.

He snuck a sideways look at her as they approached the table. Her expression was alight with something that might be interest, her glossy lips curved into a gentle smile and her dark eyes gleaming. He tried to be irritated by the obnoxious pink scrawl on her white T-shirt, but when he read the words READ LIKE YOUR BOOK IS BURNING, all he wanted to do was smile. Eve, he’d noticed, read using an app on her phone. Dirty books, if her laughably easy-to-read expressions were anything to go by. She always got shifty and furtive whenever anyone passed too close, as if they might catch a glimpse of the words she devoured so eagerly.

He shouldn’t have noticed that. Just like he shouldn’t notice the shape of her beneath that T-shirt, or the little glances she flicked up at him now, as if she was noticing things about him, too.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Jacob!” The leader of the festival’s committee was Marissa Meyers, Pemberton Gingerbread’s marketing director. For a small, still family-owned business, the popular bakery had a very well-developed staff. That was what Jacob wanted, one day: an establishment run firmly in the black, known for what it did, and staffed by the best. Marissa, for example, was incredibly good at her job.

“Please, sit. And help yourselves,” she smiled, indicating the jugs of water and plates of gingerbread at the center of the big, circular table.

Eve made a stifled little squeaking sound as she sat, and Jacob knew without looking that she was shooting heart eyes at the gingerbread.

“Thanks, Marissa,” he murmured. Then he snagged a plate of gingerbread and held it out to Eve, because, well—her arms were shorter than his, so she’d have to lean over to reach.

She stared at him wide-eyed, like his basic courtesy was some kind of miracle, and Jacob felt himself grow irritable and overheated. For fuck’s sake. Just because he wasn’t a sunny cartoon character didn’t mean he couldn’t be nice, too.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered, “and take the gingerbread.”

After a moment, her surprise dissolved into a smile. “Yes, boss,” she whispered impishly, and took two.

He ruthlessly squashed his grin.

Then a voice to his right popped the little bubble that had formed around he and Eve. “All right, Wayne. What’s up with the arm?”

Ah. Yes. There were . . . other people here. It looked as if almost everyone had arrived, in fact: the ice cream people, the artisanal cheese people, the teacher in charge of the floats by local children, the Thai street-food people, and so on. The man speaking was Craig Jackson, a florist from another nearby village. He was a loud and nosy type with beady, judgmental blue eyes and a love of speaking over people. Including Marissa. Jacob privately suspected that the man would not be contracted again for next year’s festival.