Despite priding himself on his swift responses and at-all-hours customer service, Jacob sighed and tossed the phone away.

Another bang sounded through the wall, followed by a yelp. He tensed, ready to jump up and investigate Eve’s welfare, then wondered what the fuck he thought he was doing. She was a grown woman. She didn’t need him running around after her like a nervous parent. He shouldn’t have even sent that text, because he didn’t care what she was up to. He didn’t—

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it. And smiled.

EVE: Is harassing me in my own home a proper use of employee information, Mr. Wayne?

Because she hadn’t technically given him her phone number; she’d filled it out on her employment forms, and he’d put it in his phone. Which was a perfectly ordinary thing to do—in fact, it was Castell Cottage procedure, enshrined in his personal handbook. He’d had his previous chef’s number too, in case he needed to call her to investigate lateness, or some such.

Of course, with Eve, he could always just go and knock on her temporary bedroom door.

Not that he had, in the days since discovering her presence there. Because what if she was—what if she was changing? Or lounging around naked, painting her toenails pink, which seemed like something she would do. Or . . .

He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock, not for any particular reason. Just because.

JACOB: YOUR own home, is it?

EVE: Squatter’s rights.

He laughed—actually laughed out loud, and felt the accompanying spark of warmth that had become so familiar around her. He didn’t think he’d ever been this easy with someone so quickly, didn’t think he’d ever learned another person’s rhythms enough to joke around like this without months of observational research first. But she was so open, and so reliably kind, that he couldn’t help himself.

And since she’d called it friendship, he didn’t even have to worry that all this warmth might mean something else.

EVE: Am I being too loud? I didn’t mean to disturb you.

JACOB: You’re fine. Just making me curious. You’re not using my weights, are you?

EVE: Is that not allowed?

JACOB: It’s allowed. I just don’t want you to break your own foot.

EVE: Because it would increase your precious insurance. But it would also be payback for the wrist, so . . .

Truthfully, he’d been thinking less about insurance and more about keeping Eve safe and uninjured. If she hurt herself, she might cry, and if she cried, he might die.

Or something.

At the hospital, they’d told Jacob his concussion was mild. But after a week of thinking increasingly strange thoughts about his chef, he was beginning to suspect they’d misdiagnosed him.

JACOB: Making you change a thousand beds this week was payback for my wrist. So no foot-breaking please. What are you doing?

EVE: It’s a surprise.

A surprise? Jacob turned those words this way and that, examining them from every angle, before deciding that—yep. They kind of suggested she was doing something for him. Or something that would impact him. Maybe she was painting his original antique end table a hideous shade of orange.