“What?” Eve’s gasp was so mighty it probably drained half the oxygen from the room. “Jacob! I can’t believe you stole. I can’t believe you’ve been sacked, ever in your life.”

“It wasn’t stealing!” he said. “Well, it was, but I didn’t mean it to be stealing. I was fourteen!”

“You were working at fourteen?”

He shot her an arch look. “You’re doing that spoiled brat thing again.”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” She waved the question away. “You were morally bankrupt at fourteen?”

“Hey.”

“What? That’s what I heard.”

“Fuck off, Brown,” he grinned, and then he leaned forward to snag a biscuit. She let the rising beat of Ravyn Lenae’s “Sticky” bounce the happy bubbles in her tummy higher, while Jacob bit into a gingersnap, chewed with a slow frown, then examined the plate. Finally, he asked, “Where did you get these?” Because he was a man who noticed things, such as the lack of logo stamped into the biscuits and the crisper, more buttery taste that came from being freshly baked.

“I made them,” she said.

He looked at her sharply, his head held at the lupine angle that meant he was assessing or investigating. What, she wasn’t sure, until he took another bite out of the biscuit and said, “Well, fuck.”

“What?”

“It never occurred to me until now. I could’ve been forcing you to make biscuits all this time.”

“Oh, yes, add to my to-do list, you absolute slave driver.”

“Maybe we could serve these at the festival.”

“Not very breakfast-for-dinner-y,” she reminded him mildly, “and Pemberton might get a bit pissed off if we muscle in on their gingery turf.” But she was smiling because if Jacob wanted something of hers for the B&B, that meant he liked it. A lot.

“Oh. Yes. Hm. All entirely valid points,” he allowed. “I suppose the sugar is going to my head. But adding sweets to the menu—we should think about that. It may be breakfast for dinner, but it is still dinner . . .”

“And I make a gorgeous sponge cake, which is the sort of talent one should never waste,” Eve finished, nodding slowly. “Thank you for the compliment, darling.”

“Er, I don’t think I compli—”

“Cracking idea, really. I could bake a few cakes—they’re easy enough to finish in advance and they’d make for a pretty display. £2.50 per slice, and we draw in the pudding lovers and the foodies who’d rather snack from each station than commit to an entire meal.”

Jacob stared at her, looking mildly astonished. “I . . . well . . . yes. That’s a very sound strategy.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Try not to be so obvious about your surprise. I can be clever sometimes, you know.” The words felt slightly foreign in her mouth, more spur-of-the-moment bravado than actual belief—yet once they were out there, Eve found she didn’t want to laugh them off. In fact, they were sort of . . . true. She could be clever. She’d just proved it, hadn’t she?