Eve bit her lip on a hopeless grin. This man wasn’t just softer and kinder and sweeter than anyone suspected, he was practically made of cake. Good cake. With chocolate-fudge icing. She wanted to eat him so badly. Instead, she waved her hands around and sputtered, “For God’s sake, Jacob, you—do you have to be so bloody—”

He shuffled away from her flailing arms, then winced and adjusted some cushions. He’d probably fallen foul of the sofa bed’s awful springs. Served him right for shorting out all her circuits with his cuteness.

“Why—this is—”

“Are you all right, Eve?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she managed. “Just trying to come to terms with the fact that you work so hard at this B&B stuff because of your principles. And your passion. And all sorts of other . . . p words.” She paused. “Not penis. I didn’t mean penis.”

“Why on earth would I think you meant penis?”

Genuinely surprised, she cocked her head. “That isn’t the first p word that pops into your mind?”

“Jesus Christ, Eve, no.”

“Ohhh. Is it pussy?”

“Stop saying—” The muscle in his jaw performed a fascinating dance and his left hand dug into a cushion so hard she was worried he might rip it apart. “Stop saying . . . those things.”

Oh dear. She cleared her throat and moved swiftly on. “I’m just in a constant state of mild shock-horror over your high levels of decency.” Mostly because she herself couldn’t fathom such thoughtfulness, and also because he was so good at pretending to live in a mental ice palace.

Jacob shifted uncomfortably under her praise and muttered, “Please. If I was that decent I’d be paying you for all the extra work you do.”

She blinked. He’d said something like this before, but she’d assumed he’d been joking. Apparently, it was actually bothering him. “Don’t be silly. I know you can’t afford overtime.”

Because Jacob was Jacob, he didn’t snarl at the implication or sink into a manly spiral of despair over his reduced circumstances. He just laughed and said, “Oh, so you’ve noticed I’m poor as shit. I wasn’t sure you understood how money worked.”

“Har-har. You’ve told me before that you put all your savings into Castell Cottage. And since I help with the ironing, I am aware you only have three work shirts.” She supposed he spent his clothing budget on those little complimentary soaps, the artisanal ones with local honey in them that he arranged just so in every guest bathroom.

“You’ve been counting my shirts, Evie? That is beyond a man’s dignity.” But he was still smiling beneath his injured expression. It was a tiny quirk to the lips, a brightness in his eyes that made everything between them as golden as the honey in those soaps.

They could tease and they could share and they could be comfortable together, and she loved it. She loved it.

So she did some more teasing, since he took it so well. “I think it’s charming that you are poor as a noble church mouse.”