“Well,” Mont went on, “here’s what I put: Simon’s got a lot of experience, but he doesn’t seem the sharpest tool. Bit cocky, but that means he’ll eventually be confident enough to handle that thing you do.”
Jacob narrowed his eyes and turned, very slowly, to glare at his friend. “And what thing is that, Montlake?”
“That thing, Bitchy McBitcherson,” Mont said cheerfully. “You’re a nightmare when you’re panicking.”
“I’m a nightmare all the time. This is my ordinary nightmare behavior. Panic,” Jacob scowled, “is for the underprepared, the out-of-control, and the fatally inconsistent.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. From you. Every time you’re panicking.”
Jacob wondered if today would be the day he murdered his best friend and decided, after a moment, that it was entirely possible. The hospitality industry had been known to drive men to far worse. Like plastic shower curtains and brown carpets.
To lessen the risk of imminent homicide, Jacob pushed the fine frames of his glasses up his nose, rose to his feet, and began to pace the B&B’s spacious dining room, circling the antique table that took up its center. “Whatever. And you’re wrong about Simon—he isn’t right for Castell Cottage.”
“You don’t think anyone’s right for Castell Cottage,” Mont said dryly. “That’s kind of why I’m here. Voice of reason, and all that.”
“Actually, you’re here because you’re a respected local business owner, and proper interviews need more than one perspective, and—”
“What’s wrong with Simon?” Montlake interrupted.
“He’s a creep.”
Mont, who had a habit of leaning everywhere—probably something to do with his ridiculous height and the natural effects of gravity—sat up straight for once. “Who told you that? The twins?”
A reasonable assumption, since Mont’s sisters were the only women in town who actually spoke to Jacob—aside from Aunt Lucy, of course. “No one told me. Just watch the guy some time. Women bend over backward to avoid being alone with him.”
“Christ,” Mont muttered, and ripped a page out of his notepad. “All right. I know you hated the first two, and you’ve written off all the previous candidates.” He paused significantly. If he was waiting for Jacob to feel bad or something, he’d be waiting a long fucking time. “So that leaves us with Claire Penny.”
“Nope,” Jacob said flatly. “Don’t want her.” He stopped mid-pace, noticing that one of the paintings on the aubergine wall—a landscape commissioned from a local artist—was slightly crooked. Scowling, he stalked over and adjusted it. Bloody doors banging all day, knocking things out of whack, that was the reason. “Can’t have a chef who slams my doors,” he muttered darkly. “Doesn’t create a restful atmosphere. Bastards.”
“Is that the issue with Claire?”
“What? Oh.” Jacob shook his head and went back to his pacing. “Claire knows how to shut a door properly, so far as I can tell. But she smiles too much. No one smiles that much. Pretty sure she’s on drugs.”
Mont gave Jacob the dirty look to end all dirty looks, which was a natural skill of his. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“She’s sixty-four years old.”
Jacob rolled his eyes. “You think people stop making bad decisions when they hit sixty? Nope. Anyway, you remember before I left for the city, she used to work at Jimmy’s? I ordered a slice of her apple pie once, and there was a hair in it.”
“That’s why you don’t want to invite her back?”
Jacob frowned at his friend. “Why are you using your Jacob’s being unreasonable voice? I don’t want hairy pie, Montlake. Do you want hairy pie? Because if you’re that hot for hairy pie, I will make you a hairy pie.”
“You couldn’t pay me to eat your cooking, which is kind of why we’re here.” Mont scrubbed a hand over his face and screwed his eyes shut for a second. “Come on, man. You left five years ago. You think she hasn’t learned how to wear a hairnet in five years? Call her back, let her cook for us, give her a chance.”
“No.” Jacob knew he sounded like a dick. He knew even Mont, who got him better than everyone, probably thought he was being a dick. But sometimes it was easier to keep his thought processes to himself because other people either had trouble following them, or thought they were unnecessarily blunt.
Bluntness was never unnecessary.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book had teeth and it sucked me dry. I flatter myself that it’s a fairly funny read, but imagine me crying and bleeding for every line of witty sarcasm and you’ll get the picture. I couldn’t have produced this bad boy without all the support I received from the lovely people in my life.
Thanks first and foremost to my family for keeping me alive while Dani and Zaf spent months trying to kill me. Mum, Sam, Tru, I don’t know how you lived with me, but you did. Props. I owe you each a Coke.
Thank you, of course, to my lovely agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, and my editor, Nicole Fischer, who talked me off of many authorial ledges and gave me exactly what I needed, when I needed it. If it weren’t for the both of you, I probably would’ve rewritten this book ten times instead of three.
Thank you to the incredible team at HarperCollins for all of your support, and to Georgina Kamsika and Aimal Farooq for helping me represent a culture not my own. I hope I did the Ansaris justice.
Finally, thank you to Kenya Goree-Bell, Layla Abdullah-Poulos, Mina Waheed, Therese Beharrie, Ali Williams, Yusra, Yasmin, Chiara, Umber, and Laila for your invaluable advice and encouragement.
Also, thank you to Bree Runway for “2ON,” the motivational bop of the century.
Praise for Talia Hibbert
‘Talia Hibbert is a rock star! Her writing is smart, funny and sexy . . . She’ll make you fall in love with her sweetly imperfect characters, who are so real you’ll wish you could give them all a hug’
—Meg
