by Kate Hewitt
“It’s not too much, is it?”
“No…” Because, amazingly, it wasn’t. She didn’t look ridiculously overdressed or tarty, as she’d feared. She simply looked wonderfully alive. Emily’s gaze dropped to her figure, the knit dress clinging to her curves thanks to the help of the belt. She looked sexy but not too sexy, although it was miles beyond what she was used to.
“What will Owen think?” she asked aloud.
“He’ll think you’re smokin’ hot, because you are, and that he has completely lucked out, because he has.”
The words caused a thrill to run through her, and yet some old, cautious part of her resisted. “Still, it feels a bit much…” All the old doubts were racing back. She never wanted to be noticed. Yes, she’d used clothes as armour, professional clothes that kept people at a distance. Everything about her right now was saying notice me, and that was not her usual at all.
Ava put her hands back on Emily’s shoulders as she met her gaze in the mirror. “Trust me when I say this is not too much. Speaking as someone who did more than the ‘bit much’ all the time, I know what I’m talking about.”
“Do you?” Emily managed a wavery smile.
“Yes, I do. Look, Emily, I understand why you don’t want to put yourself out there. I was an expert in self-protection for a long time. I did it differently than you, to be sure, but it still feels the same inside. A way to stay safe, to keep people at a distance. And when it works, you might feel safe, but you don’t feel happy.”
Her words both exposed and comforted her. Emily kept her gaze on Ava’s in the mirror as she asked, “Why did you do that?”
Ava sighed. “Because life dealt me a pretty raw hand for a while. My mother scarpered when I was twelve, and my dad wasn’t all that interested in a daughter. I left home at sixteen and ended up working in a club—I won’t bore you with the details, but it wasn’t the best work, shall we say. Then I ended up temping, and then marrying my boss, and living like a trophy wife for five years, never forgetting it for a minute. When I met Jace…he was the only person who kept trying with me. Who saw me as something other than how I saw myself. And if Owen can be your Jace, even if it’s just a small chance…well, I want that for you. I want that for anyone. A lot.”
Emily swallowed hard, absorbing everything Ava had said. “It’s just one date.”
“I know, and that’s fine. Maybe you’ll just have a nice dinner and that will be that. But you’ll have gone out, and taken a risk, and that’s almost as important. Life is for living, Emily. Not hiding away, however you choose to do it.”
“I’m not actually hiding—”
“Not literally, but there are different ways of doing it. Trust me, I know. Now, m’lady, your carriage awaits.”
Emily stared at her blankly. “Carriage…?”
“Well, Jace’s truck.” Ava gave her a flippant smile. “But he’s cleaned it just for you.”
To her horror, Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this for me. Everyone. It’s so much—”
“Don’t cry,” Ava said severely. “Or I will too, and worse, you’ll wreck the amazing make-up job I did. I’m doing this for my sake as much as yours, okay? Because it makes me feel better too. And I want to help anyone I can, because I know what it’s like to be helped. Lady Stokeley helped me along with Jace, and Harriet and Ellie too. I’d never had friends before I moved to Willoughby Close.”
Emily’s throat closed as she forced out, “I never had any, either.”
Ava gave her a quick, hard hug. “I know. But you do now.”
Emily nodded, willing the tears back for the sake of her eyeliner as well as her friend. “Thank you, Ava. For…for everything.”
Ava nodded back, her eyes as bright as Emily’s as she self-consciously sniffed. “Go get ’em, girl.”
Emily tottered slightly in the heels Ava had chosen for her—a pair at the back of her wardrobe that she never wore because they were a bit too high. Her head was still swirling from the second gin, although not in a bad way. She felt pleasantly fuzzy, loose-limbed instead of all coiled tension and nerves, expectant and excited and happy.
Jace whistled under his breath as she came outside, the air damp, the sky grey, but at least it wasn’t raining.
“Look at you,” he said as he hopped out of the truck and went around to open the passenger door.
“I feel like Cinderella.”
“Not a bad feeling, then.”
“But a bit ridiculous,” Emily felt compelled to point out as she clambered rather ungracefully into the truck.
“Nothing ridiculous about it,” Jace answered affably. “And all I have to say is, Owen is one lucky bloke.”
Emily blushed and said nothing. “I suppose you know where he lives?” she asked as Jace turned out of Willoughby Manor’s lane. “He did give me his address—”
“I know it.” He slanted her a glinting look. “Owen lives on the other side of the village. The other side of the tracks, as it were.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that.
“He’s got a pretty cool place, though, don’t worry.”
The truck bumped along a darkened and deserted high street—seven p.m. on a Saturday night in Wychwood and not much was happening, except at the two pubs. Then he was winding through several narrow residential streets of semi-detached houses before emerging on a road that led to the open countryside at the top of the village. A couple of industrial-looking garages were on the right-hand side of the road, and when Jace pulled into the car park in front of them, Emily gave him a startled look.
“First one on the right. Ring the buzzer.”
“He lives here?”
“Yep.”
Emily stared at the deserted-looking garages dubiously. “Are you sure…”
“Of course I’m sure. But I’ll stay here until he opens the door, just to show you I’m not having you on. Go.” Gently he nudged her shoulder. “And have fun.”
Emily climbed out of the truck, pulling her coat more tightly around her. Here at the top of the village, the wind blew a bit more briskly. Under the gloomy skies she could see the rest of Wychwood tumbling down a hill, and then the manor on the far side. She glanced back at Jace and he gave her a cheery thumbs-up.
Her heels clicking on the uneven pavement, Emily walked up to the first garage. A metal door on rollers was shuttered tight, and a staircase led up to the first floor, and what Emily supposed was the front door. This all felt very odd. Was this really Owen’s house? He lived in a garage?
Her shoes made a clinking sound as she climbed the stairs, and then, taking a deep breath, pressed the buzzer.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered as her heart started to thud. Or, really, here went everything…
Chapter Fourteen
A few seconds later Owen flung open the door, and Emily blinked at him in surprise. He cleaned up nicely, was her first thought. Very nicely. Instead of his usual rugby shirt and old jeans, he was wearing a well-starched button-down in a bright blue that matched his eyes, and a pair of dark grey trousers. His hair was slightly damp, curls springing up by his ears, and his eyes twinkled as he smiled at her.
“You made it.”
“I did.”
“Come in.” He moved aside, sweeping an arm out, and Emily took a step inside, drawing her breath in sharply as she took in the home before her. “Oh, wow.”
“You like it?”
“It’s amazing,” she said honestly. They were standing on a mezzanine balcony that ran along three sides of the garage, a huge skylight above them letting in the last of the evening light.
“Follow me,” Owen said grandly, and she did, along the balcony, past a sleeping loft that had a king-sized bed that made her blush and look away, and then down a twisting, spiral staircase to the main living space below.
It was all open—a huge granite island in the kitchen, an even bigger sofa across from it, facing a wood burner where a fire crac
kled merrily. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with battered paperbacks, and something that smelled delicious was cooking on top of the massive Aga. The space was cluttered and cosy and the opposite of Emily’s cottage, and yet just as with the kitchen of Willoughby Manor, she found she loved it. She wanted to curl up in a corner of the sofa and go to asleep, even as every sense and nerve was whizzing with life. As Owen moved past her, she breathed in the scent of his aftershave, something citrusy and clean that made her senses swim all the more.
“May I take your coat?”
“Yes, please.”
He slid his hands over her shoulders as Emily shrugged out of her coat, and it took what felt like all her strength not to shiver under such a basic touch. Goodness, but she was affected by this man. Was attracted to him. She’d never, ever experienced anything like it.
“Wow,” Owen said softly, and Emily blushed and ducked her head as she saw his admiring glance.
“This is all Ava. She insisted I have something of a makeover.”
“You don’t need a makeover, but you do look beautiful. As always.”
“So gallant.” A giggle slipped out of her, sort of like a burp. She covered her mouth before giving a wry laugh. “Sorry. I’m nervous. And I’ve drunk too much gin.”
“Have you?” Owen cocked an eyebrow, amused. “Well, that’s probably a good thing, as I can’t ply you with alcohol. I don’t keep any in the house.” He went to hang up her coat, and then to the Aga to stir whatever was bubbling away there.
“You don’t?” Emily said in surprise. She slipped onto a stool at the big island and watched him at the stove. “And yet you own a pub.”
“Ironic, I know.” He shot a quick, glinting smile that made everything in her fizz. Again. “My dad was an alcoholic. I had a few bouts with the bottle myself, when I was a lot younger. And so I swore I’d never touch a drop, and I haven’t.”
“Wow.” She shook her head slowly, absorbing all the information. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“So am I.”
“You mentioned before that he’d died…?”
“Yes, when I was seventeen. A fight in a pub. They took it outside and he ended up bleeding to death from a stab wound.” He grimaced. “Sorry, I know how grim it sounds. But I figured this was about getting to know each other, so…”
“I’m glad you told me.” But even so, Emily was shaken. It seemed that everyone had hard history. Everyone was trailing their emotional baggage, battered and heavy. It had been arrogant for her to think she was the only one, or that no one could understand what she’d been going through. Foolish to feel she couldn’t let people in. And yet even as she began to grasp that realisation, she still felt the urge to back away from this. From everything, because it was big and new and still scary. Old habits died hard, it seemed.
“Yeah, well.” Owen propped his hip against the island as he gave her a frank look. “You told me some stuff, so I thought I’d reciprocate. We are trying to get to know each other, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“So hit me with something else while I get you a drink. I’ve got tonic, no gin, non-alcoholic beer, fizzy apple and pear… What’s your poison?”
“None of them seem like poison. I’ll take fizzy apple and pear, please.” She was no longer feeling quite so tipsy, but there was a pleasantly drowsy sensation stealing through her veins like honey.
“Right, so what do I not know about you?” Owen asked as he poured her drink and handed it to her.
“What do you know about me?” Emily parried back, not meaning it seriously, but Owen took it as such.
“Well, let’s see.” He planted his elbows on the island as he gazed her full in the face, gaze bright yet heavy-lidded, lips curved in a smile that somehow seemed sensuous. That lazy, honeyed feeling inside her increased, even as she felt electrified. How she could feel both at once, Emily had no idea, but she did. Oh, she did.
“What do I know about you?” Owen mused. “I know you’re careful. Considerate. Thorough.”
“Which is good, if I were applying for a job.” Goodness, but she sounded boring.
“Hey, I’m just getting started.” He straightened, folding his arms as he gave her a considering look that made her feel as if he were touching her. She willed herself to keep his gaze, even though she felt it right down to her toes. “You’re kind but you’re afraid to show it. You like routine because it makes you feel safe. You love your mum but sometimes you feel like hating her.”
“Don’t—” The word came out of Emily in a whisper. She felt as if he’d flayed her alive with his words, as if she was standing naked and wounded before him, and he knew it.
“And I know you’re lovely and gorgeous and you don’t believe that either,” Owen continued steadily. Emily shook her head helplessly.
“I thought you were going to say you knew my favourite colour was blue.”
He raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Is it?”
“Yes, actually.” She let out a trembling laugh, everything still so exposed. “But you didn’t know that, and you knew all the other stuff?”
“You never actually said.”
“I didn’t say any of the other stuff, either.”
“I know.” His tone was so gentle that Emily didn’t know whether to smile or cringe. She’d been here for ten minutes and she already felt completely out of her depth. But she always had with this man, from the moment she’d met him, and somehow it had all been okay.
“I don’t actually know what you want from me.” She blurted out the words.
“I don’t want anything from you. I just want to get to know you.”
“But why?”
“Because I like you. Because I’m attracted to you, and I’m pretty sure you’re attracted to me, if that kiss was anything to go by.”
That kiss. Just the memory of it had her blushing and squirming, everything fizzing inside her again. “Still,” she managed.
“Isn’t that enough?”
It was more than she’d ever had before. A lot more. Emily’s lips curved into a small, slow smile as she realised she could stop questioning for once. Stop doubting. Why not just enjoy what they had here? “Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is, actually.”
Owen grinned, and then she was grinning too, and then he clapped his hands together. “Right. Let’s eat.”
“What is it that smells so delicious?”
“Welsh-Italian fusion cooking,” he quipped. “Or actually, my throw-everything-in-a-pot casserole.”
He brought the pot to the table and Emily brought her glass. It had been set for two, complete with crystal glasses and linen napkins, as elegant as she could possibly please.
“This is lovely, Owen,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
He glanced up as he placed the pot on the table, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, I did want to make an effort. I asked Ava about the table settings, and also what colour shirt I should wear.” He laughed self-consciously, a slight blush touching his cheeks that made Emily both soften and yearn. She could really, really start to care about this man. “But we’ll see if my casserole lives up to its name.”
“I’m sure it will.”
Emily wasn’t used to small talk, or dates, or sitting at a table in candlelight feeling fuzzy and relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with the gin that had already worn off. Surprisingly, it was all so much easier than she’d expected. So much nicer.
Owen regaled her with stories from the pub, and she told him about her ideas for the fundraiser, and the conversation flowed along with the apple-pear fizz.
“So how is that a teetotaller decided to run a pub?” she asked when they’d finished the meal and were washing up, cosily side by side, in the kitchen.
Owen shrugged. “Pubs are what I know. My dad spent all his free time in one, and I fetched him home when I could. Then I started on the same track, until I wised up.”
Emily slowly ran a tea towel along a crys
tal glass to dry it. “What made you wise up?”
Owen sighed. “It’s not very pretty.” He pointed to his rather rumpled left ear. “I got in a fight like my dad did, except I was the one throwing the punches. Ended up before the magistrate on an assault charge.”
“Oh, no…”
“That sobered me up. I was only nineteen. My dad had been dead for two years, and I knew I was going to follow him into the grave one way or another unless I cleaned up my act. So I did. Haven’t touched another drop of alcohol since then.”
“That’s amazing.”
He grimaced. “More like necessary. I thought of my dad and I saw into my future. I didn’t like the look of it.”
“And running a pub?”
“I suppose,” Owen said slowly, “you and I are similar in that way. Running a pub is my way of keeping things in control. If I run the rowdiest pub in this village, well then, I know how bad it gets, and I can make sure it doesn’t get any worse.” He shrugged, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck as he offered a self-conscious smile. “How’s that for a bit of psychoanalysis?”
Emily smiled back. “Very clever.”
“Not really. I didn’t even get my GCSEs, you know.” The dishes done, they moved over to the sofa, Emily curling up one end while Owen threw another log into the wood burner before taking the other end. The lights were dim, and Owen had put on some mellow jazz on in the background. Emily couldn’t remember ever feeling more relaxed.
“GCSEs aren’t everything,” she said.
“You got yours, I presume, despite your difficulties at home?”
She let out a laugh of acknowledgement. “Well…”
“Let me guess. Nine A stars?”
“Ten,” she admitted, and he let out one of his booming laughs.
“Of course. That’s something else I know—and like—about you. You work hard.”
Emily ducked her head, overwhelmed by the unabashed admiration in his voice. “I can’t remember when I’ve had so many compliments.”
