by Eve Devon
‘It’s wonderful,’ she said.
When he didn’t answer, but moved his gaze slowly over her, she fought the need to fill the space between them with awkward conversation and tried instead a smile he could read as warm and relaxed instead of excited and nervous.
Pulling off her gloves and shoving them in her pockets, she moved her hands up to the large buttons on her coat, hoping he didn’t see the fine tremble in her fingers.
Maybe he did though because as she fumbled with the top button she saw his hands automatically lift as if to help undress her. Her gaze shot straight to his and he checked his movement and waited for her to hand him her coat.
As he took it, she started unwinding her scarf and realising he hadn’t been able to see the first smile, tried for another.
It must have worked because he stared at her mouth. And when he continued to stare and his dark eyes got darker, pulling her in and making her heart strike against her ribcage, she couldn’t fight the need any longer and licked her lips.
He drew in a breath and closed the distance between them and her own breath came out shaky because … in the name of all that was Jane Austen, was he going to kiss her?
At the beginning of their date, not at the end?
How very … un-date like.
How very … acceptable.
As he leaned his head towards hers, she felt her eyelids drift shut and for the first time in her life understood that it was her body’s natural response to shutting out all other distraction so that it could savour this one pleasure as fully as possible.
But it wasn’t the touch of that sensuous mouth against hers that had her sighing again, albeit this time with disappointment. It was his fingertips.
‘Sorry,’ he said, his voice sounding gruffly intimate, ‘you have a fibre from your scarf stuck on your lip-gloss. There. Got it.’
If this was a romcom script she had no doubt she’d be reading the line: Emma realises Jake isn’t about to kiss her and *dies*.
Her eyes flew open to search suspiciously for the naked-to-the-human-eye piece of fluff he appeared to be holding between thumb and forefinger and she didn’t have to act to know she was completely dying of mortification as her heart raced and her fingertips clenched at her sides and her pupils kept right on dilating.
She wasn’t a good enough actress to stop a one of them from highlighting to him she’d not only thought he was going to kiss her … she’d welcomed the knowledge.
In a sudden need for movement, she yanked her scarf from her neck and held it out to him.
‘All g-gone?’ she stuttered, brazening it out.
‘Yes,’ he replied, running his gaze over her again. ‘Come through to the kitchen, it’s the warmest room.’
Emma looked down to what removing her large winter coat had revealed and with a little self-conscious laugh, slapped her thigh, ‘I couldn’t decide between Dick Whittington or cat-burglar.’
Jake’s footsteps faltered briefly before he continued down the long corridor. ‘No man on earth could hate those boots, but if you were thinking cat-burglar in search of a nightly haul, trust me, you won’t find anything of value here.’
But then she walked into the kitchen behind him and wanted to call him out for being so wrong.
They said the kitchen was the heart of every home.
And, okay, yes, the dark grey stone tiles on the floor were hard and cold and had three non-matching rugs placed strategically in front of the sink, the Aga, and under the giant kitchen table.
Yes, the heavy oak cabinets that ran under the windows were a hideous shade of olive green and not one of them probably concealed a built in wine-fridge or a commercial-grade dishwasher.
And yes the work-surfaces weren’t composite, granite, polished concrete or even oiled wood.
But with the steam fogging up the cold leaded windows and the warmth enveloping her, she felt heart and soul cocooned in simple, earthy, cosiness.
There’d probably once been a fire where the Aga was and Emma imagined that if you were all alone in here, you might sometimes see a flicker of a silhouette … cooks of yester-year lifting giant copper kettles of water … scullery maids scrubbing at the stone floor that she was standing on.
The stories these walls could tell.
A privilege to hear them.
‘Something smells good,’ she said when she could trust her voice.
‘Roast turkey and all the trimmings.’
‘Like Christmas dinner?’
‘No. Like Thanksgiving dinner. I went online to see what was what and, we’ll have to see how the pumpkin pie comes out. What would you like to drink? You can have tea or if it’s not too early for you, there’s a bottle of red breathing.’
‘Wine would be great. Thank you. Um … you’re cooking me Thanksgiving dinner?’
‘I’m attempting to. I thought you might be missing home today.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Partly because her heart had travelled up to her throat, partly because him talking about LA made her realise it had taken only a few short weeks to fall utterly in love with Whispers Wood so that she couldn’t even entertain the thought of leaving. But that Jake had understood that today was Thanksgiving and that she might be feeling homesick, yeah … more travelling-heart feelings.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he said walking around the large kitchen table, to hand her a glass of red wine.
It was like she’d forgotten how to school her features. How to bank the naked emotion swimming in her eyes. And in a bid to prevent him witness the fight in her, she took the glass of wine from him and concentrated on looking around the kitchen in search of more distracting detail.
A giant vase filled with lichen-covered twigs and Chinese lanterns sat on the windowsill. Garlands of ivy swagged along the free-standing French dresser. Green and white patterned tiles the same as the ones in the hallway with thick Church candles planted on them had a scattering of rosehips and sprigs of rosemary at their base and formed a centrepiece on the table. In the corner of the room, perched at an angle on a wooden stool, a small Christmas tree, dripping with strings of mini pinecones and more rosehip.
‘Jake, did you put up these Christmas decorations for me, too?’
‘Absolutely not. I leave these up all year.’ He grinned at her from over the rim of his glass before taking a healthy sip.
Oh my God.
This was so a date.
‘Happy Thanksgiving, Hollywood.’
Absurdly touched, she felt tears spring back into her eyes and knowing he’d be embarrassed, hurriedly blinked them away. ‘Happy Thanksgiving back.’
They stared at each other, the giant kitchen table between them and she thought that if she’d been standing nearer she might have done something completely stupid like fling her arms around him to thank him. Maybe even impulsively touch her lips to his.
Some of her thoughts must have showed up on her face because the air turned thick and then, suddenly, he was all movement.
Only not towards her.
Instead he was grabbing a tea-towel and chucking half of it over his shoulder like a celebrity chef and then bending to open one of the oven’s doors.
She was just telling herself not to stare at his butt, or that if she absolutely had to, not so openly, when out of nowhere a white ball of fluff came scampering through the kitchen door and jumped up into her arms.
‘Oh-oh, bad Bingey,’ shouted a toddler, rushing in after it.
Emma burst out laughing as the dog licked her face, opening her eyes just in time to see the top of a head skirting the kitchen table and heading in the direction of the oven.
‘Oh, no. Hot,’ she called, shooting around the table, dog still in her arms, to stop the little boy from touching the oven.
Thankfully, Jake turned effortlessly and picked up the boy before he could touch the surface. ‘Hey, buddy. What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, crap,’ said a woman, walking into the kitchen and stopping abrup
tly as she took in the fact that Jake had company.
‘Crap,’ said the little boy. ‘Crap, crap, crap,’ he repeated, making the dog in Emma’s arms yip along.
‘No, Elton. Do not copy Mummy,’ the woman said, walking over to take the dog out of Emma’s arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no clue Jake would be entertaining. He never entertains. Not since—’
‘Anyhoo,’ Jake interrupted. ‘Emma, this is Sarah, my sister, Elton, my nephew, and Bingley the Bichon.’
‘You’re the actress?’ Sarah asked, swinging around to stare at her.
‘I used to be,’ she carefully corrected her. ‘Now I run Cocktails & Chai. Are you the Sarah who did the invites for The Clock House, because I have to tell you they’re wonderful.’
‘Thank you. I—’
‘Probably can’t stay that long?’ Jake asked, shifting Elton again so that he could shut the oven door.
Sarah grinned at her brother. ‘Actually I have all the time in the world.’
Jake let out a deep sigh. ‘What do you want, sis?’
Taking pity on him, she said, ‘I have dates from that photographer. But I can see you’re busy so I’ll turn around and—oh,’ she stopped and stared at the Christmas tree. ‘Oh, Jake, you’ve decorated.’
Jake rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not a big deal.’
‘He told me he left them up all year,’ Emma said unable to resist teasing just a little.
‘He did? Aw, that’s so…’ Sarah’s hand went to her heart.
‘Crap,’ Elton finished for her with perfect timing.
‘Bad word, Elton. Uncle Jake doesn’t want to hear that come out of your mouth again.’
‘’Kay.’ Elton patted his hand over Jake’s stubble and then twisted in his arms to stare at Emma. ‘She’s pretty.’
‘Yes.’ Jake said, treating Emma to one of those intense smiles of his. ‘She is.’
Emma’s heart melted.
Because of Elton, obviously.
Not because of Jake.
At least that’s what she told herself while trying not to catalogue how completely comfortable he looked holding his nephew.
‘So what are these dates, then?’ Jake asked his sister, reaching forward to grab his glass of wine and take a casual sip.
‘She can do the week before Christmas, or…’
‘It’s going to have to be “or”. You know I’m not going to be around for Christmas.’
Sarah jerked her head to indicate Emma. ‘Your plans won’t be changing now?’
Jake glowered. ‘No. They won’t. So don’t go getting any ideas. At all,’ he added for good measure.
Sarah looked like she wanted to say something but instead opted for, ‘In that case the photographer also mentioned the first week in February. I told her about the new bit of the garden you’re doing and she was really intrigued.’
Jake pursed his lips. ‘You told her about the secret garden?’
‘You didn’t say it was a secret.’
‘I definitely called it a secret garden and said it was something new I was working on and you know I don’t advertise unfinished work.’
‘But now you have a few extra weeks to complete it.’
‘Damn it, Sarah, it’s winter. I don’t have time to get it ready for then.’
‘You’ll have to find a way because she loved the sound of it. Said it sounded uber romantic and that would be the best angle to promote. She asked me to tell you to keep that in mind for when she creates her compositions.’
‘You never said anything about creating scenes. I want photos of how it really is, not what some stylist got it to look like.’
‘She, um, also wants to take a couple of photos of the inside of the house.’
Jake shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘Look if it’s about the money—’
‘You’ll what?’ Jake said, his voice as tight as the line of his shoulders, Elton was happily prodding away at. ‘Magic some up from somewhere? There isn’t enough time or money before she visits to make this house look loved.’
‘We really wouldn’t need to do much,’ Sarah asserted. ‘Honestly, the way you keep comparing the outside to the inside all the time. I know you love having absolute control over the gardens—’
Jake snorted, making Elton giggle and try to copy him. ‘Control is just an illusion.’
Emma couldn’t pretend to know the subtext to the conversation but she totally got Jake’s assertion that control was just an illusion. After all acting was creating just that. A fake reality. Mostly a better one, depending on the story.
‘You worry too much, Jake. I only suggested three rooms: the library, this room, and your bedroom.’ Turning to Emma, Sarah added, ‘You’ve probably seen the bedroom already, so you’ll know about the—’
‘Oh, for f—’ Jake stopped, stared down at Elton and with what looked like great effort, said, ‘family sake, Sarah, Emma’s not interested in my bedroom.’
Emma raised her glass to her lips and took a ginormous mouthful to make absolutely sure she didn’t say something stupid like, ‘actually you couldn’t be more wrong’!
‘We can discuss the interior photos another time. I expect Elton needs to get home for his tea,’ Jake said, holding his nephew pointedly out to his sister.
‘Bye, Unca Jakey.’
‘Bye buddy. Try and be good for your mum, okay?’
‘Jake,’ Sarah said, her voice full of contrition as she set down Bingley and reached for her son. ‘We’re really all just trying to help and support you.’
‘I know.’
‘We may not have wanted this place, but none of us wants you to lose it.’ And then, as if realising she was about to discuss family business in front of Emma she stopped and with a gentle smile said, ‘So I can tell her first week in Feb for definite?’
Jake nodded.
‘Fab.’ Sarah turned and smiled warmly at her as Jake edged her towards the hallway. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, Emma.’
‘You too. And Elton and Bingley. Love the nod to Jane Austen by the way. Oh, has Jake told you about Crispin’s claim?’
Jake hit his forehead with his palm. ‘And the hits just keep on coming.’
Sarah planted her feet and looked at Jake. ‘What claim?’
Emma totally failed at keeping the excitement out of her voice. ‘Crispin says Jane Austen stayed here once.’
‘What?’ Sarah’s eyes went round. ‘Oh, wow, that would be great for business. But, hang on, when would that have been?’
‘I’m pretty sure it was on the twelfth of Never,’ Jake replied. ‘But I can’t wait to put up my blue plaque.’
‘Crispin’s getting a blue plaque made?’ Sarah asked.
‘It’s going to have to read: Knightley Hall, on this date … where absolutely nothing happened,’ Jake answered sarcastically.
‘But what if she really did stay here?’ Sarah asked.
‘Oh come on. A story like that would have been handed down from generation to generation like the stupid story about the snow and the chandelier. We’d all have heard of it. But now, as well as everything else I need to do, I’m having to go through the family journals just in case.’
‘Poor Jakey. So, I’ll um, get back to you about what’s needed for the photographer?’
‘Email, text, write me a letter,’ he said, edging her further towards the front door. ‘The forms of communication not requiring actual physical stopping-by are both numerous and time-saving, these days.’
Emma watched Bingley disappear out the door where it raced to the car and started sniffing the wheels.
‘What you’re really saying,’ Sarah said, ‘is now I should knock before I walk in.’
Before Jake could combust from sighing, Emma stepped up to the door, draped her arm around him and answered with a knowing grin, ‘Maybe wait for an answer, too.’
Chapter 24
Tour of the Roses
Jake
Jake watched Sarah settle Elton and Bingley in
to the car and then cursed under his breath when she hopped into the driver’s seat and proceeded to root around in her bag and triumphantly withdraw her phone. ‘She’ll be texting the whole clan before she drives off.’
‘But will she be texting them about Jane Austen and the Blue Plaque Affair … or ours?’
He shot Emma a look as she removed her arm from around him. She looked pleased with herself rather than horrified at how his family took open-door policy to new levels.
‘Why did you say that to Sarah?’
‘Honestly? You looked like you were ready to implode. I get that this is the old family home but maybe she’ll think twice about wandering in now.’
Jake searched her gorgeous eyes for ulterior motive and accepting his suspicion with a small roll of her eyes she grinned and said, ‘You’re welcome,’ before outrageously adding, ‘I guess you’ll want to give me that tour of the bedroom now?’
To his utter surprise a laugh escaped. ‘How about a tour of the gardens instead?’
‘Actually, I’d love that.’
He’d had every intention of cancelling their date. But aside from Kate giving him the stink-eye when he’d taken the lights to The Clock House, he’d seen the look of resignation cross Emma’s face – almost as if she’d expected the rejection – and it had been that look, more than Kate’s, that had had him changing his mind. He’d coerced her into the date in the first place. To cancel would have been a really shitty thing to do.
‘I’ll grab our coats and we’ll head out the back way,’ he told her, hoping the fresh air and walking his land would help him feel on more solid ground.
He’d keep it simple.
Give her the tour. They’d eat some dinner. He’d walk her home.
And not once would he think about the way she’d looked at him earlier when she’d thought he was going to kiss her.
Or the fact that he wished he had.
To distract himself from her mouth, he stared down at the worm casts in the grass.
‘We’ll do the lake another time,’ he said, moving them down one terrace, through an archway of pleached hornbeam whose brown leaves clung on determinedly. He’d show her the formal knot garden. ‘Those boots of yours won’t survive the wet ground, so we’ll stick to the paths I’ve put in.’
