Welcome Me to Willoughby Close (Return to Willoughby Close Book 2)

by Kate Hewitt

  “I didn’t even think The Drowned Sailor did champagne,” Olivia half joked, giving Emily a kindly smile. “I’m sure he just did it to be nice, since you’re new.”

  “Yes, of—of course,” Emily stammered. She wanted to believe Olivia was right, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling Owen Jones had been mocking her. She took a sip of the champagne, wincing at the bitter taste she’d never liked. Her gaze moved towards the bar of its own accord, and once again she locked eyes with Owen—he clocked the champagne in her hand and gave her a roguish wink. Emily immediately looked away, but Ava, she saw, had noted the entire exchange, and a cat-like smile curved her lips although thankfully she said nothing.

  “Wait, Ava, are you actually drinking tonic water?” Harriet exclaimed, narrow-eyed, as Ava took a sip of the soft drink she’d also procured. “Ava…”

  “No news of that ilk, so don’t wet yourselves,” Ava announced, holding up one slender hand. She was incredibly beautiful, in an uninhibitedly sexy way, her curvy figure poured into a V-neck sweater and a miniskirt with knee-length leather boots—a similar outfit to what Harriet was wearing, but Ava looked like a pin-up in it. “But yes, we are trying.”

  This announcement elicited a flurry of squeals and exclamations while Emily silently sipped her champagne, even though she wasn’t particularly enjoying it.

  “Oh, Ava, really?”

  “Jace must be so excited—”

  “How are you feeling about it?”

  “So trying, huh?” This was said with a wink and a bawdy laugh, which caused everyone else to burst into another raucous round of giggles. Emily shrank back a little against the wall, curling her feet around the rungs of the stool. Hopefully no one would notice her now that their attention had moved on.

  “So, Emily.” Harriet turned an appraising eye on her, making her abandon that faint hope and shrink back even further even as she forced a smile. The laughter had subsided, and everyone turned to face her, falling into an expectant silence as they waited for Harriet to conduct her friendly interrogation. “How are you finding working with Henry now that he’s loved up with Alice?”

  Emily nearly wilted with relief. She could talk about Henry. “He does seem a bit softer,” she allowed with a small smile, and this, amazingly, elicited another round of laughter and squeals. How were they not all exhausted, or have headaches?

  “That’s what true love does to you,” Harriet pronounced solemnly but with a wink in Alice’s direction, who blushed becomingly. “Did you leave anyone special behind in London, Emily?”

  Stupidly, Emily thought of her mother. “No, not really.”

  “Not really?” Ellie interjected with an encouraging smile. “Tell us more.”

  “Not at all,” Emily clarified, her voice coming out a little sharp, like a discordant note in a melody. She saw the women exchange glances and her cheeks began to heat. “No boyfriend,” she clarified needlessly, trying to smooth things over and feeling as if she’d failed. This was why she didn’t do small talk. She sucked at it.

  “Well, perhaps you’ll meet someone here,” Ava purred, smoothing over the moment in a way Emily hadn’t been able to. “Owen’s single, and he just sent you an entire bottle of champagne.”

  “Owen?” Harriet said dubiously, and Ava raised her eyebrows.

  “What? Owen Jones is a looker, even if he’s not your type, and he’s lovely, as well.” Ava turned back to Emily. “Don’t you think he’s handsome, admittedly in a rough-and-ready sort of way?”

  “Er…” Emily felt herself blush, and of course everyone noticed.

  “Look at her!”

  “Ooh, you do like him, don’t you, Emily? He can be quite lovely…”

  “Owen Jones,” Harriet repeated in the same dubious tone as before.

  “I think you’re the one who fancies him, Harriet,” Ellie teased.

  “Well, Emily certainly does,” Ava said with a kindly smile. “I used to work here a lifetime ago. I’ll put a word in.”

  “Oh, don’t, don’t,” Emily said in an impassioned voice, before she could help herself or think better of it. “Please don’t,” she added, as if she needed more emphasis. Everyone was staring in a horrible mixture of pity and shock.

  “Of course I won’t,” Ava said after a moment, her tone horribly gentle. “I was just teasing.”

  They’d all been just teasing, of course they had, and Emily hadn’t been able to take it. She should have laughed and played along, and instead she felt near tears. She was so stupid.

  Emily blinked rapidly, trying to recover her composure. Foolishly, she found herself looking at Owen again; he was leaning on the bar, elbows firmly planted, a kindly smile curving his mouth as he chatted to an old geezer in a flat cap and waxed jacket.

  “We really are just teasing,” Harriet assured her in a kindlier tone. “But Ava’s right. Owen is lovely. Salt of the earth, although if I’m honest…” She frowned as her speculative gaze scanned Emily from top to toe. “I don’t know if he’s your type.”

  “Whose type is he, then?” someone else returned with a laugh, and Harriet shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I just think he might be a bit rough around the edges for our Emily. She’s quite the fashion plate.” This was said in a friendly tone, but Emily wasn’t sure how to take it, or the our Emily.

  Somehow she’d been subsumed into this tribe, and she had no idea how it had happened. She certainly hadn’t put forth any effort, and in any case she wasn’t sure she wanted to be included in this group of raucous, well-meaning women. They were far too overwhelming and invasive, and the evening had barely started. Already she had a headache, and she’d embarrassed herself, and the champagne she drunk was swirling sourly in her stomach.

  “I think I’ll just nip to the loo,” she said, managing a smile directed at everyone and no one in particular, and she slipped off her stool and hurried to the back of the bar.

  She didn’t actually need to go to the loo, but the moment of quiet in the tiny cupboard of a toilet was a blessed relief. Emily ran cool water over her wrists and then pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She was blushing. How soon could she go home? Why did she feel as if she could cry?

  Everything about this evening—everything—had been outside of her comfort zone of routine and solitude. The women’s loud chatter, their knowing looks, their ease and familiarity…and Olivia hadn’t even put her glass of wine on the beer mat! Emily had watched a ring of condensation form on the table and struggled not to lean over and put the glass where it belonged.

  And then of course there was Owen Jones, sending her an entire bottle of champagne, and everyone wondering what it meant, and just the sheer presence of him, even from across the bar, and the way her gaze kept straying to him even when she didn’t want it to.

  She was so, so out of her depth, in so many ways.

  Taking a deep breath, Emily gazed at her reflection in the tiny square of mirror, grimacing at the glazed look of panic in her eyes. It was already nearing nine o’clock. Surely she’d put in her time and could make her excuses now?

  Deciding on exactly that plan, Emily headed back out to the pub. As she shouldered her way through the crowded room, trying not to actually touch anybody, she saw that her newfound friends all had their heads together. As she approached the group, she heard Harriet’s carrying voice.

  “Well, she is a bit standoffish, isn’t she? I suppose it’s coming from London.”

  “Oh, Harriet, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder about snobs, since you used to be one yourself.”

  “I didn’t actually say she was a snob.”

  “You implied it—”

  “She does dress well, doesn’t she?”

  “I think she’s just shy…”

  “Shy! With that look of hers that could freeze boiling water?”

  “Let’s give her a chance—”

  “I am giving her a chance. I just think she’s a bit of a cold fish, that’s all.”

  Emily couldn’t
bear to hear any more. She whirled around, plunging through the crowd she’d just manoeuvred through, heedless this time of whom she jostled or bumped.

  The door to the toilet wouldn’t open, and she jiggled the handle uselessly for a fraught second until a gruff voice called out, “Oi! It’s occupied, all right?”

  “Oh…” Emily took a step backward, horrified at herself, feeling like some desperate creature in flight, without thought or care. She glanced back and saw that the women at the table were looking around for her; had someone realised she’d overheard them? The thought of a painfully awkward apology of a conversation made her feel even more desperate, and so when she saw a narrow corridor leading towards the back, she raced down it without a thought.

  It led to a small, dank square of courtyard where the wheelie bins were kept, hardly the escape she was looking for, but at least it was a place to hide. At some point she’d need to go back into the pub, but she couldn’t think about that just yet.

  She couldn’t think about any of it—all the things they’d said, the way they’d picked apart her personality, or seeming lack of it. Tears stung her eyes and fiercely she blinked them back. She wasn’t going to let it bother her. She’d learned long ago not to care about other people’s opinions.

  But no matter about that, because right now it hurt.

  A clatter at the door had her stiffening and then shrinking against the damp brick wall as she blinked in the gloom, drawing in an unfortunately audible gasp when she saw who had come into the courtyard with a plastic bin full of empty bottles.

  Owen.

  Chapter Six

  Owen heard her before he saw her—a quick, breathy gasp, a sound of fear. He squinted in the sodium-lit gloom of the courtyard, looking for the source of the sound.

  A sniff had him turning around, and then he saw her, shrinking into the shadows, a look of fear, no, terror, on her face.

  Emily David.

  “What the blazes are you doing back here?”

  She straightened, eyes flashing so Owen thought he must have imagined that look of fear. “I just wanted some air.”

  “People who want air usually go out front.” He’d meant to sound friendly but somehow he didn’t. Goodness, but this woman rubbed him raw, especially when she was looking down her nose at him as she was now.

  “I’m sorry not to stick to the norm.” Now she sounded positively frosty.

  “It’s a bit manky back here, that’s all.” Balancing the bin on his hip, he raked his hand through his hair, expelling a quick breath. “Everything all right?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “Sorry.” Owen dumped the empties into the recycling bin. Then he wiped his hands on the tea towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans before he turned back to his unexpected guest. “I just thought something must have happened, to have you cowering back here.”

  “I’m not cowering. You just startled me.”

  Owen planted his hands on his hips as he surveyed her, or as much as he could see of her in the dark.

  “So what happened?” he asked. “Did someone hit on you? Because I can have a word—”

  “What?” Emily looked shocked and even disgusted by such a suggestion. “No, of course not.”

  Of course not? She was a beautiful woman in a rowdy pub. Owen wouldn’t have been surprised if every geezer in the place hadn’t taken notice of her. He certainly had, when they’d seen each other across the room. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was, prissy or not, with her hair falling about her shoulders in soft brown waves, her slate-coloured eyes fringed with luxuriant lashes. She was wearing a jumper that was soft and clinging, and she looked far more approachable than she had the other day, with her briefcase and business suit, although she certainly seemed prickly as hell right now.

  “So what are you doing back here?” he asked. He took a step closer to her, and saw the tears sparkling in her lovely blue-grey eyes. The sight of them made some vital organ inside him twist in a way he hadn’t expected. He could be a softie, yes, but that was usually with kids and dogs. Old people, too. Not a sexy, prickly woman who had looked down her nose at him the last time they’d met, and was still trying to now. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice full of a gentleness he hadn’t meant to feel, never mind reveal.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Again with the affront, as if he was insulting her. “Like I said, I just needed some air.”

  Riiight. Owen didn’t believe that for a second, but he had a feeling getting information out of Emily David was akin to blood from a stone, and really, quite similar. There was something cold and closed-off about her that he didn’t entirely understand, but he still got the message loud and clear. Back off.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he told her with a shrug. “But if someone in my pub has done something they shouldn’t have, I’d like to know about it.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” She let out a huff of sound that he supposed was meant to be a laugh but wasn’t.

  “What it’s like, then?” Because clearly something had happened, even if she didn’t like to say, and prickly or not, Emily David was hurting and Owen wanted to help her. More than he should do, perhaps, considering how prissy she was. Totally not his type, not that he was even letting himself think that way.

  “Nothing, really. And in any case, it’s not your concern.” She straightened, giving him what he suspected was meant to be a quelling look, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “I should go back in.” She sounded as if she’d rather stick an oyster fork in her eyeball.

  “You don’t have to,” Owen replied. “There’s a gate over there.” He nodded towards the far wall. “It leads out to a lane behind the green, by the river. If you need a getaway.”

  She looked tempted, her teeth sinking into her lower lip in a way that made Owen want to groan. Did she not realise how alluring she was? He had a feeling she didn’t, which seemed crazy. Most women as gorgeous as Emily David were well aware of it. Take his former barmaid, Ava. She knew the precise nature of her charms, and used them to full, laughing effect. Owen had been immune, but his friend Jace Tucker hadn’t, and now he and Ava were happily married.

  But Emily wasn’t anything like Ava. Ava was tough and knowing, while something about Emily seemed fragile. Breakable.

  “I can’t just leave,” she finally said, her voice filled with regret. “It would be rude. Besides, I left my bag out there.”

  “I could get your bag.” Who, he wondered, was she afraid of? Belatedly Owen remembered who he’d seen her with—a bunch of relative newcomers to the village—Ava, Harriet Lang, and a couple of others. Not the handsy date as he’d been half-envisioning. “What happened, anyway?”

  “Nothing. I’m being ridiculous.” With an elegantly manicured finger she dabbed the corner of her eye. “I need to go back in. I know that.” She let out a shuddery sigh that made Owen want to give her a hug. He didn’t think that would go over well. She had “Do Not Touch” practically tattooed on her forehead.

  “They’re not a bad lot,” he said, feeling for the words as if through the dark. “A bit noisy and nosy, perhaps, but that’s it. They won’t bite.”

  She gave another one of those huffs. “That’s what they said. And I know they won’t. It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  A quick, darting look at him before she shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It must do—”

  She shook her head, her gaze on the damp, rather grimy slates below. “I heard them talking about me,” she said in a low voice he strained to hear.

  Oh. Owen struggled for something to say. He really wasn’t good with this kind of thing, but because of the look of naked vulnerability on Emily’s face, he thought he’d give it a try.

  “I’m sure they meant well.”

  “They said I was a cold fish.” He was silent, and she glared up at him, blinking rapidly. “You agree with them.”

  “Of cou
rse I don’t. I don’t know you well enough to say.” Although as an initial assessment, there might be a grain or two of truth in the statement…

  “It doesn’t matter,” she dismissed, sounding as if she were caught between anger and hurt. “I am a cold fish, and I don’t even care.” This was said with a touch of belligerence that made Owen hold up his hands in a peace-making gesture.

  “Okay.”

  “I really don’t care. I never did.”

  “I believe you.” Although he wasn’t actually sure he did, if her defiant tone was anything to go by.

  She drew another breath, and then straightened, a haughty look coming over her face that reminded Owen of when she’d first entered the pub a few days ago, with butter never melting in her mouth. “Never mind. Thank you for your offer.”

  “It still stands.”

  “I’m not going to be rude.” Her lips trembled and she pressed them together. “You’re probably right. They do mean well.”

  She looked so impossibly vulnerable that Owen had an ache inside, as if someone had punched a fist into his gut. How could a woman be so prissily composed and yet look so unbearably sad? How could she be coolly distant and yet seem so heartrendingly fragile?

  It made Owen want to…protect her. Something she undoubtedly would not appreciate. And something he didn’t really want to do. He didn’t have a good track record with protecting people.

  “All right, then. If you’re sure.”

  “I am.” She moved forward, and Owen, realising he was blocking the door, moved to the side at the same time she did, so they were engaged in one of those awkward little shuffles until Emily stepped forward and Owen didn’t move, and he had to grab her by the shoulders to keep her from ploughing into his chest.

  The second he touched her he felt as if he’d come alive, a hot wire in his hands, pulsing through his blood. The strength of his feeling, his undoubted, impossible-to-ignore physical attraction, shocked him. Yes, she was beautiful, no question, and he always appreciated a good-looking woman, but this…

  This felt like something else entirely. Something mind-blowing, life-altering, a force both outside of and inside himself that was taking him over in an instant, like a whirlwind had just whipped through the courtyard. Through him.