by Kate Hewitt
What the hell…?
*
Had she been electrocuted?
Emily went stock-still as Owen’s hands remained clasped on her shoulders. He was staring at her in blank incomprehension, and Emily felt as if she might be staring back the same way. Although in all honesty she had no idea how she looked. How she felt. The whole evening had been an impossible swirl of tangled emotion.
His hands were warm on her shoulders, his palms strong and sure, the heat of them burning through her jumper, branding her skin.
This was ridiculous. She didn’t ever feel this way. She couldn’t now. She wouldn’t even know how. Besides, Owen Jones was completely not her type, if she had a type, which she didn’t. But if she did, it wouldn’t be this. Him.
Him…
His face was close, closer than it had been even a second ago, so she could see the dark stubble on his decidedly firm jaw, the sweep of his surprisingly long and lush lashes as they hid his blue, blue eyes from her view. She’d tilted her head to look up at him, her lips parting, her mind spinning, her heart beating. Everything going at once, a kaleidoscope of motion inside her, a whirl of feeling.
“Well.” His voice was caught between a thrum and a growl, and it made her shiver, an impossible-to-suppress ripple going through her that she knew he felt. His hands tightened on her shoulders. Emily’s eyes widened as her heart thudded so hard it hurt.
Was he actually going to kiss her? Right here, right now? It was absurd. Impossible. She couldn’t even imagine it happening, and yet…
She wanted it to. At least, part of her did. This crazy, racing, out-of-control part of herself that she’d never encountered before, because she’d never let herself be out of control. Not once. Not ever.
Not now.
“Don’t…” The word was barely whispered, so half-hearted a child could have seen through it, but it had the desired effect. At least, the effect she’d intended it to have, desired or not.
Owen dropped his hands from her shoulders as if she’d burned him and he took a step back. And then another. A cool, composed look had come over his face, making him suddenly seem very remote, and reminding her that she did not know this man at all, and he probably didn’t even like her. He certainly hadn’t acted as if he had the last time they’d met.
They stared at each for an endlessly uncertain moment; Emily could not think of a single thing to say, and yet she had the weird urge not to end it. She didn’t want to walk away.
Then Owen gave a little bow, gesturing for her to go ahead of him, back inside, down the narrow little corridor into the pub. Away from him.
Emily swallowed. She opened her mouth to say something—but what? She’d already said enough. Now that her brain was beginning to function, she realised she’d said far too much. All that nonsense about them talking about her, and being a cold fish…
He must have thought she was ridiculous. Pathetic.
She closed her mouth. Swallowed again. And then she hurried back into the pub, scurrying in her sudden need to escape Owen Jones and all she’d said to him.
“Emily.” Harriet looked genuinely anxious as she half-rose from her seat when Emily approached the table. “We were getting worried…”
“About to send out a search party,” Ava chimed in with a sympathetic smile. Did she realise Emily had overheard their conversation? Did they all know? Perhaps they’d been talking about that, too.
“Sorry, I just got into a conversation with someone,” Emily said, meeting no one’s eyes as she sat on her stool in the corner and then glugged the rest of her champagne; someone had poured her another glass from Owen’s bottle. She should have thanked him for that, she realised. She hadn’t even mentioned it. Her heart was still racing, and in her mind’s eye she could still see Owen’s face, so close to hers.
Had he been going to kiss her? Or was that just the lamentable figment of what had never before been an overactive imagination?
She had to stop thinking about it. Now.
The conversation kick-started again, and Emily made do with murmurs of interest as Ellie talked about her daughter Abby, and Ava about her toddler son, and Harriet about her husband Richard’s new job teaching history in a comprehensive near Oxford. Everyone seemed so happy, brimming with life and love and possibility, that Emily didn’t need to make much effort, just as she’d once hoped. It seemed everyone had, by complicit agreement or not, decided to leave her alone…which was just how she wanted it.
Wasn’t it?
Of course it was.
At half past ten they finally settled up at the bar, and Emily trailed behind, not wanting to meet Owen’s eye. She’d refused to look towards the bar even once since coming back from the courtyard, but as Harriet settled the bill, her gaze snagged on Owen and he gave her a wink that everyone could see. Odious man. Odious, impossible, attractive man. Emily pursed her lips and looked away.
Outside the air was still and cold as they began to totter back to Willoughby Close. As no one was in a fit state to drive, they’d made arrangements to sleep over at each other’s houses, something that amazed Emily.
They were like little girls planning a slumber party, something she’d never experienced, of course. But still. It boggled her mind that women her age—and even older—could be so friendly and affectionate, wrapping their arms around each other’s shoulders as they planned who would sleep where.
If she’d been feeling left out before, she felt even more so now, but of course that wasn’t how she was feeling at all, because she didn’t even want to be included.
Still, it was with a tumult of uneasy feelings that Emily finally made her farewells; Harriet threw her arms around her and mumbled some sort of apology, and Ellie squeezed her hand and said they would have to get together for a coffee soon. Ava gave her another one of her knowing yet sympathetic looks, and Alice smiled shyly. They really were all lovely, and being with them made Emily ache even as she longed to get away.
She breathed out a gusty sigh of relief when she’d finally closed the door of number one behind her, and the quiet peace of her cottage surrounded her. She gazed round the small, neat space, everything in its place, and tried to feel that sense of reassurance and safety that was so important to her.
Owen. Owen Jones.
No. She couldn’t think about him. Couldn’t remember what she’d wittered on about, or how he’d held her by the shoulders, and how, for several heart-stopping moments, she’d really thought he was going to kiss her.
What if he had kissed her? Emily had been kissed before. She wasn’t that much of a naïve twit. She’d gone to a party in uni and let a bloke chat her up and then kiss her, quite a sloppy affair, just to see what the fuss was about.
In her last year, during a study session, a geeky friend of hers had blurted his true feelings to her, and shocked, Emily had let him kiss her and fumble at her clothes, feeling weirdly distanced from it all. They’d both drawn back before it had gone very far, embarrassed by the whole thing, and the next time she’d seen him they’d been back to being friends.
Then, her third and last experience had been at a leaving do for another assistant at Ellis Investments a couple of years ago. Emily had been chivvied along to a posh wine bar, and a man had chatted her up and then followed her back to the loo when she’d excused herself. He’d been so suave that Emily had found herself pressed up against the wall before she’d even realised what was going on. He’d been an accomplished kisser, and something about the sureness of his manner had weirdly thrilled her, until he’d cupped her cheek and she’d felt the cold, hard metal band of his wedding ring.
All told, it wasn’t much physical experience, but then she’d never really been interested in gaining any to begin with. She really was a cold fish.
With another sigh, Emily moved away from the door. The evening hadn’t been a complete disaster, she told herself, even though she suspected it had. In any case, most of those women she probably wouldn’t see again, no matter what they’d
promised.
Ellie lived in Oxford, and Ava was busy with her husband and son, and Harriet sounded like she was the chair of every village committee going. Judging by some of the remarks made, Olivia worked about eighteen hours a day in her teashop, and with Alice she’d already developed a manageable routine of coffee in the kitchen.
It was fine. Yet as she undressed, folding her clothes neatly as she always did, lining her shoes up by the door, it didn’t feel fine. Everything about her carefully ordered world felt just a little jumbled, like a picture frame that was only slightly askew. No one else might notice it, but Emily would, and it would eat and eat at her until she straightened it.
As she lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, all the little remarks and looks of the evening had the same effect. Ava’s sympathetic smile. Harriet’s bluster. Ellie’s attempt at getting to know her. Each one felt like a pinprick, or a little push, making her feel off-balance and antsy.
And then she thought again about Owen, and it was as if that picture frame fell right off the wall. What if he’d kissed her? How would she have responded? Would it have ended there, in the grimy little courtyard, a quick buss of the lips, or would it have been something more, something swoon-worthy, a scene stolen from a rom com?
Would he have—what? Emily couldn’t even begin to imagine what Owen might have actually done, if she hadn’t told him to stop. Asked her on a date? Or even to go home with him that evening? How did real life work?
She didn’t know. And for the first time the not knowing, a lifetime of deliberate and necessary ignorance, bothered her. The unhappy weight of it made her close her eyes and will herself to sleep, if only to stop thinking about Owen Jones.
Chapter Seven
Emily woke once more to watery sunlight filtering through the crack in her curtains and the sweet trill of birdsong. It was half-past seven in the morning, late for her, and she had a whole, empty day ahead of her.
She lay in bed, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the warmth of the sunshine on her face, and wondered how she was going to fill up her day. In London, she’d had a schedule for Saturdays. A routine. Wake up, have her first cup of coffee, exercise, shower, dress. Household jobs all morning—dust, Hoover, laundry. Food shopping in the afternoon, plus any other errands she might need to run, and then in the evening she’d read a book or watch a film.
Once in a very blue moon an old friend from uni would ask her out for a drink or meal, and she’d go, because it gave her the illusion of having a social life and it was nice to see people occasionally. Sometimes she’d go to the park or a museum, stroll quietly by herself, drinking in the scenery.
She supposed she could follow the same sort of schedule here, although the lack of commute meant she’d come home from work early enough to keep on top of the washing and housework so she didn’t need to catch up on the weekend. Still, a blitz around the downstairs never went amiss, and she could wash her bed sheets, as well.
What an exciting day she had planned. The sarcastic thought surprised her, because heaven knew, she’d never needed excitement before. Never craved it in the least, after the wild tumult of her childhood. But right now, for the first time, she wasn’t looking forward to a day of routine housework, soothing as that had so often been.
It wasn’t until she swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor, that the events of last night tumbled back through her brain. How could she have forgotten for a moment? All those women…Harriet’s cold fish comment…and Owen Jones. Him, most of all.
Of course a tiny tussle in the courtyard was no major news to him. An almost-kiss might have rocked her world, but for a man like Owen Jones, it was barely a blip on the radar. The thought brought that unsettling mix of relief and disappointment. What did she actually want?
It was not a question Emily had ever had to grapple with before, because she’d always been very clear about what she wanted. Safety. Security. Order. Routine.
It was time to get a start on her day, and regain all those things.
Two hours later Emily had exercised, eaten, showered, and dressed, and was spritzing all the surfaces downstairs with lavender cleaning spray when her doorbell rang. Yet another well-meaning neighbour? How many could there be?
When she opened the door, it wasn’t any of the women she’d met last night, however, but rather a man—possibly the most good-looking man she’d ever seen. He had chocolate-brown hair flopping over his forehead, eyes the colour of whisky already glinting in amusement, and a slow, sexy smile that curved his unabashedly sculpted lips. Emily just stared.
“You must be Emily.”
“Yes…”
“I’m Jace Tucker, Ava’s husband.” Now that made sense. Looks wise, Ava and Jace were perfectly matched. He stuck out a hand, and Emily shook it.
“Nice to meet you,” she said formally, although she had no idea why he was here.
Jace slid his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans, that slow smile of his seeming just as knowing as Ava’s had been last night. They really were a pair. “Ava mentioned you’d just moved in and I thought I’d come by and check everything was all right. I’m the caretaker here, so if anything’s not going the way it should be, you can let me know. I’ll give you my mobile number.”
“Oh. All right.” Emily hesitated. “Do you…do you want to come in?”
“Sure.”
She stepped aside and he ambled in, taking in the sparsely furnished downstairs with one lazy sweep of his gaze. Emily fetched her phone and then dutifully typed in the contact details Jace gave her.
“Thank you,” she said when she’d finished, but Jace didn’t move. He nodded towards the living area of the cottage.
“If you’d like a few more chairs or things, I’ve got some in one of the barns.”
“Oh…” She glanced at the single sofa and coffee table stood in the centre of the room on their own. It did look a bit like a downmarket Airbnb, but her flat in London had been tiny. “Well, I don’t know if I’d need them, really. It’s just me here.” She hadn’t meant that to sound as woebegone as it did, but Jace just nodded.
“All right, then.”
He made to move, and something—Emily had no idea what—made her blurt, “Actually, I suppose I could take a look at them. If you don’t mind. Just in case.”
“I don’t. Now a good time?”
It was only ten o’clock in the morning, the day stretching emptily in front of her in a way it never had before. “Okay,” she said.
Five minutes later they were in the front of Jace’s messy truck, several paper coffee cups crammed in the drinks holder, and a week’s worth of junk mail on the floor of the passenger side.
“Sorry,” Jace said with a lopsided smile, sounding rather unrepentant. “It’s a bit of a mess.”
“That’s okay.” Emily knew she sounded stiff, but the truck was a tip. She edged her foot away from a browning banana peel and after a few seconds of agony she righted a coffee cup that had been slotted into the drinks holder at a terribly awkward angle. How did people live like this?
“Bit of a neat freak, are you?” Jace remarked as she bent down to put the junk mail into an ordered pile.
“I like order,” Emily allowed, and he laughed.
“All that post is going right in the bin. I just haven’t got round to it yet.”
“Obviously.” He laughed again, and Emily smiled. It felt surprisingly nice to chat like this. It almost felt like banter, although she supposed it wouldn’t for most people.
Jace had driven away from Willoughby Close, towards the manor, but then he turned off to the left, down a dirt track that cut through the wood. After a few bone-juddering moments, he pulled up in front of an old stone barn that looked as if it had been there since the Middle Ages.
“This is all the bits and pieces from the manor that nobody has wanted,” he warned as he unlocked one of the big wooden doors and began to push it open. “And most of it isn’t in the greatest shape. But you can h
ave what you like.”
“Thank you.” Emily doubted she’d take any of it. She was more about modern, clean lines, things that were new and bright and dust and germ-free. She didn’t know why she’d agreed to come at all, except perhaps for the company. Because for the first time, a day spent on her own had seemed just a little bit lonely.
Still, she thought she ought to give the furniture a good look, for Jace’s sake, although the pieces stacked willy-nilly in the dim, shadowy barn looked far too big and ornate for her cottage.
She wandered through the jumbled stacks while Jace waited by the doors, arms folded, one booted foot crossed over the other.
“Alice and Henry didn’t want any of this?” she asked, and Jace shrugged.
“I don’t think so, but actually this lot was put in here long before they came. This was from back in Lady Stokeley’s time.”
“Henry’s aunt.”
“Madam.” There was a wealth of affection in Jace’s voice. “She died over a year ago now. She was the lady of the manor, all right.”
“You make her sound like a character.”
“She was. Knew her own mind, shall we say, right to the end.”
“And she didn’t want any of this?”
“I suppose not. So, anything take your fancy?” Jace asked and Emily was about to apologise and say she didn’t think so, when she stopped in front of an old rocking chair. Although it was covered in dust, she could still see the fine grain of the wood, the delicately carved swirls and scrollwork on the handles and back. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, a chair meant to be sat in and savoured, and it made her strangely sad to think of it languishing out here.
“You like that one?” Jace asked.
“Oh, I don’t know…” She didn’t have any need of a rocking chair, certainly, and it was so dirty. And yet…an old memory, like a frayed string, tugged at her mind. Goodnight nobody…