They’d had to be, considering he lived in the privileged Cotswolds, in a village that most likely had more millionaires per square mile than Mayfair. Yet for some contrary reason, Emily David—with her sexy, slender figure and her prim and prissy ways—had given that buried bit of him an uncomfortable poke. “I’ll consider it, certainly.”
“Thank you.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but then decided not to.
Owen leaned forward, planting his elbows again on the old, scarred wood of the bar as Emily David stood her ground, if only just. “Have you asked the other businesses?”
She blinked. Bit her lip. Looked away. So that was a no, then.
“I intend to,” she said at last. “And I expect they will all agree. It’s for a good cause, after all.”
“Is it?” He leaned a little closer, so he was able to breathe in the scent of her understated perfume. Something light and floral. “Because, you know,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial thrum, “you haven’t actually said.”
Emily didn’t reply as a blush tinted her cheeks. She looked like she wanted to take a step back but she didn’t. Was he flirting? Maybe. Owen liked to flirt, in a deliberately harmless way. It never went anywhere, because he never let it, and everyone in the village knew that and took him—and his flirting—for what they were worth, which was basically nothing. But Emily didn’t know him, and she looked as if she didn’t know what to do with his flirting, or the way he dropped his gaze to her mouth, lush and pink, and then up again. Her eyes widened and a pulse fluttered in her throat.
“Willoughby Holidays,” she said, with a nod towards the papers he’d left on the bar. “As I said before. I…I thought you would have heard of it…?”
“Nope.” Although that wasn’t quite true. He’d heard that the Trents were forming some sort of charitable foundation, but he didn’t pay attention to the goings-on up at the manor. Never had.
“It’s a charity for children in care, to give them a holiday at Willoughby Manor, an opportunity to experience country living and home cooking and…well…” She was starting to look flustered. “Henry and Alice Trent started it six months ago.”
“Did they?”
“Yes, they’re hoping to have their first holidays offered this summer. I thought it was common knowledge in the village.”
“Not to me.” He straightened with a shrug. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“No.”
“London?”
“Yes, but I moved to Wychwood-on-Lea recently.”
“When?”
She bit her lip again, a movement Owen suspected was thoughtlessly instinctive and yet also, he couldn’t help but notice, inherently sexy. “Four days ago.”
“Ah.” He nodded knowingly, and she frowned, delicately arched eyebrows drawn together, mouth pursed in an adorable pout. She really was beautiful—but in a china doll way, perfect and untouchable. Fragile too, perhaps, although maybe just prim.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged expansively. “The village doesn’t revolve around Willoughby Manor anymore, although maybe there are those who think it does, like Lord Stokeley. We’re happy to help, of course, but we don’t come running at the crook of the earl’s finger.”
“He isn’t…” Emily stopped and shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve given a wrong impression of Henry—”
“Actually, I don’t think you have.”
She frowned. “Do you even know him?”
He let out a crack of laughter that had her drawing back, startled. “No, Miss Prim, I don’t. And I don’t particularly want to, if I’m honest. But don’t you worry. The Drowned Sailor will be serving up pints at this precious fundraiser of yours. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, even if it puts Henry Trent’s nose out of joint.”
“My name is David, not Prim,” Emily said, and Owen couldn’t tell from her tone if she was annoyed by the moniker or she was simply correcting him.
“David. Right. I’ll remember that. So what do you think of Wychwood-on-Lea, Miss David?”
She straightened, narrow shoulders stiffening. “To be honest? I haven’t had the best introduction.”
He laughed again, a booming sound that clearly put her on edge. “True enough. Tell you what. The next time you come in here, you’ll get a drink on the house. As a welcome. Although I can’t promise champagne.”
“Who said I drank champagne?” Her eyes narrowed as she gave him a quelling look. “Or that I’ll come in here again?”
Owen just laughed, because he liked getting her back up, and it was all too easy. Still looking discomfited and huffy, Emily slid her bag back on her shoulder.
“I look forward to hearing from you in due course,” she said stiffly, and then she was gone, her heels clicking sharply across the slate floor.
As the door closed smartly behind her, Owen smiled and shook his head. He wondered if he’d ever see Emily David darken the door of his pub again, and he realised, despite her prim and prissy ways, he hoped he would.
She amused him, and she also got under his skin. There was no reason, he knew, to have Emily David irritate him more than any other well-heeled Londoner who swanned into Wychwood, and there were plenty with their highlighted hair, Hunter boots, and huge black Range Rovers. Or the men—red faced, Rolexed wrists, too much tweed and swagger.
It was the nature of the place, only an hour from London, yet with the countryside on its doorstep. People came here to play at happy families, country kitchens. They had no idea what life was really like, and normally Owen didn’t let it bother him.
But for some reason, Emily David did, and that was both interesting and a bit alarming. Why let this slip of a woman get under his skin? Was it because she was attractive, or was it that hint of something beneath her
