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
