“I’m fine,” Emily said, a bit more sharply than she’d intended, because Ava couldn’t have pushed them together more obviously than if she’d had a clamp.
“I’m happy to do it,” Owen replied. “Besides, it’s a shortcut to my place.”
That seemed to settle the matter, and Emily said her thank yous and goodbyes rather stiffly while Owen waited in the hall. How long were the well-meaning folk of Wychwood going to keep forcing her and Owen together? Were they the only two single people in the village?
The rain had thankfully stopped as she and Owen headed out into the night, the sky dark and stormy above, the moon hidden by clouds. Emily pulled her coat more tightly around her.
“You really didn’t have to walk me home,” she said, managing to make it sound more like an accusation than an apology.
“I know,” Owen answered easily. “But they never would have been satisfied otherwise.”
“It’s a bit irritating, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” he asked affably, and Emily gave an uncertain laugh.
“I only mean…well…” She swallowed as she focused on the narrow path winding ahead of them, lit by Owen’s far trustier man-sized torch than her own small one suitable for a handbag.
“What did you mean?” he asked when she faltered and trailed away to nothing. “Out of interest?”
Emily was grateful for the darkness that hopefully hid her scorching blush. This conversation was so out of her element. “I only meant that it’s not as if you even like me,” she said a bit defiantly, and then quickened her pace, ducking wet tree branches and muddy puddles with alacrity born of desperation.
“You said that at dinner,” Owen said as his long strides kept him level with her. “And I really don’t know where you got the idea.”
“You don’t deny it, then?”
“I don’t think I know you well enough to say,” he responded as he did his best to walk next to her even though the path really only fit one person.
Emily wanted to drop the conversation, even as some contrary part of her wanted to push it. “You’ve seemed to have something against me from the start,” she pointed out as reasonably as she could. She was not going to sound hurt, because of course she wasn’t. “Is it because I work for Henry Trent? Or is it just me?”
“It’s not you. I admit, I have a bit of a thing about the la-di-da types.” He paused. “It’s not entirely fair, I know. I’m sorry.”
“You think I’m a la-di-da type?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
He gestured to her clothes, clearly meaning to encompass so much more. “You had a privileged upbringing, and you’ve looked down your nose at me since you first walked into my pub. I’m not blaming you for it, and I’m not saying it justifies my response, but there it is.”
Privileged upbringing? Emily didn’t know whether to burst into laughter or tears. She did neither, just kept walking, longing to get home. Owen Jones didn’t know her at all, and why should he? She’d never given him the chance.
“Am I wrong?” he persisted as he kept up with her.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged impatiently, ducking so a wet, thorny branch didn’t thwack her in the face. “All I meant was that it’s a bit awkward, being pushed together like this, considering.”
“Considering what?” The question sounded like a challenge. Emily started to stammer.
“Well, just…I mean…that you don’t…that we…”
“Yes?” Owen prompted. He sounded as if he was enjoying her fluster.
“Oh, look, you know what I mean,” Emily finished a bit lamely. She didn’t even know what she meant.
Owen took a step closer to her, and for some reason she was standing still, caught in both the proverbial and literal headlights, or at least torchlight. Then Owen lowered the beam so they were both in darkness. By the light of the moon she could only just make out his face and the hooded intent she saw there.
“But it does matter,” he said quietly. “Because of this.”
“What…” The word came out in a breath as he put his hands on her shoulders, just as he had that Friday night, and again it was like she’d put her finger in a socket, everything twanging with painful intensity, her whole body electrified and alive. Did he feel it too? Was that why his hands had tightened on her shoulders?
“I don’t dislike you, you know,” he said, his voice a low thrum, and Emily twitched away from him, or tried to.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t like me, though, do you?” Owen said, a friendly enough challenge, and unwillingly Emily raised her gaze to meet his. Mistake.
The intensity she’d been feeling dialled up another notch, or three. Her blood beat, her heart pounded, and there were parts of her body that she didn’t think about very much that were now tingling. Her breath hitched. Audibly.
“Actually,” Owen said, “I don’t think disliking each other is the problem here, is it?”
Before Emily could reply, not that she would have known what to say, he kissed her.
She froze underneath his touch, everything rigid with shock even as her body flooded with awareness and pleasure. His lips were soft and warm, his touch achingly gentle…at least at first.
After that first exploratory hello kiss, he took a breath and so did she, and then he was kissing her again, harder this time, and that was wonderful too—it was all so amazing, as if every single part of her had come alive, and somehow her back was against a tree and her arms had come around him and she was kissing him back in a way she’d never kissed a man before.
His body was as solid and powerful as she’d thought it would be, and it felt incredible pressed against hers as the kiss
