Spotlight & Giveaway: Welcome Me to Willoughby Close by Kate Hewitt

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Kate Hewitt to HJ!

Hi Kate and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Welcome Me to Willoughby Close!

To start off, can you please tell us a little bit about this book?:

A story of opposites not only attracting but connecting on a surprising and vulnerable level.
 

Please share your favorite lines or quote(s) from this book:

I don’t have any favourite lines, but I liked (if that is the right word!) writing about Emily’s OCD. The older I get, the more I find I want to write about people with challenges, illnesses, and/or difficulties, because that is life in the real world, but with happy endings guaranteed!

What inspired this book?

Willoughby Close is inspired by where I used to live, in the Cotswolds. So revisiting that village and my friends there always gets me in the mood to write a Willoughby Close book! Owen’s pub, the ‘rougher’ one of an upmarket village, is inspired by a pub in a village I used to live in Cumbria; there was the chic pub, and then there was the rougher pub, which wasn’t all that rough, to be honest.

Ultimately the Willoughby Close series is inspired by real people who have difficulties and challenges and even tragedies in their lives, but through the love, help, and support of friends, they manage to deal with them.

How did you ‘get to know’ your main characters? Did they ever surprise you?

I loved that Emily and Owen were opposites, but they had this crazy physical attraction neither of them had experienced before. I knew I wanted to write a character with OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), but writing that both realistically and sympathetically was challenging. And of course no character is issue-free, so I had to figure out what challenges Owen had, as a school drop-out from a deprived community in a former mining village in Wales.

What was your favorite scene to write?

I enjoyed writing the interactions between Owen and Emily, because they’re so different. Here is their first meeting:

‘May I have a word?’
Owen Jones looked up from the till receipts he’d been going through on top of the bar to see a woman he’d never clapped eyes on before cautiously inching her way into the pub on a pair of steel-grey stilettos, her pert nose wrinkled in wary distaste.
She was dressed like a City barrister, in a black pencil skirt and grey silk blouse, both items highlighting a figure that was blow-away-in-the-breeze slender, and yet, Owen couldn’t help but notice, still in possession of a few rather nice curves.
Her hair, a deep, glossy chestnut, was pulled back into an elegant chignon, with only a few wisps framing a delicate, heart-shaped face. In short, she was a stunner, and Owen, who had always enjoyed looking upon a lovely lady, noticed—just as he noticed the slight curl of her lip as she met his gaze.
‘You can have several, if you like,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘How about a whole dozen? That’s twelve right there, I’ve just said.’ He grinned, enjoying the startled look on her face. She was prissy, this one, and judging from the way her gaze moved around the decidedly shabby pub, a bit of a snob, but neither took away from her beauty.

What was the most difficult scene to write?

Writing about Emily’s OCD was challenging because I wanted it to be both realistic and sympathetic. Here is a snippet from Owen’s perspective:

Owen watched as Emily sat down across from him, having just been to the breakfast buffet. She had a plate with some fresh fruit and little bowl of yogurt, and a cup of coffee which she placed precisely to the top right of her plate. Knife and fork were set in parallel lines on either side of the plate, and it wasn’t until she had everything arranged just so that she looked up and caught him staring. She frowned.
‘What is it?’
He nodded towards her food. ‘You’ve got a little routine going there, don’t you?’ He’d meant it teasingly, but colour flooded her face as she looked away.
‘I like things a certain way.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ He eyed her speculatively as she gave her fork one last tweak and then spread her napkin in her lap. Emily David was proving to be far more of a conundrum that he’d originally thought. The last twelve hours had certainly shown him that. Her mother… her vulnerability… their kiss.

Would you say this book showcases your writing style or is it a departure for you?

I think it’s pretty much classic Willoughby Close—emotional and full of heart—but it is only one of several genres that I write in.

What do you want people to take away from reading this book?

That there is hope and healing for everyone.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m working on the next Willoughby Close book, which I think is my favourite so far! I have lots of upcoming releases, actually—my Far Horizons trilogy, a historical romantic saga set in Scotland and Canada, is coming out in August, and my next women’s fiction, When You Were Mine, is out in October.

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: An ebook of Welcome Me to Willoughby Close & 3 Tule ebooks of your choice

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Excerpt from Welcome Me to Willoughby Close:

It wasn’t London. Emily David stood in the doorway of the cottage, part of a converted stables, and told herself to keep calm. The place was clean, everything bright and sparkling and looking quite new. That was something, at least.
She took a step inside, doing her best to admire the wood-burning stove, the granite counters and chrome fixtures in the kitchen, the French windows overlooking an overgrown postage stamp of garden, a tangle of wood beyond. Really, it was all wonderfully quaint.
So what if it wasn’t London? It wasn’t her flat in a modern, anonymous building where no one knew her name and she preferred it that way. It wasn’t London, where people kept their heads down, mobiles clamped to their ears, and did their best not to make eye contact. It wasn’t London, where she could melt into a crowd, where her office environment was safe and controlled, where she’d developed a routine that worked.
She could deal with all of that. She’d have to. It wasn’t as if her boss, Henry Trent, now Earl of Stokeley, had given her that much choice. He was leaving his high-powered position at Ellis Investments to live at Willoughby Manor in Wychwood-on-Lea here in the Cotswolds to run a charity he and his wife had recently set up for children in care. He wanted Emily, as his executive assistant for the last four years, to accompany him.
Emily had balked at the idea at first; she didn’t like change, and she wasn’t keen on being so far away from the city, although admittedly it was only an hour by train. Still, this felt like another world—the cluster of four cottages around a little courtyard hidden from the narrow road by a dark wood, the crenelated towers of the manor house visible over the tops of the trees.
Henry had done his best to sweeten the offer, giving her a pay rise and free accommodation in the form of this cottage. Eventually, Emily had agreed; Ellis Investments’s HR had said there were no other positions in the firm suitable for her and, truth be told, she actually liked working for Henry. Blunt and often terse to the point of rudeness, he never pried, never engaged in idle chitchat, and was almost as briskly efficient as she was. Together, as boss banker and executive assistant, they’d clicked.
But she had no idea if that positive dynamic would continue here, while Henry ran a charitable foundation out in the sticks, and she was meant to help him.
A careful breath in and out and Emily made herself start to relax. At least the place was clean, she told herself again. It felt like the one positive thing she could hold on to. The moving truck would be arriving any moment, and then she could start putting things in their place. She ran her fingers along the granite counter in the kitchen, frowning slightly. Maybe she’d give everything a quick spritz, just in case.
“Hello?”
Emily turned around to see Henry’s wife, Alice, standing in the doorway with a bright smile on her face.
Her boss had married Alice James eighteen months ago, and Emily still didn’t quite know what to make of her. She was ridiculously young, a couple of years younger than her own twenty-six, with a halo of white-blonde hair and an angelic smile to match.
She’d certainly started to soften the usually taciturn Henry, turned him into a man who actually whistled as he walked, or so Emily had noticed when Henry had come into London for work. She didn’t know what to make of that, either.
She hadn’t had much interaction with Alice since the wedding, as she’d been in London and Alice had stayed here, in Wychwood-on-Lea, a chocolate-box village in the lovely Cotswolds with all the thatch, charm, and golden stone you could possibly wish for. She’d met her only three or four times, and the interactions had been brief, as Emily had been working and Alice had only stopped by the office to see Henry. Now she forced a smile to her stiff lips as Alice came into the cottage.
“What do you think? Will it do? Henry said you had a nice flat in Earl’s Court—”
“Oh, yes, it’s fine.” Emily spoke a little too quickly. She wasn’t in the right frame of mind to rhapsodise about the cosiness of the cottage, the quaintness of the village. Everything still felt new and uncertain and alarmingly fragile. She held on to her smile as she added, a bit belatedly, “Thank you so much.”
“Oh okay.” Alice was still smiling, but in a puzzled sort of way. Did she think they were going to be instant best friends now that Emily would be living here? Emily couldn’t see that happening.
She’d had plenty of colleagues and acquaintances, people she passed the time of day with, or chatted to about the weather, but she didn’t really have friends. She didn’t do friendship, and hadn’t since she’d been a child. She couldn’t see herself starting now, in this strange place.
“I brought this.” Alice brandished the tin Emily now saw she was holding. “Tiffin. It’s Henry’s favourite.”
“Thank you, that’s so kind.” Emily took the tin and put it on the counter. She realised there must have been something slightly and unfortunately dismissive about the gesture because Alice’s smile wavered.
“You’re not allergic? It does have raisins. Or maybe you don’t eat sweets…”
“No, no,” Emily said hurriedly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it very much. Thank you.” She thought she’d said the right thing, but Alice was still looking a bit…nonplussed. Disappointed, even.
Why, Emily wondered on a silent sigh, did a simple conversation have to be such a minefield for her? Now if they’d been talking about work, she’d have been fine. She could talk about spreadsheets and databases and filing systems all day. But a simple bit of chitchat with a woman who was so obviously thoughtful and kind? Her stomach went in knots and her tongue became firmly tied as every instinct kicked in to stay private.
She couldn’t help it; it was a habit, one built up over years of careful self-protection. Stay polite, efficient, at a distance, so people didn’t look too closely, or ask too many questions. So they don’t find out the truth.
It was the way she’d always needed to be, and it was hard to stop now, even when it wasn’t strictly necessary, with this slip of a woman who so clearly wanted only to be her friend.
“Okay. Well.” Alice tucked her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture as she kept smiling. “Is the moving truck coming soon? Because I could help you bring things in…”
Emily opened her mouth to say she didn’t need any help, then closed it again. “Actually, if you had any spray cleaner and perhaps some paper towel? I’d love to wipe all the surfaces before the furniture is put in.”
“Oh.” Alice glanced around at the near-sparkling kitchen. “Okay. I have some back at the house. I’ll nip up and get it for you.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
“Right. Won’t be a tick.”
Alice gave her another uncertain smile and then thankfully left the cottage. Emily let out a shaky breath of relief. This was all going to be so much harder than she’d expected, and that was saying something, since she’d had no illusions that it would be easy.
But every innocuous conversation felt like sandpaper on skin, an irritant, even a danger. It was hard to shed that self-protective skin even when it wasn’t needed as much as it had been back in London. After all, her mother wasn’t living with her anymore. She didn’t actually have anything to hide.
Emily slid her phone out of her pocket and checked it for messages, but of course there weren’t any. Her mum didn’t do texts, or voicemails, or even phones. No matter how Emily tried to stay in touch, Naomi preferred to surprise her by suddenly showing up, usually with a suitcase and a smile, to stay awhile.
That had been fine in London, when she’d lived in a building where neighbours didn’t notice or care. But here in Wychwood-on-Lea? With the helpful Alice popping round, and who knew who else? When Emily had driven into Willoughby Close’s courtyard, she’d seen at least one of the four cottages had been occupied, and it had made her stomach clench a little. She couldn’t be dealing with nosy neighbours, well meaning though they might be.
While Alice was gone, Emily decided to inspect the upstairs of the cottage. Henry had mentioned two bedrooms, and as she mounted the set of narrow stairs, she saw that indeed there were two—a master bedroom with fitted wardrobes and an en suite bathroom, and a smaller bedroom with a view of the back garden and the meadow and woodland beyond, the silver ribbon of the Lea River glinting under the fragile March sunshine before winding its way into a dark wood. It was, Emily supposed, so very idyllic…if one liked that sort of thing. She didn’t know if she did.
She’d grown up in the city, had found solace and safety in crowds, anonymity, life buzzing and pulsing all around her. The quiet here scared her, although she couldn’t say why. The solitude felt like a threat, the emptiness an exposure.
Certainly the possibility of nosy neighbours felt exposing. People coming in at all hours, with cheerful hellos and kind, smiling eyes, asking how she was, what she was up to… Emily suppressed a near shudder. It was like something out of a BBC comedy about moving to the country. It was what you were supposed to want, wasn’t it? Yet Emily was quite sure she didn’t.
“Hello? Emily…?” Alice’s friendly voice floated up the stairs. Emily turned from her view of the back garden and headed back down to the open-plan living area. Alice brandished a bottle of cleaning spray and a roll of paper towels with a triumphant smile. “Will this do?”
“Perfect, thank you so much.” Emily smiled and took both. As Alice watched, she started spraying. She wondered if she should have waited, but the truck would be here any minute and she needed everything to be clean. Still, perhaps it was a bit OTT.
“So,” she said in as airy a voice as she could manage, “how do you like living at the manor? I’ve only been here for your wedding. That was so lovely…”
“Honestly? It feels like a dream come true.” Alice laughed self-consciously. “As naff as that sounds, it really does.”
Emily glanced at the younger woman; happiness was radiating from her in an almost visible way, like beams of sunshine shooting out from her fingertips. A shaft of entirely unexpected envy twisted her gut and she spritzed some cleaning spray onto the top of the pristine cooker.
“Well, Henry certainly seems happy. He’s stopped scowling, which I never thought I’d see.”
Alice laughed. “Yes, he’s unbent a bit, hasn’t he? That makes me happy, too.”
“I’m not quite sure how to deal with him, to be honest.” She let out a little laugh. “I really am delighted for you both. Honestly. It’s so wonderful to see…” She didn’t exactly know how to finish that sentence, and so she stopped, only to see to her horror that Alice Trent was looking at her with something like pity. Did she feel sorry for her, so clearly on her own, solitude radiating from her the way happiness was from Alice? Perhaps Henry had said something. My poor secretary, darling. She’s got absolutely no social life at all…
Emily’s cheeks warmed as the moment spun out and then, thankfully, was broken by the rumble of tyres on gravel outside.
“That must be the moving truck,” Alice said with a bright look. “Let me help you move your things in.”
“Oh, you don’t…” Emily began, but Alice was already out the door. Heaven help well-meaning neighbours. The last thing she wanted was Alice bringing boxes in, reading the labels on the top, asking brightly about things she had no need of knowing. And then unpacking them, touching all her things, putting them in the wrong place, heavens…
Emily walked quickly out the door. The truck had pulled right up in front of the cottage, and the burly driver and his equally impressive colleague were already opening the back and starting to unload. Clearly they were on the clock, which suited Emily fine.
“The boxes are marked by room,” she said. “If you can put them in the right places?”
“Sure thing, love.” The driver gave her a nod and a wink. “How about a cuppa?”
“Oh…right. Yes.” Fortunately she’d put some of the most essential kitchen things in her car, a ridiculous rental that Henry had arranged, thinking she’d enjoyed zipping about the country lanes in a navy-blue convertible Mini, the top down to the spring breeze.
And in truth, Emily sometimes wished she was the sort of person who would enjoy that—the hedgerows blurring by, the wind in her hair. But the reality was that she was definitely a sensible sedan sort of girl, and driving the Mini from London to the Cotswolds had made her feel both uncomfortable and nervous, especially after she’d googled “convertible safety concerns” at a rest stop.
Still, she was here, she’d made it, and she’d return the car tomorrow even though Henry said she could have it for the week. Since she’d be working at the manor and there was a train station in the village, she hoped she wouldn’t need a car anyway.
“Do you want to me to make the tea so you can supervise the movers?” Alice asked as Emily brought the box with the kitchen stuff back into the cottage. She looked so eager to be helpful, so very hopeful, that Emily almost relented.
“Thank you, but I think I’ve got it in hand,” she said as firmly as she could without being rude. “I don’t have that much stuff, anyway. I doubt it will take long. But you’ve really been so kind.”
“Oh…” There was no mistaking Alice’s disappointment, and Emily’s stomach curdled with guilt. She wasn’t trying to be mean, honestly; she just…liked to do things on her own. She needed to.
“Thank you, though,” Emily said yet again. “You’ve been very kind.”
“It’s no trouble at all. And I wanted to let you know that you’re invited to come up to the big house for supper tonight,” Alice answered, rallying once more, with cheerful determination. “Nothing fancy—just a kitchen supper. Shepherd’s pie. You’re not vegetarian…?”
Emily’s smile was starting to feel fixed. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, Henry insists that you come. He wants to welcome you properly. He was busy this afternoon, meeting some potential donors, but I know he wants to see you tonight, check in with how you’re settling.”
“That’s very kind,” Emily said after a second’s pause. As everything else was. Why did Alice have to be so bloody kind? And Henry, as well? She knew she couldn’t say no to her boss, although she dreaded the prospect of making chitchat with Henry or Alice over what would surely be an interminable, if delicious, supper.
Her relationship with her employer had worked because they’d both been efficient, uninterested in niceties. Henry had appreciated her brisk manner, and she’d appreciated his taciturn one, as well as the fact he’d had zero interest in her as a person. Since his marriage, and now his move, that seemed as if it might change, and Emily wasn’t sure she could deal with that on top of everything else.
“I do hope you’ll like it here,” Alice persisted. “I know it’s not as busy as London—that’s a huge understatement, obviously—but people are so friendly. When you’ve settled in, you must come over for one of our girly evenings with Ava and Ellie, Harriet and Olivia… Ellie used to live in this cottage, with her daughter Abby. She’s married to Oliver now and they’ve moved out towards Oxford, but she still comes in for our get-togethers. And Harriet was in number two but she and Richard have moved to the other side of the village. Then Ava’s with Jace, in the gatekeeper’s cottage… She has the sweetest little boy, William.” For a second Alice looked wistful. “And Olivia runs a bakery and teashop in town, and she’s dating Simon, a music teacher at the primary. They’re all such fun. You won’t be lonely here, I promise you. There will always be people around, to help, to chat, to have a laugh with. It really is the loveliest place to live.”
Emily blinked, taking in all the names, all the socialising. “That does sound lovely,” she said with the same sense of inevitable duty and dread that she’d accepted the dinner invitation. Since Alice hadn’t set a date for the “girly evening”—shudder—she could certainly back out later.
“Okay.” Alice looked around the empty cottage, the movers already stacking boxes by the French windows. “I suppose I’ll go, then, if you’re sure you don’t need me…”
“I’m fine, honestly.” Emily softened her words with a smile. “Thank you, though, for offering, and also for the tiffin. It really does look delicious.” She took the kettle out of the box, gave it a rinse, and then started to fill it.
“Shall we say seven for supper? Is that too late?”
“Not at all.” It gave her a few hours to unpack and sort, at least.
Finally, with a flutter of her fingers, Alice was gone, and Emily breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Alice meant well, of course she did, but it had been exhausting navigating so many invitations. Quickly she made the movers their tea, and then started shifting boxes.
There really weren’t too many—she’d always been one for economy, preferring the clean lines of an empty room than the chaotic disorder of a full one. Half of the boxes were her mother’s things, all loaded into the second bedroom for when—or, really, if—her mother ever showed up. Emily never knew when it would be, or for how long.
With a sigh she started emptying a box of books—business manuals and no-nonsense self-help guides that she considered suitable for show in the sitting room; her secret pleasure—sweeping, romantic epics—would go upstairs in her bedroom.
“Ta, love.” One of the movers came downstairs brandishing an empty mug. “We’re all done here.”
“Thank you very much.” Emily saw them out, with the requisite tip, before she resumed unpacking. It felt strange to put her familiar things in this new place. She’d been in her flat in Earl’s Court since her first pay cheque at Ellis Investments. Admittedly it had only been a let, and she hadn’t been particularly attached to the small, boxy flat with its tiny kitchen and even tinier bathroom, but it had been familiar and it had been hers, and right now Emily couldn’t keep from feeling a pang of sorrow at its loss.
“Stop it,” she told herself out loud, in the firm voice of a primary school teacher. “There is absolutely no reason to feel sorry for yourself. You’re extremely fortunate, you know.”
And she did know. She had a job that was secure and made her financially stable; she had a lovely cottage to call her home; she had a mother who loved her in her own chaotic way, and she was healthy and young and… Her blessings petered out and she blew out an impatient breath. She had this lovely cottage, she continued determinedly, and she was healthy…
She’d already listed those ones. Emily pulled a piece of packing tape off a box and it came away with a satisfyingly loud rip. She was done counting her blessings, as well as feeling sorry for herself, simply because she’d moved to a new place she wasn’t at all sure about. She had work to do.
Two hours later the unpacking was mostly done. Her streamlined grey sofa looked a bit out of place in the cosy sitting room, and her angular white dishes seemed rather austere in the glass-fronted cupboards, but Emily didn’t mind. She wasn’t a patchwork throw or colourful pottery type of person, after all, and she didn’t think she ever would be.
Upstairs she’d stacked her mother’s boxes in the second bedroom, undecided whether she should unpack them or not. Her mother might be irritated if she did, hurt if she didn’t. It was impossible ever to know what reaction she might provoke, or what mood she might find her mum in when she finally did turn up.
Which reminded her, she needed to ring Naomi and let her know her new details.
“Hello?” The musical voice sang out dreamily after the fifth ring, when Emily had been poised to leave a voicemail.
“Fiona? It’s Emily David. Naomi’s daughter?”
“Emily…” The woman’s spacey voice made Emily grit her teeth. Her mother’s latest best friend was a hippy in her sixties who somehow made a living selling hand-dipped candles in Camden Market. She also smoked a lot of cannabis.
“Could I talk to my mother, please?”
“I’m afraid she’s not here, darling.”
Annoyance as well as a tiny pinprick of alarm shivered along Emily’s spine as she registered Fiona’s insouciant, indifferent tone. “Do you know where she is?”
“No. She’s a grown woman, after all. I’m not her keeper, and neither are you.” Fiona was still speaking in that away-with-the-fairies voice that made Emily grit her teeth.
“That’s true, but you know she has medication she needs to take regularly, so—”
“Oh, medication.” Now Fiona sounded scoffing. “Conspiracies by big pharma, you mean.”
“Fiona, please—”
“Naomi is much, much better without all those pills,” Fiona said firmly. “She’s been so much freer, so much happier. You can’t have any idea the burdens she’d been under, which have just been lifted—”
Emily’s fingers tightened on her phone. “Are you saying she hasn’t been taking her medication?” Her voice unspooled like a thread of wire.
“You don’t need to worry about her,” Fiona declared, all airiness gone, and then she hung up. Emily closed her eyes.
Fiona was just the latest in a long line of her mother’s friends—men and women of all stripes and dispositions, drifters and grifters and other lost souls. Naomi picked them up like strays, or perhaps it was the other way around, and they were the ones picking her up. Emily didn’t know the ins and outs of each one—there had been far too many—but she knew enough to feel nervous, if her mother had gone off her medication again, even for a day. The last time, three years ago, had been disastrous. Emily did not want to go through something like that again.
And hopefully she wouldn’t have to. Fiona had sounded as if she’d had her head in the clouds, or at least in a cloud of cannabis smoke. Emily doubted she knew whether Naomi was taking her medication or not, and when she’d spoken to her mum before she’d left for Wychwood, she’d seemed fine. Fine. But where was she now?
Emily hesitated, wondering if she should call her father to let him know what was going on, but she didn’t think she could bear his defeatist attitude right now, his weary resignation bordering on total indifference.
Your mother’s made her choices, Em. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to let her go.
He would say that, because his motto had been to let people go, including Emily herself. And yet she knew that wasn’t entirely fair; her father had tried. Sort of.
With a sigh Emily decided to leave it for now. She’d call Fiona again after this dreaded supper, and again in the morning if necessary. Not for the first time she wished her mother possessed a mobile, but as with many things, Naomi didn’t hold with them.
With only twenty minutes until she was meant to be up at the manor, Emily hurried to change out of her now-dusty clothes. A quick shower just to feel properly clean, and then she pulled on a silk blouse and tailored trousers; she didn’t do casual. She pulled her chestnut-brown hair into a neat ponytail, and slicked on some eyeliner and lipstick, because she always liked to look professional. Polished. A glance at her reflection made her nod in satisfaction; she was ready.
As Emily stepped outside the cottage, the last of the afternoon’s light was trickling from the sky like golden syrup, puddling on the lane that wound its way up to Willoughby Manor, and touching the bright heads of the daffodils with gold.
It was all so very lovely, Emily thought with something close to reluctance. Who wouldn’t want to live in such a beautiful place? Who wouldn’t enjoy wandering through the narrow paths she could see twisting through the wood, or along the gently rolling meadows that bordered the Lea River?
Of course, she knew the answer to that question. She wouldn’t. And just like with the convertible Henry had thought she’d enjoy tootling about in, Emily almost wished she could be the sort of person who could happily frolic through a meadow, or wander in a wood. Who could welcome the new neighbours of Willoughby Close with friendly enthusiasm instead of a caution bordering on dread. Who could live life to the full instead of cagily dipping a toe in here or there.
Unfortunately, she knew she wasn’t that kind of person. And she didn’t think she ever could be. It hadn’t actually bothered her that much until now; it hadn’t bothered her at all. Yet suddenly, when she was faced with the stark differences, she felt her own lack in a way she hadn’t let herself before.
Well, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she headed up the sweeping drive to the manor, she was who she was and she didn’t intend on changing. Willoughby Close would just have to get used to her.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

Welcome back to Willoughby Close, with four new residents and happy endings to deliver…

Emily David didn’t want to move to Willoughby Close. She was perfectly content in London, but when her boss, Henry Trent, asks her to relocate, she’s left with little choice. Emily prefers living on her own and finds comfort in her routines. But the well-meaning residents of Wychwood-on-Lea are determined to include her in their friendly circle—a prospect Emily finds utterly alarming.

When sparks fly with local pub owner Owen Jones, Emily’s safe and fragile world threatens to shatter. She has too many secrets to keep, and Owen’s gentle understanding could be her undoing. But as Owen persists, Emily’s heart softens, and she begins to discover the wonder of trusting friends—and falling in love. That is, until she discovers Owen has a secret of his own…

Can Willoughby Close work its charm and magic once more? And can someone who has been determined to stay lonely find—and trust—love right on her doorstep?

Discover the heartwarming magic of Willoughby Close once more… with three new stories of hope and happily-ever-afters to look forward to.

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Meet the Author:

Kate Hewitt wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately, they have become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

She studied drama in college and shortly after graduation moved to New York City to pursue a career in theatre. This was derailed by something far better—meeting the man of her dreams who happened also to be her older brother’s childhood friend.

Ten days after their wedding they moved to England, where Kate worked a variety of different jobs—drama teacher, editorial assistant, church youth worker, secretary, and finally mother.

When her oldest daughter was one year old, she sold her first short story to a British magazine, The People’s Friend. Since then she has written many stories and serials as well as novels. In 2007 she received ‘The Call’ from Mills & Boon for her first Harlequin Presents novel, The Italian’s Chosen Wife. Since then she has written over 25 books for Harlequin, and also writes women’s fiction for Carina UK and Lion Hudson Press. She loves writing stories that both tackle tough issues and celebrate the redeeming power of love.

Besides writing, she enjoys reading, traveling, and learning to knit—it’s an ongoing process and she’s made a lot of scarves.

Kate lives in a tiny village on the northwest coast of England with her husband, five young children, and an overly affectionate Golden Retriever.
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