Beth had found a mop from somewhere and was tackling the last of the water on the floor. Her own wet jeans had been replaced with a soft pair of yoga pants which clung invitingly to the delicious round curves of her bottom. The bathrobe did nothing to disguise his rising interest in the view she presented, so Sam side-stepped to shield his lower half behind a kitchen chair before speaking. ‘Do you want me to stick these in the dryer?’
She set the mop aside, and held out her hands. ‘Here, I’ll do it. I’ve already put my things in there. I got distracted clearing up. Can you put the kettle on while I sort this out?’
‘Sure.’ Sam made a pot of tea, then rescued the box containing the macarons from the hallway. Beth opened the window to hang the hot air pipe outside then switched on the dryer. She gathered cups mugs and plates from the cupboard and joined him at the table. He poured their tea, adding a splash of milk to his mug before doing the same to hers after Beth nodded. Her eyes strayed to the still-closed Tupperware box, and he placed a hand over the top of it. ‘If you want one of these, you have to promise to be honest with me about a few things.’
Her head shot up to meet his steady stare. ‘Like what?’
‘Like whether you regret giving up your life in London to run this place, and if you don’t, why are you camped out in your old bedroom?’
A stubborn frown etched between her brows, and he thought for a moment she would refuse to answer. He knew what it was like to be thrown a curve ball by circumstances, and he didn’t want her ending up feeling trapped the same way he had lately.
With a sigh she folded her arms and sat back in her chair, every line of her body rigid with tension. ‘They’d better be bloody good macarons.’
Sam grinned then removed one from the box, placed it in the centre of a plate and slid it towards her. ‘They’re very good, I promise. The toast of Paris once upon a time.’
Beth rolled her eyes at his boast. He watched carefully as her teeth sank into the gooey treat. Her eyelashes fluttered, then closed as she chewed the small bite. She swallowed, and opened her eyes, her pupils dilated to fill most of the deep-brown irises. ‘Oh, bloody hell. You weren’t kidding.’ She stuffed the other half of the macaron into her mouth.
The funny little noises she made had him crossing his legs under the table, and he slid the plate away from her. ‘Right, if you want more then start talking.’
Chapter Eight
Feeling uncomfortable at his level of insight, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell Sam to mind his own business, but the taste of the macaron still lingered, and she knew just how stubborn he could be. If she wanted more of that pistachio heaven, she’d have to give him some information in return. She sipped at her tea whilst shuffling through possible answers in her mind. There had to be a way to satisfy his nosy big-brother instincts without baring her soul to him.
Placing her mug down, she folded her hands together on the table and looked at him. He had that one-eyebrow quirk thing going on which was straight out of Annie’s playbook. ‘You look just like your mum. Everyone makes the connection with your dad and Pops because of the hair and those eyes, but when it comes to bone structure and certain mannerisms I see much more of Annie in you.’
Sam raised both eyebrows this time, and she could tell she’d caught him off guard. ‘I never really thought about it, but you’re right. Eliza looks much more like Dad than I do.’ He sat quietly for a few moments as though contemplating the idea before a look of determination narrowed his eyes. ‘Nice distraction attempt, no macaron.’
She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I honestly wasn’t trying to put you off, you just had this expression which was pure Annie. I don’t regret leaving London. There was an accumulation of things—Charlie dumping me back in the summer, Eleanor dying and leaving me this place, and everything at work coming to a head. I wasn’t happy there anymore.’
‘What happened with Charlie?’
Surprisingly, the question didn’t bother her. After so many months of pain over the break up, all that was left now was confusion. ‘I’m not a hundred percent sure. Things seemed to be going all right, maybe we’d gone off the boil a bit, but isn’t that what happens in most relationships after a while?’ She stared into her tea. ‘He came home one night and out of the blue told me it wasn’t working for him. Packed a case and told me he’d give me a bit of time to find my own place then walked out the door.’
‘And that’s all he said? Wanker.’ She had to smile at the outrage in his tone.
‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was so blindsided by it I didn’t know what to say until he was halfway out the door. I tried to contact him for a few days, but he ignored my calls and messages. It was his flat and the rent was way beyond my salary, so I found some digs and moved out.’
Sam reached across the table to grasp her hand. ‘You must have been devastated. I had no idea.’
‘Well, yes and no. I was shocked, of course, and it was difficult being on my own because most of the friends I’d made in London were through him, so I was cut adrift from them too. I told Eliza and Libby, and Mum.’ She glanced up, saw the understanding in Sam’s eyes and pulled a face. ‘You can imagine how well that went down.’
‘Things are still the same between you two, then?’
She nodded. ‘Yup. Charlie had everything going for him as far as she was concerned, and I’d let him slip through my fingers.’
Beth buried her nose in the dregs of her now cold tea. Sam was too damn easy to talk to. He’d always been this steady presence growing up, taking care of her just like he did Eliza. Like a favourite jumper, being around him always made her feel cosy and warm—comfortable. Charlie had never put her at ease in the same way, and she wondered if perhaps that had been part of the problem. ‘Have you ever been in a situation where you feel like there’s a private joke you’re missing out on?’
Sam opened the box and placed another macaron on her plate. He took another one and lifted it up to study it. ‘When I first moved to Paris, no one in the kitchen was allowed to speak to me in anything other than French. I’d done all right with it at school, but the leap from basic conversation to full-on technical discussions especially in the high-pressure of a busy service was a nightmare. After the first week I was ready to quit, but then one of the guys took pity on me and we went for a drink after work. Turned out he wanted to improve his English, so we used to meet up and teach other. If it hadn’t been for him…’
‘You speak French?’ She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice, then immediately felt like an idiot. Of course, he’d be able to speak it after living there for a year.
‘Mais oui, mademoiselle.’
Bloody hell, that accent! A flush started at her toes and swept all the way up her body to set her cheeks on fire. Sam Barnes wasn’t the sort of man who spoke to her in seductive French tones. Or maybe he was. She risked a quick glance at him, hoping her shock wasn’t written all over her face. He’d always had those pretty eyes, but she’d taken them for granted, just part of a Sam-shaped whole.
Oh, God, if she wasn’t careful, she would end up making a prize fool of herself. Lusting over the boy next door was not a sensible life plan, and that was what she needed. She’d spent too long trying to please everyone else—her mum, Charlie, that wanker Darren—it was time to stop being a passenger in her own life, and take some control. Besides, Sam still saw her as a little girl with scraped knees who needed rescuing. Forcing her thoughts back to the topic in hand, she nibbled the edge of the macaron on her plate. ‘When I met Charlie, he had this established group of friends, they’d grown up together, gone to the same fancy private school, their parents holidayed together—you know?’
Sam picked up his empty cup and rose to switch the kettle back on. Leaning against the board, he folded his arms then nodded to her. ‘A kind of upmarket version of us lot?’
That brought a smile to her lips. ‘Yeah, only they went to the Caribbean, not the beach on their doorstep. Anyway, we met not
long after I moved to London, so I didn’t really know anyone else. It was natural for us to socialise with them.’ She stopped, not sure she was making much sense. No one had ever been unkind, though it had taken a while for a couple of the women in Charlie’s circle to warm to her… ‘They had these little conversational shortcuts, talked about people and places I didn’t know. I know it was my own insecurities, but I never felt like I quite fit in.’
She studied the chipped ends of her fingernails; her perfect manicure had been the first thing to surrender under the onslaught of cleaning the shop floor had required. Making a mental note to visit the local beauty parlour to get them trimmed off, she accepted the refilled tea from Sam with a wonky smile. ‘I thought coming back here would be better, but I’m not sure I fit in here anymore. It might be my name on the deeds now, but this place is still Eleanor’s. I’m trying to get past it, which is why I thought the change in colour scheme would be a good idea. But now I can’t bear to go out the front door and look at it because I think she would hate it if she was here. I tried to cancel the order for the sign and the new awning, but it’s too late.’ Beth let her head slump to the table.
The warm weight of his hand settled on her hair. ‘Didn’t Eleanor say you should do whatever you want with the place?’
Beth nodded miserably.
‘I took a peek before I came over and I think the red looks brilliant. A real zip of colour. You can’t keep this place the same. Not without turning it into a mausoleum, and Eleanor would be horrified at that.’
She knew he was right, but still…
Sam squeezed her hand. ‘Hester Bradshaw hates it.’
Beth lifted her head at the mention of the local busybody. ‘Really?’
He nodded, solemnly. ‘Really, really. Full on dog’s bum pursed lips and puce-faced hates it.’
She was probably going straight to hell, but it made her feel much better. ‘What about other people?’
‘It’s generated a lot of interest, you were the main topic of conversation over the bar at lunchtime.’
She shuddered, just imagining what some of the talk would be like, about how she was dishonouring Eleanor’s memory by changing things so quickly. ‘Oh, boy.’
‘They’ll move on soon enough. Once the season kicks off, there’ll be plenty for them to talk about.’ Her tummy did a funny flip because he wouldn’t know it, but he’d hit on the next big thing that was keeping her up at night. Was she actually going to go through with opening the shop up?
The list of independent suppliers and artists she’d drawn up in a fit of enthusiasm sat unactioned beneath the counter downstairs. There was always something else to do, something more pressing on her time—or so she kept telling herself. The floors were spotless, the cabinets sparkling, windows sanded, washed and painted.
What she hadn’t bothered to do was anything with the stock itself. She’d come across things on the shelves that needed getting rid of because of damage or age, but had found herself resolutely dusting them off and putting them back. Thinking about the stock meant really making a commitment to the place. All the cleaning and tidying up—and even the decorating—felt justifiable because it would increase the marketability of the place. She could pull the escape cord, put down the paint brushes and throw up a ‘For Sale’ sign tomorrow if she felt like it.
As though sensing the nerves and uncertainty bouncing around inside her, Sam placed his hand on top of hers. The touch steadied her, and she focused on the neatly trimmed ovals of his nails. They looked a damn sight better than hers, a result of all those years working in a kitchen she guessed, though he’d always taken pride in his appearance. He squeezed her fingers, bringing her rambling thoughts back to the problem at hand. ‘I’m not ready to make a commitment.’
He laughed. ‘That’s a big step up from holding hands.’
It was the perfect thing to say to shake her out of the doldrums, and Beth couldn’t help but smile. ‘Silly bugger. I was talking about the emporium.’ Although come to think of it, she really liked the feel of his hand on hers—warm, but not clammy. She turned hers over so they were palm to palm and he threaded his fingers through hers.
A perfect fit. Beth stared at their joined hands, watching with a kind of distant fascination as her thumb stroked the side of his finger almost of its own accord. ‘How do you always know the right thing to say?’
‘I wing it.’
It was her turn to shake her head this time. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t deflect.’
Sam eyes deepened to a stormy blue-grey, and her world narrowed down to two points of connection—the intensity in his eyes and the warm heat of his hand in hers. Her breath caught, and she could feel all her good intentions crumble to dust.
His mouth opened, drawing her attention from his eyes to his lips and then he sat back in his chair, breaking an invisible thread between them as the action pulled their hands apart. He blinked and the storm in his eyes had passed, leaving only the calm cerulean blue of the summer sea. ‘I’m not the one who’s deflecting. You still haven’t told me why you’re sleeping in your old room.’
Nonplussed, she tucked her hand into her lap, curling it into a ball as though she could keep hold of the sensation of the calluses on his palm pressing into her skin. ‘If I pack Eleanor’s things away then it’s not just an acknowledgement that she’s gone, it’s me deciding to stay.’
Sam grunted, a small noise of understanding. ‘I know what you mean. I came rushing back here when Dad got ill, and once it became clear his recovery would be limited, I let myself start to dream I could maybe make a future here. But he’s not ready to let go and as selfish as it might sound, I’m not sure how much longer I can put my life on hold.’
Her heart ached at the raw pain in his voice. ‘I don’t think you’re being selfish, at all. Is your dad’s condition permanent then?’ She remembered the many tearful conversations she’d had with Eliza when Paul had first fallen ill.
‘It’s manageable, if he follows the doctor’s orders.’ Clearly, that was a big if. ‘His lungs are shot to pieces, so he won’t ever get his fitness back to the level needed to run the pub. It’s a really physical job.’
‘You guys have been butting heads, I take it?’
He snorted. ‘Like a pair of prize rams at the country fair.’ Sam scrubbed at the tangle of curls on his forehead. ‘I just wanted to try something a bit different, keep my eye in, but he was having none of it.’
Beth listened as he told her about his idea for a gourmet night and his dad’s negative response. It was tough enough for her to make changes to the emporium with Eleanor gone. Trying to do it with Eleanor peering over her shoulder would be close to impossible. No wonder Sam was frustrated. And as for his dad…Paul had always been this vital presence when they’d been growing up—a big bear of a man whose booming laugh had seemed to fill the whole beach as he’d tossed them into the sea with endless patience for their cries of ‘Again, again!’
She stood up and opened the tumble dryer. Scooping out the tangle of warm clothing, she began to smooth and fold the material as she ordered her thoughts. ‘It must be really hard for him.’ When Sam frowned, she held up her hand. ‘Let me finish. Your dad’s always been a hands-on guy, the one everyone relied upon to fix things.’ He’d moulded his son in the same vein. ‘Having to sit back and watch you doing all the things he feels he should be able to do must be killing him. And then to have you making changes on top of that…’
Sam stood up so fast the legs of his chair scraped on the tiled floor. ‘So what? I’m supposed to just fill in for him. Keep everything exactly the way it’s always been? I’m suffocating!’
Hurrying over, she placed a hand on the thick towelling covering his heart. ‘No! No, Sam, that’s not what I’m saying, not at all.’ She stroked the front of the dressing gown, trying to soothe his raw feelings. ‘Maybe you can find a way to do what you want to without changing the essence of what The Siren is.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘I
don’t see how that’s possible.’
Neither did she. Returning to the laundry, she finished folding their clothes as she racked her brain for a solution. She pictured the pub in her mind’s eye—the familiar layout of the main bar, the sprawl of rooms above that were a mixture of family rooms and guest accommodation, the old skittle alley where she, Eliza and Libby had played when bad weather kept them confined indoors. The wooden floor had been perfect for bouncing a ball, or skipping on. Eliza’s parents hadn’t minded them scuffing up the place, it hadn’t been used for years. Oh. ‘What about the skittle alley?’
‘What about it?’ Frowning, he settled back into his chair and stared up at her.
Trying to contain the bubble of excitement growing in her belly, she clutched the pile of clothing in her arms against her chest and grinned. ‘You could turn it into a restaurant. I can just see it! Those wooden floors resealed and buffed to a high shine; a smattering of tables for two with crisp white tablecloths. You could even use the old scoreboard to display the menu.’
His frown shifted into something more thoughtful. ‘It’s not very big.’
‘That’s the point! You could make it something really exclusive, a proper dining experience for discerning customers. Somewhere people go for special occasions. You’d still be on hand to help your folks with the heavy stuff, but you’d have your own baby too.’
His chair skidded back again, and Beth found herself wrapped in a bear hug. ‘That’s bloody brilliant!’ Sam pulled back to look down at her, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘You’re bloody brilliant!’ He smacked a kiss on her lips. The look in his eyes softened, warmed and his head lowered towards hers again.
Time seemed to slow down, as she watched the thick lashes framing his eyes sweep closed, felt the tickle of his exhaled breath tease over her skin and then, finally, the brushed of his lips over hers. Stunned, she waited to see what he’d do next. Waited for him to realise his mistake, to remember who she was—his sister’s best friend.
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