‘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