I’m out tonight. My work’s up to date, I’ve got nothing outstanding—and don’t even think about suggesting I tidy my bedroom. All I hear from Mum is that I’m just like you.’
Sam stifled a smile and gave up—for now. ‘OK. But not late. Ten.’
‘Ten-thirty.’
‘Ten-fifteen—and if you’re so much as thirty seconds late, you’re grounded for a week.’
‘What? Where do you get off—?’
‘Suit yourself. Ten-fifteen or you’re grounded. I’ll see you later.’
And without giving his brother a chance to argue any further, he walked away. Gemma was free now, and he crossed to her quickly before another wannabe nurse appeared. ‘Can we talk?’
Her eyes widened with alarm, and he realised she’d misunderstood. Or maybe she hadn’t, not really, but he wasn’t getting into all that now. He could barely keep a lid on his emotions as it was. The last thing he needed was to have a deeply personal conversation in public with the woman who’d shredded his heart. ‘About my mother,’ he added, and saw the alarm recede.
‘Sure. When are you thinking of?’
‘After you finish? I haven’t eaten yet, I don’t know if you have, but I thought we could go up to the Smugglers’ and have something there while we talk.’
She nodded slowly. ‘That would be fine. Give me another few minutes, and if nobody else comes, we can go.’
‘Fine.’ He gave her a brisk nod, and walked off to find Nick.
‘Ah, Sam, just the man. This is Dr Cavendish—he’s been working in Africa with an aid agency—was it Doctors Without Borders?’
‘No, but it’s similar,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Young David here is considering medicine and wants to work in that field. Can you give him some advice?’
He dredged up a smile for the youngster. ‘Sure. What do you want to know?’
‘Sorry about that, I got caught up.’ ‘So did I. Nick found me a young lad with a death wish. He wants to work in Africa—he’s talking about doing a gap year with an aid agency before he goes to med school.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘Don’t do it. Are you all done now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s get out of here—have you got your car?’
‘Yes. Shall I meet you up at the pub?’
‘Good idea.’
He followed her down past the surgery to the harbour and turned right along Harbour Road past the shrouded site of the Anchor Hotel, over the River Lanson at the bottom of Bridge Street and along to the end, past Nick Tremayne’s house and his mother’s house next door, then up the hill, past the little church on the left with the lighthouse beyond it on the headland, and then over the rise to the Smugglers’ Inn.
The place was doing well, if the number of cars outside on a week night was anything to go by, and he parked in the last space and got out, breathing deeply and drawing the fresh sea air into his lungs.
God, that smelt good. It was one of the few things about Penhally that he missed—apart from Gemma, who was walking towards him now, her eyes unreadable in the dimly lit car park. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her coat, and she looked wary and uncertain, as if she was regretting saying yes.
She didn’t need to. He wasn’t a threat to her. He had no intention of getting into any personal territory at all. Not even slightly.
‘Lots of cars,’ he said, aiming for something neutral. ‘Do you think we’ll get a seat?’
She looked round and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We could always sit outside on the terrace,’ she said doubtfully.
Hell, no. They’d spent whole evenings on that terrace, and it was the last place he wanted to go. ‘It’s not warm enough, the food might get cold.’
‘There might be room inside.’
‘We’ll see.’ Oh, God, endless pleasantries, and all he really wanted to do was touch her, thread her hair through his fingers, feel her body soft against his…
He yanked open the door of the pub and ushered her in, and as they walked into the bar, a hush fell.
‘Well, by all the saints, young Samuel. Come home to cause havoc, have ‘e, lad?’
‘Ignore him,’ Gemma muttered, but he went over to old Fred Spencer and shook his hand.
‘How are you, Mr Spencer?’
‘Better’n you, by all accounts. Why you limpin’?’
‘Fell off my bike,’ he said economically. ‘And don’t say it.’
‘Well, I ‘spect it was your fault.’
‘Why not? It always was, wasn’t it?’
The old man cracked a laugh and turned back to his companions. ‘Always had to have the last word, young Sam.’
Only not always. Not with Gemma. There’d been no chance to have the last word, to talk things through, to get to the bottom of it—and he wasn’t starting now.
Leaving Fred with his mates, they went over to the bar and ordered drinks and scanned the specials board.
‘The steak’s still good,’ Gemma said. ‘I think I’ll have that—just the small one.’
‘Rare?’
She nodded, surprised and yet not that he would have remembered. They’d always had the steak frites in here, and it had always been good, and she’d always had it rare.
Listen to her! Always, indeed. What was she thinking? It had only been—what? Ten, maybe twelve times in all, over more than a year? But it was all the time they’d had together, and it had been precious, every last second of it.
He ordered the steak for her, but to her surprise he ordered beef Stroganoff for himself—just in case she thought it was all too cosy down Memory Lane? She wasn’t sure, not sure at all, about any of it, and she didn’t really have any idea what she was doing here with him, tearing herself apart, when she could have been safely tucked up at home.
‘Ah, there’s a table here,’ he said, and led her across the room to where a couple were just leaving. He held the chair for her to sit down, and as he did so, his hand brushed her arm.
Dear God, he thought, desperately resisting the need to touch her again, to reach out and let his fingers linger over that soft, slender arm, to run them over her shoulder, to slide the lightweight jersey top aside and press his lips to her skin…
He retreated to the safety of the other side of the
