so it’s likely to still be icy in a few spots.’
A more natural smile played upon her lips, but she let him help her into the coat without protest. ‘Thank you.’
The thick length of her hair was caught in the collar. He unhooked it, his fingers accidentally brushing against the nape of her neck. She froze at the unexpected caress, and feeling ten types of awkward himself, Sam tweaked her nose just as he had when she’d been a little girl. The weird tension between them snapped and she gave a little giggle.
He zipped the jacket up to her chin until she was all but swallowed up by the padded material. ‘Don’t get cold, all right? I’ll see if Eliza can give me a hand rounding people up. They’ve all had a good feed and a couple of drinks on the house by now. More than enough to pay their respects.’
Her shoulders drooped, as though the promise of not having to face any more well-wishers had drained the last of her reserves. ‘If you could, I’d appreciate it. I’m … I’m about at the end of my tether.’ The hitch in her voice scrapped him raw. For all Eleanor meant to him, she’d been Beth’s guardian and primary carer for the best part of ten years now.
Her features crumpled for a second before she forced her eyes wide open and heaved a breath. If she needed to be strong, to stand on her own two feet for just a bit longer, he would have to let her. Even if it felt like he’d swallowed a handful of glass. ‘Consider it done, Princess.’
Growing up, the three girls had played elaborate games of dress-up. Eliza and Beth had always been princesses. They’d rope Sam in whenever they could, but never to play the heroic prince—that had been Libby’s role. No, Sam had been relegated to playing the bad guy, a dragon to be slain by Libby’s sword or an evil robber baron intent on stealing the kingdom. The flashback to those childhood days did the trick, just as he’d hoped and they both laughed. Her spine straightened, and she tilted her neck in a haughty angle as she gave him a mock-dismissive wave.
He nodded his head towards the door. ‘Go and make your call, and when you come back, I’ll make you something special. Tequila Sunrise, perhaps?’ The girls had snuck down to the bar one night when they’d been all of fifteen and experimented with cocktails, to their eternal regret and the permanent detriment of the bathroom carpet.
Beth pulled a face. ‘Don’t ever mention those again! Just when I start thinking you’re a nice man, Samuel Barnes, you go and ruin it.’ She was laughing though, and the smile she gave him was as soft as the words were harsh. A blast of cold air sent a shiver through him, so he shut the door behind her and nipped upstairs to let his mum know he was going to try and wind the afternoon up.
With the remains of the buffet cleared and the last few stragglers having at least moved closer to the exit, Sam made a start with wiping down the dark wood tables, one eye fixed on the door to the back. It had been at least twenty minutes since Beth had stepped outside and she’d yet to appear, leaving him in a quandary. He’d always acted on instinct, making decisions based on his gut, and it had served him well so far. His teachers had encouraged him towards university, advised him he could have his pick of subjects and tried to tempt him with the world beyond the bay.
He’d always known what he wanted though—working in the pub had given him a taste for the hospitality industry, but he’d had no intention of following family tradition. There’d been a Barnes behind the bar of The Siren since the place first opened to serve the once-thriving fishing community at the turn of the previous century. Sam hadn’t been satisfied with pulling pints and making hotpots, though. Rushing home from school, he’d eschewed cartoons for the multitude of celebrity chefs gracing the airwaves with their grand creations. Pops had uttered a few choice words, but his folks had been nothing but supportive and encouraged him to dream as big as he dared. They’d all assumed there’d be years ahead of them before any decisions would have to be made about the future of the pub.
He’d planned everything meticulously, working hard to get the grades he needed for his catering course of choice. Winning the placement at the Cordon Bleu in Paris had beyond his wildest dreams, and having gained his Grand Diplôme, he’d landed a gig at a top-flight London restaurant. Several years of insane hours in that high-pressure atmosphere had been enough to alter his initial plans and he’d put the feelers out until he’d found the perfect fit. Tim Bray had transformed an average hotel restaurant in a small market town on the East Coast into one of the most sought-after bookings in the country. Sam had spent the last three years working for Tim, soaking up everything he’d taught him like a sponge whilst harbouring dreams of a place of his own one day.
Then his dad had taken ill. A nasty chest infection over the summer had deteriorated into bronchitis and eventually to a diagnosis of chronic pulmonary disease. The doctor had pointed the finger firmly at Paul’s upbringing in a busy, smoke-filled pub. With his condition worsening, Sam’s mum had been running herself into the ground trying to care for him and keep the pub going, leaving Sam little choice.
Deciding to put the best face on things, he’d convinced himself that running a seaside pub would at least give him the management experience he needed if he was ever going to have a place of his own. The bay had gradually worked its magic on him, and his plans had once again taken a turn from their original path.
For now, he was stuck in limbo as his dad refused to accept the limitations of his disease and talked constantly of getting back in charge. Sam couldn’t see it happening, but his mum had begged him to patient, to give Paul time to adjust to the new reality of things. She knew Sam couldn’t stay forever, had promised they’d find a long-term solution for the pub soon. He had worked too hard on his training to be willing to settle for making pub grub for the rest of his days. Just a few more months, six at most, and then he could get his life back on track.
A burst of laughter came from Pops’ table and Sam glanced over to spot Libby leaning against his grandad’s shoulder, laughing at some no doubt unsuitable comment from him. With her peacock hair and a heart the size of a lion’s, it was easy for people to gloss over what Libby had endured in her short life. Unlike the rest of them, she’d never had a chance to explore life beyond the bay and he found himself wondering what regrets she might harbour beneath her bold façade.
Catching him staring at her, Libby jammed her hands on her hips. ‘What?’
With a grin at the challenge in her tone, he crossed the bar to ruffle his hand through the bright strands of her hair, a gesture she claimed to hate, but always let him get away with. The spiky mop stood up in all directions after his ministrations. ‘You look like a bloody parrot.’
‘Cheeky sod.’ She poked her tongue out. ‘Did you come over here for something other than to bother me?’
‘Have you seen Beth?’
Libby shook her head. ‘She went to make a call.’ Standing on tiptoe, she glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to see her. ‘Isn’t she back yet? Let me go and find her.’
Placing a hand on her arm to restrain her, Sam shook his head. ‘I’ll do it. Can you do me a favour and see if you can get Pops moving? I’ll be back in a minute to walk him back.’
A familiar speculation glittered in her eyes. ‘I’ll look after Pops. You see to Beth.’
‘Libby …’ It was his turn to offer a warning. Really, she just needed to give it a rest.
With an unrepentant grin, she turned towards the table and gave Pops a nudge. ‘Come on, it’s your lucky night, I’m walking you home.’
Grumbling, Pops got to his feet. ‘I don’t need a bloody babysitter, girl.’
