by JL Merrow
“Carry on,” Bran said quickly.
Roarke nodded again and walked away, leaving Bran with the oddest feeling that the man had hovered in case Bran might be in need of protection. From Sam? No, that was absurd.
“The display case for the funerary achievements has arrived, and they’re about to start installing it.” Sam huffed a rueful laugh. “I wanted to make sure they knew just how important it is to get it right.”
“God, yes.” Bran couldn’t help following Roarke’s retreating figure with his gaze. Should he have a word with the man himself? No, he trusted Roarke—and he trusted Sam, too, to have given all necessary instructions. Still . . . “Did you remind him it was custom-built, and the Canterbury conservators will want to inspect it soon?”
“Yeah, not to worry. I made a point of telling him just how much that thing cost too. Was that a Canterbury requirement? I mean, it’s only going to be in use for a few months, and I’d have thought you could have got something off the shelf a good few thousand quid cheaper.”
Bran shrugged. “Nothing that would have fitted in with the style of the other display cases. It was well worth the extra expense.”
“I guess.” Sam had an odd expression on his face.
Bran gave up trying to interpret it. “Was it the display case you wanted to show me?”
“Oh, no—I thought you’d prefer to see that once it’s in situ. No, come back to my office.” Sam looked happier than Bran had ever seen him. It was attractive—and contagious. “Um. Coffee? We can get one on the way.”
“No, I’m fine.” Bran’s nerves needed no extra stimulation this morning. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I, uh, well, I’ve been working on some of the displays. Again. I’ve redone the one on Limoges, and I think you’re going to like—”
Bran stopped dead, a void opening up in his stomach. “You’ve done this because of . . . because of what happened?” This wasn’t what he wanted at all. Not from Sam. If Bran won an argument, he wanted it to be because he’d won, not because Sam felt— What? The need to please him?
“No! I mean, yeah, kinda, but . . .” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I realised you had a point on some of it. So yeah, maybe it’s because of . . . you know, in a way, but only because we had this whole clash-of-heads thing going on. And, um, now we don’t.”
Sam stood there on the grass, halfway back to the castle, looking impossibly young with the wind fluffing up his tousled hair and an uncertain expression on his face.
“I see.” Bran wasn’t at all sure he did. He cleared his throat. “Then we should . . .” He gestured towards the Portakabin.
Once inside, the door closed behind them, Bran wasn’t sure how to deal with the new intimacy between them. From the way he held back, Sam was equally at sea. They stood there for a moment, gazing at each other—then Sam’s face creased into a smile, and all at once they were both laughing.
Bran desperately wanted to touch him, to hold him. But they were in the workplace. And besides, although he now had even more reason to be hopeful, he didn’t have definite proof that a touch would be welcome.
“Bit weird, isn’t it?” Sam waved vaguely around. “You and me, meeting in the office, after, uh, Monday night.”
Bran nodded. “We should probably keep things professional. While we’re here.” He held his breath, but Sam didn’t take the opportunity to correct him, to say that he’d reconsidered and now thought things should remain professional between them in all spheres.
Sam just smiled and said, “Definitely. Right, uh, I’ll show you what I’ve done. Come and see.” He gestured for Bran to follow him around the desk, and sat in his chair to bring up his work on the computer. Bran stood behind him, looking over his shoulder and struggling to resist the urge to put an arm around him. It didn’t help that Sam had pushed up his sleeves again.
Things became easier once Bran was able to focus on the exhibition, and it was paradoxically reassuring to see the limited changes Sam had made. He’d by no means gone as far as Bran might have wanted him to—there was still an emphasis on presenting different views, but somehow the whole feel of the displays was more positive. Celebratory, even.
For the first time, the exhibition felt like something they’d created together, not work for hire done under protest. Bran suggested a few minor alterations of wording here and there, and Sam agreed in some cases with an airy, Yeah, why not? In others, he stood his ground. When Bran argued his point, discussion was spirited, but somehow they managed to avoid the animosity of the past. More than that—it was fun. The differing viewpoints were still there, but there was something new too. Respect for one another. Their first meeting, with Bran in pain and feeling undermined, his authority usurped, had done more harm than he’d guessed.
Looking back, Bran could scarcely believe that a scant few days ago, presenting Edward of Woodstock in a positive light had been all-important to him. As Sam had said, what did it matter if not everyone shared Bran’s view of the man as a national hero? He didn’t need their validation.
Hadn’t he already accepted the impossibility of pleasing everyone in his private life?
“We should have lunch,” Bran said almost before the thought had fully formed in his head.
“Now?” Sam glanced at the time displayed in the corner of his screen. “Whoa. When did it get this late?”
Bran felt similar shock to see it was after 1 p.m. “Do you like Italian food?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Funnily enough, my sister’s never been much of a fan.” But then she’d always seemed to view eating as more of a chore than a pleasure.
Sam gave one of his easy, irresistible smiles. “Good thing you’ve got me to eat it with, then.”
Yes. Yes, it was. “I’ll give Gente di Mare a ring.” Bran dialled the number and was reassured that of course there was a table free for Mr. Roscarrock and his guest.
Sam looked at him quizzically when he hung up. “Does anyone ever say no when you ask for a table?”
Bran blinked. “Not for a midweek lunch, no. But for Friday nights and special occasions, I book ahead like anyone else.”
Sam grinned. “Just checking.”
Gente di Mare was a small, family-run restaurant situated in a Porthkennack side street. Bran had first eaten there because he liked to encourage local businesses, and had returned since for the relaxed atmosphere, continuity of staff, and decent, no-nonsense food. The window tables were already occupied when Bran and Sam got there, and they were shown through an archway to a table towards the back of the restaurant.
A curious blend of relief and disappointment washed over Bran. Having decided to take the leap into a relationship with Sam—and he was almost certain, after this morning, that Sam still wanted that, wanted him—it felt like an anticlimax not to sit in the window together for all to see. Although in fact there was nothing about the two of them to indicate that they were anything more than acquaintances—friends, at most. Nothing to betray that they’d spent Monday night in bed together, touching one another intimately, again and again. Bran’s breath caught at the memory.
“All right?” Sam glanced up from his menu. His eyes shone with warmth. Bran found himself captivated all over again.
“Fine.” Bran gave a rueful smile. “I suppose, as it’s a workday, we shouldn’t order wine. Unless you’d care to make an exception?”
“Love to, but I’m thinking we’d probably better have this conversation sober.”
“A fair point. So, ah, we should probably order.”
They each chose pasta dishes, salads and, regretfully, mineral water. Not that Bran needed the help of alcohol, but, well, it wouldn’t have gone amiss, either.
He was still wondering where to start when Sam broke the brief silence. “You eat out a lot, don’t you? Cos I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know how you manage to stay so trim on it.”
Bran tried not to look too pleased at the compliment. “I exercise. And meals at h
ome aren’t generally all that inspired, I’m afraid. Neither Bea nor I enjoy cooking.”
“No? I find it kind of relaxing. You don’t have to be all finicky and exact with food—just throw in a few ingredients and see what comes out.”
“Garbage, in my case. And I thought that was why there were recipe books?”
“My mum taught me to cook, and she never uses recipes. At least, not written-down ones. She just cooks stuff she learned from her mum. Or she gets ideas off the telly. She does a wicked roast lamb.”
Bran tried to imagine himself in the kitchen with his mother, receiving instruction on preparing a meal, and actually sparked a long-forgotten memory of baking with her. Something sweet, he thought—for a moment the remembered aroma of vanilla overpowered the scent of garlic and basil that pervaded the restaurant. It must have been before Jory had come along and she’d been too ill and tired all the time to bother with that sort of thing.
“I’ve always thought lamb makes the best roast, if it’s done well,” he said, mostly to cover the confused emotions that memory had inspired.
“Yeah? Hey, me too. And seriously, you’d sell your own grandmother for the way my mum cooks it. It never quite turns out the same when I do it. I mean, Jory and Mal thought it was great when I made it for them, but I could tell, you know?” Sam lowered his voice, his tone seductive. “I could cook it for you, sometime.”
Bran’s heart rate increased. “I’d like that.” He was considering whether to reach across the table to take Sam’s hand when the waiter returned with their drinks, breaking the charged atmosphere.
How would the waiter react if Bran did it anyway? Would he care? He was a young man, early twenties at most. Did any young people care these days if they saw two men holding hands?
More to the point, why should Bran worry about what a young man who knew him only as a customer thought? Wild recklessness seized him again, and he almost acted on his impulse—but Sam had pulled out his phone and was tapping at it. The moment had passed.
“Sorry about that. Message from Jennifer.” Sam made an odd expression, then held out his phone. The text read, Need a rescue? “I think maybe we were seen leaving together?”
“Ah.” Bran hesitated, this reminder of the outside world, and its probable reaction to them being together, dampening his mood. “What will you tell her?”
“I, um, well. I thought we’d talk about that?” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “So, uh— Oh, looks like this is us.”
Their food arrived moments afterwards. Bran was seriously reconsidering his policy of always leaving a tip.
“Ever go out for pub lunches?” Sam asked, forking up his spaghetti with an expert twirl.
“Occasionally the Hope & Anchor. Their food is excellent, although I’d warn you, it’s hardly pub-grub prices.”
“Not the Sea Bell, then?”
Bran winced at the challenge in his tone. “You’ve heard about the Gerren Ede business, then.”
“Uh, no, I was thinking of your, um, nephew? Mal’s mate, Dev. Who’s Gerren Ede?”
“An old friend of the landlord of the Sea Bell. And of most of the regulars. He was a popular man—volunteered on the lifeboats for years. He used to rent his house from me.”
“And?”
Bran suppressed a sigh. This was not what he wanted to be talking about right now. “He was a nightmare of a tenant. No, that’s unfair, but he certainly wasn’t easy. I’d been trying to get him to let me modernise that house for years—the kitchen in particular was in a shocking state, and there was damp in the bathroom—but he kept coming up with excuses not to let the work go ahead. Consequently, when he passed away, there was a great deal to be done and we needed vacant possession.”
“Why didn’t he want the work done?”
“He complained to all and sundry that it wasn’t fair to expect a man of his age to deal with all the upheaval.” Bran scowled. “As I eventually found out, it was more like he didn’t want to have to move his pot plants, or risk anyone finding them.”
Sam laughed. “You mean pot as in hash? Seriously?”
“Apparently he suffered from arthritis.” Bran concentrated on his pasta, unable to meet Sam’s gaze. “I . . . may have overreacted a little at that point. It felt like adding insult to injury, finding illegal drugs on the premises, plus I had the contractor on my back saying they could do the work either now or in six months’ time, and I certainly couldn’t re-let the property without the renovations . . .”
“So you told the old boy’s family to clear out?”
“A little more abruptly than might have been compassionate, given their recent bereavement, yes. I’m not proud of having let my temper rule me.” Bran stared at the flower vase in the middle of their table, its solid blue and white stripes comfortingly familiar. He’d far too often let anger be his default response to any perceived threat. That was going to change, starting now.
“Hey, we’ve all done stuff we’re not proud of.” Sam leaned across the table and placed a warm hand on Bran’s arm, but only for an instant. So that no one observing them would notice anything untoward, presumably. It was thoughtful of him, although unnecessary, and Bran wished the touch had lingered.
He was beginning to suspect Sam was a far better man than he was. “I can’t imagine you doing anything unworthy.”
“Believe me, I’ve had my moments.” Sam ducked his head.
“It can’t have been anything too bad.”
Still not meeting Bran’s eye, Sam drew in a shaky breath and let it out again.
Concerned, Bran put down his fork. Whatever it was, it clearly troubled Sam to admit it. The words No, you don’t have to tell me were on the tip of Bran’s tongue when Sam spoke. “I . . . well, I used to have a bit of a gambling problem.”
“Gambling?” That was the last thing Bran would have expected. And was that all? He had thought Sam about to confess to something terrible. Bran took a mouthful of pasta in relief.
“Yeah. See, after that bad breakup I mentioned the other night, I . . . kind of needed something to distract me. And, uh, I was unemployed at the time, so a little easy money would’ve gone down nicely. Don’t worry—I’ve stopped now. Made a clean break from it when I came down here.”
“That’s very commendable.” Bran knew only too well how hard some habits were to kick.
Sam grimaced. “Haven’t paid off all the debts yet, but I’m going to.”
“But if money was tight, why waste it on gambling? You’re an intelligent man. You must know the odds are against you.” Bran made a helpless gesture with his fork. “I don’t mean to berate you. I’m just trying to understand.”
Sam shot him a wary glance, then took a breath. “It’s . . . it’s a rush, I guess. Those few moments just before you find out if you’ve won or lost, everything else goes away, and you just focus in on the gamble. I mean, don’t you ever . . . I dunno, buy houses at auction?”
Bran blinked. “Sometimes, yes.”
“And don’t you get that buzz when you win?”
“I . . . Maybe?” Bran thought back. “In the beginning, I suppose I did. Yes. But after a while, it all became routine.”
When had he lost the joy in what he did? The thrill of a successful venture? Was this why the Black Prince exhibition had come to mean so much to him? Because the rest of his life had become empty?
No. No, that wasn’t true. He had his family. Gawen in particular.
Whom he’d been grooming to take over the reins of the family business. Was Bran just setting up his nephew for a life of chasing profit while finding no real satisfaction in the capture?
“Bran?”
“Sorry, what?”
“You, uh, spaced out a bit there. Is everything okay?” Sam sounded anxious.
Bran nodded slowly. “My apologies. These debts—how large are they? Have they been passed on to debt collectors?” Guilt surged as he recalled his earlier blithe comments about a few thousand extra pounds being a small price to pa
y for perfection.
“It’s nothing I can’t deal with.”
“I meant—I know what debt collectors can be like.” Bran flushed. “I’ve had to employ them upon occasion. I thought . . . I could make you a loan.”
“No.”
“Why not? I can afford it.”
“No.”
“Because I’m in some sense your employer?” Bran huffed. “We’ve been through all that. But if it bothers you, look at it this way: anything that’s causing you stress is likely to impact your performance at work. It would be beneficial for all concerned—”
“I said no, all right? It’s not . . .” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you lending me money.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because it’d change our relationship. And I don’t want that.”
“Our relationship?” It was what he’d wanted to talk about all along, and yet he found himself woefully unprepared for the sudden reappearance of the subject.
“I meant . . . professionally. As friends, even.” Sam gazed earnestly at him across the table. “We are friends now, aren’t we?”
“Are we?” Bran’s mouth was dry. Was he about to be let down gently after all?
He wasn’t sure he could bear it.
Sam glanced down, and then away. “Look, I think we got on okay the other night. Better than okay. And—cards on the table—I’d like us to be more than friends. If that’s what you want too.”
More than friends. Bran’s heart swelled with a wild joy he didn’t think he’d ever known before. When he put a hand on Sam’s arm, they both tensed, and Sam breathed in sharply but didn’t move away. “Yes,” Bran said, his voice tight and hoarse. “I’d like that.”
They should have kissed then. It was a moment for a kiss. But they were in a restaurant, in public, in the middle of the day, and they were British. So instead Bran took a deep breath and tried to convey with his eyes how very much he would like that.
“Ground rules, though. I’m not going to be anyone’s dirty little secret.” Sam’s voice was strained. “Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.”