He really ought to reach out and thank her… expect he still wasn’t sure how he felt about the intrusion. Sam had an engaging enough manner. People liked her. Even he found himself drawn to her with her quirky foot-in-mouth ways. And if the sweet, buttery scent reaching up from the kitchen and wafting its way upstairs was anything to go by, she could cook. But for all her so-far-so-good qualities he found her upfront nature… confronting. Too bold. Too bright. Too similar to the woman who’d fluttered into his life, charmed him with her easy ways so opposite to his, brought out the best in him, then left him like he was an afterthought, taking the most important part of him – the words – with her.
He sank into his battered old chestnut-coloured leather chair – the only thing other than a suitcase of clothing, his book collection and his office’s small television that he’d brought with him to Snowflake B&B – then rolled closer to the desk and attempted to put his ex and the chatty, pixie-like woman down in the kitchen out of his mind and focus on work. He had to write. To try and get something, anything, on the page, because now that the B&B had fewer than half the guests he was expecting – and an unexpected employee who would give them their next stay for free – his situation was looking more dire than ever.
At this rate he’d end up with nothing.
He opened his laptop, but instead of pulling up his latest manuscript he found himself searching the weather forecast, hoping against hope that the snow would roll on, the roads would become passable once more and he’d be able to welcome the rest of his guests. Save himself from further embarrassment.
It was wretched enough knowing his name was whispered by those with nothing better to do – arm’s-length acquaintances gloating at his marriage’s demise, at his escape from the London scene – but to have those in publishing whispering about his failure to make a deadline, to write anything at all? Or worse? That he’d had to pay back his advance but couldn’t afford to and bankruptcy was on the menu… if not a certainty?
Not happening. Not if he could do something about it. And he could… He just had to force himself to find the words, put one in front of the other, until he had something that could be called a book. And if the estate agent could find a buyer, sooner rather than later, he could go back to a stripped-back, woman-free version of his life in London.
‘What happened to Snowflake B&B being internet-free?’
Reuben jumped in his seat and spun round to face Sam, who was holding out a plate of biscuits while looking outraged.
‘It is. I mean, it was. But it is. Kind of.’ He shook his head, angry with himself for feeling guilty or that he had to explain his actions to a stranger. ‘I write for a living.’ Liar. You wrote for a living. Past tense. ‘And part of my job involves researching, so therefore I must have the internet. Focus on the “I”. Not you, or we, or them. Me.’
He chose not to mention to Sam that the truth was he’d spent more time reading articles on why women cheat, and how to deal with being lied to, than he had researching the ins and outs of prison life, which was where his new book was meant to be set.
‘So does that mean you’ll share the Wi-Fi password with staff? Promise I won’t use it when I’m working. And it’ll keep me out of your hair when I’m not.’ Sam set the plate down on his desk, her eyebrows rising and falling in silent encouragement.
Reuben shook his head with a sigh, grabbed his television remote and clicked it on. The news channel flickered to life, bearing more bad news.
‘More and more roads are becoming impassable as the storm continues, with the weather bureau reporting record snowfalls. People are advised to stay home and only travel if absolutely necessary.’
Reuben switched off the television and slumped back in his chair, dropped his head into his hands and wondered, not for the first time, why he’d not backed away from owning the B&B.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the chance to do so. The previous owners had given him every opportunity, especially once they’d realised they were dealing with an author and not a person with experience in the hospitality industry. Or any industry, truth be told. All he’d known was writing.
Writing… and Elise, who’d seen through the gruff demeanour that was his shell against shyness, and teased him out little by little. He’d trusted his heart with her, and in doing so had finally found the courage to submit his work, and those words had been good enough to secure a publishing contract. Then another. And another.
Writing and Elise. Elise and writing.
The two so tangled together he didn’t know how to do one without the other. Except now he needed to figure out how, because Elise wasn’t coming back. Not that he would let her back into his life if she had a change of heart. His faith in her was gone.
His faith in his ability to write?
On hiatus. It had to be.
Hopefully.
‘Old Man Grump 84. Nope. Writers rule 85 exclamation mark. Nope.’
Reuben turned his attention to Sam. ‘Are you really still standing here?’ He caught sight of the mobile phone in her hands, on which she was bashing her thumbs against the screen. ‘And you’re trying to crack the password for the Wi-Fi? If I give it to you will you go away? Because if that’s the case, fine, I’ll give it to you. Just don’t give it to the others. I’d like to carry on Millicent and Bob’s rule. You can’t learn about people if you’re too busy burying your head in screens to talk.’
Reuben tried not to think about how that was a big part of what had caused the demise of his marriage – according to Elise, anyway.
‘Your head’s always in your laptop.’
‘You spend all day writing and all night researching.’
‘You spend more time with your characters than you do with me.’
Reuben hoped she was happy she got the last laugh. Now he was so miserable he spent most of his time doing anything but working on the computer. The ridiculous pile of firewood he’d gathered and chopped since moving to Snowflake B&B was proof of that. At least with this cold snap it was coming in handy.
‘I’m waiting…’ Sam’s thumbs hovered over her screen. Her tone impatient enough that Reuben was tempted to make her wait longer.
But that would mean dealing with her longer than necessary, when all he wanted was to be left alone.
‘Reuben.’ He turned his attention back to the blank page.
Glorious silence filled the room. At last. She was gone. He was alone. He could get to work.
‘Really? That’s it?’
So much for being alone.
‘I mean. Really? Truly? Your name? No numbers or symbols? What are you? One hundred? That’s a rookie mistake.’
Reuben pressed his lips firmly together and took in a long, slow breath, then gently pushed it out. ‘Are you done?’
His words came out sharper, more tense than he’d intended, but from the widening of Sam’s eyes and her step back, the effect was more than he could’ve hoped for.
‘God, that was rude of me. Calling you old – again – and a rookie and all that.’ Her face began to flush pink, then fuchsia, then streaked with deep purple tones. ‘I’ll go. I’ll leave. Completely if you want. I mean, I can’t actually leave, not right now with the snow being the way it is, but I’m sure I could stay in the old stables. There’s hay there. At least there used to be, back when there were horses. If it’s still there I could wrap it around me and keep warm and just… er… nap… or something… until this weather clears and the road’s sorted.’
Reuben searched for any sign that she was joking. That she was baiting him, knowing that she had the upper hand. That he needed her more than she needed him.
The twinkle in her eyes had disappeared. The jaunty manner that she conducted herself with had gone into hiding. And her skin’s hue had morphed from embarrassed to such a uniform tone of pale he was afraid she was about to pass out. Or vomit. Maybe, but hopefully not, both.
‘Right. So, I’ll grab my bag and go then…’
Sam made to t
urn, her shoulders sloped and hunched. Her head lowered.
A whisper of laughter met his ears. The guests’ merriment reminding him he couldn’t just sit in his room and keep to himself. He needed to be present. To be available. To ensure his cook didn’t leave him high and dry.
‘Er, no, don’t.’ Reuben scraped the chair back and stood. ‘Please. There’s no hay in the stables.’ Just a load of boxes containing my old life that I don’t want to look at let alone think about. ‘And I can’t have you freezing to death. It would be bad for business.’
Sam slowly swivelled on her heel to face him. A hint of colour had returned to the apples of her cheeks.
‘If you ran out of food at least you’d have something to eat.’ She shrugged and offered a small show of teeth.
A barely there grin, but one that told him things would be okay. They’d be okay. They’d muddle through this weekend together.
‘Did you really just suggest we eat you if we look to be in danger of starving? You do realise there’s a whole lot of woods out there, filled with animals that we could eat before you became an option?’
Sam’s hands lifted in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. ‘Sorry, I don’t think the words; I just let them spill from my mouth, and it seemed a valid option at the time.’
‘Too many horror novels, Sam.’ The second smile of the day made its way to his face. A new smiling record. At this rate he’d have to give Sam a medal for doing the impossible – distracting him. Helping abate the heaviness in his heart. ‘I have a whole library of non-scary books that you’re more than welcome to read if it means I never have to hear you suggest you’re on the menu.’
‘Well, lucky for me, I’m saved. Not on the menu. Not now that you’re keeping me on. Speaking of menus. I’d better go get the pork in the oven and veg prepped for dinner. I thought toasted sandwiches with a bit of tomato soup might be nice and easy for lunch. Warming, too.’ Without another word quick steps began echoing off the hall’s walls. Disappearing, then returning as fast as they’d left. ‘Oh, and thank you, Reuben. For keeping me on. I truly do appreciate it. And you know, if you want, now there’s internet we could… I mean, I could, if you’d let me… take a look at the website? Update it? Get online bookings flowing? Set up and update social media pages? That sort of thing? No point paying someone to do it when I can do it for free as part of the work I do here? I have a website for my own wee business, so I know how to do all that… But, you know, it’s your business so it’s up to you.’ With a shy smile Sam was off again before he had a chance to answer, let alone consider her offer.
Reuben sank back down into his chair and stared at the laptop screen once again, now black, having gone into sleep mode.
His thoughts, however, were not on his book, his characters, his plot, or lack thereof, but on a cook who seemed so light and bright, but for a minute there appeared serious, scared, and somehow as desperate as he was to see Snowflake B&B succeed. And the question that filled his mind was… why?
CHAPTER FOUR
With a light puff Sam blew out the match she’d used to light the candles that bookended the long dining room table, then took a step back and admired her handiwork. Lovely, if she did say so herself.
The china plates were placed in a perfect straight line down the table, the cutlery exactly positioned on either side of the plates so that the overall look was one of military precision. Which, of course it was. There was no other way to do it, no other way Sam knew how. The mere thought of simply throwing the knives, forks and spoons haphazardly on the table next to the plates sent Sam’s shoulders up around her ears, saw the blood in her veins pulse, her heartbeat ratchet up.
The dining table had to be set perfectly or a storm of words would follow. Followed by worse… a tense silence that could last for days. The kind of silence that saw you tiptoe around, fearful of breathing, let alone talking or laughing.
She closed her eyes to her beautiful setting, took a long, deep stress-dissolving breath in then released it, and reminded herself that she wasn’t at home, that she was no longer a little girl, and that Reuben wasn’t her father. She was safe here. As she’d always been.
‘Oh my, this is gorgeous.’
Matilda’s warm voice cemented Sam’s spot in the here and now. She turned and saw an equally appreciative Harry standing behind her.
‘I love what you’ve done with the bare twigs.’ Harry nodded with a smile. ‘Who knew dead bits of tree could look so pretty?’
Sam followed his gaze to the centrepiece, where she’d entwined golden fairy lights around spindly fallen lengths of trees that she’d found tossed aside at the back of the manor by the woodpile.
‘Thank you. It’s just a little something. Nice to add a bit of festive glow to the table.’ She shrugged off the compliment as she always did. Compliments made her nervous, unsure, unwilling to believe them as in her experience they often turned out to be a trap. Nice words first, barbs second.
Matilda reached out and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. ‘You’re far too humble, my dear. This whole table is a work of art. You ought to be proud of yourself.’
Sam managed a smile then clapped her hands in a show of further efficiency. ‘Right, well, you settle yourselves in, I’ll grab the wine and once the others are here I’ll bring out the food. Sound good?’
Before they could answer she left the dining room and hurried to the kitchen, wondering as she strode where Reuben had been all afternoon. Surely not upstairs tip-tapping away on his laptop? Not when he had paying guests downstairs. She’d managed to keep them entertained by showing them the games cupboard and convincing them to play a bit of Monopoly and Scrabble in front of the sitting room’s fire that she’d had to light herself, but there was only so much extra work she could do when she had her own job to get on with.
Running Snowflake B&B was, at the very least, a two-person job, and while she was happy to take on tasks out of love for the place, the most important person – the owner – wasn’t pulling their weight.
Prickles of irritation threaded through her as she pulled out the pork shoulder she’d been slow-roasting for the last six hours. Even the juicy aromas snaking up failed to lift her mood. Snowflake B&B didn’t deserve to be run by someone as uninterested as Reuben. It was a beautiful estate, a special place, filled with heart, heavy with soul. The hedging deserved to be pruned, the furniture dusted, the Aga brought to life at every opportunity. Instead it was being left to fall apart.
Sam huffed out a breath of irritation, this time directed at herself. Fall apart? She was being overly dramatic. Snowflake B&B was a long way off that, but if Reuben didn’t pull his socks up and show some interest things could well go down that road.
‘Is everything under control?’
Speak of the devil.
Sam checked herself. Reuben was hardly the devil, the devil was all up in people’s business. Reuben couldn’t care less.
‘Just about. Although if you want to be of help you could plate up the potatoes, carve the meat, or put the peas in a dish?’
Reuben’s lips turned up in a hint of a smile, a flush of pink washed over his cheeks. ‘I guess you know where the dishes are kept? Could you point me in their direction?’
Sam couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He didn’t know where the dishes were? Hadn’t taken the time to investigate the manor? To learn about his house? Let alone the business?
‘Do you even want to be here?’ The words came out before she could stop them. She closed her eyes and waited to be growled at, or yelled at, or fired. Her heart rate lifted with every silent second.
The squeak of a door opening then shutting, followed by another, then another, and finally a clank of crockery on bench met her ears.
‘Not really. I never saw myself as a B&B owner, but here I am. And I guess, by your tone and your words, I’m doing a shit job of it.’
Sam pressed her lips together in surprise at his blatant honesty, then released them as she focused her gaze back on Reu
ben. ‘Will you fire me if I tell you that you kind of are doing a shit job?’ She grimaced as she grabbed the tongs and began transferring the roast vegetables to a serving platter.
‘Aren’t we allowed to be honest with each other?’ Reuben’s brows rose. ‘Isn’t that what you said earlier?’
‘Er…’ Sam drained the peas and passed the colander to Reuben to empty them into the terrine. ‘Yes?’
He cut off a slice of butter and added it to the peas. ‘You don’t sound so sure anymore.’
‘I guess it’s one thing for me to tease you and make light of things, but asking if you actually want to run Snowflake B&B felt like I’d crossed a boundary of some sort. This is your home. Your business. Not mine. It’s not for me to judge.’ Sam picked up the carving knife and steel and began sharpening the blade with quick, efficient movements.
Reuben took an exaggerated step back. ‘Even if it was, I’m not going to argue with a person who looks capable of slicing my head off in one fluid movement.’
‘Who’s been reading horror books now?’ Sam’s chest deflated as the tension she’d been holding abated. She was fine. Reuben was fine. Everything was fine. More than fine. She could be herself around him and he wasn’t going to hurt her for it. Strangely enough, it appeared he was going to accept her. Foot-in-mouth, and warts and all.
With the terrine of peas in one hand and the necks of two bottles of red clasped in the other, Reuben backed out of the kitchen. ‘I’m not just a surly face, Sam. I read outside my genre.’
A raise of brows and a quick grin and he was gone. Sam raised her hands and touched her cheeks. Warm, and no doubt pink. Because of the kitchen, she decided. Nothing to do with the way Reuben’s last words had sounded almost, sort of, kind of flirtatious.
Which was beyond ridiculous. As if a man with his success and – if she were honest – his means, would date outside his circle. Would consider someone from a tiny village, who lived week to week, as potential girlfriend material.
She shook her head and turned her attention to carving the pork.
Snowed In At Snowflake B&B: The perfect heartwarming Christmas romance to curl up with in 2020! Page 4