“You don’t know much about me,” I say, “but, thanks, I appreciate the kind words.”
Samantha drives into another corner fast. As she powers out of the corner, she pushes the old sports car hard.
She really can drive, and she knows the limits of the old beast.
“I know you’re a good person to William and the other staff,” she says. “You run a complex family, whatever you want to call it. The staff believe in you. They all love you.”
I breathe deep. Maybe she has a point.
“You seem to be successful with work, and I’m sure your parents and Amanda would be proud.”
I let the cool wind blow my heavy energy away, and I sniff behind my dark glasses. What can I say to that?
“Thanks. That is kind of you.”
We share a look, then I point to the right. Sam takes the fork, and we power on past oaks and ducks flying above.
“So, what about you, Miss Samantha?”
Samantha inhales long and slow. “Now, that is a complex one, Master Harry.”
I laugh. “Try me. What is good for the goose is good for the gander.”
Sam laughs loudly and pushes my car hard. That I like. Her skill and confidence are hot.
Like her.
We finally pullover at the old restaurant, and we have hot chocolates fireside. Samantha relaxes, and eventually, she sighs, willing to open up.
“Well, my family moved around a lot when we were kids. Dad did construction contracts for energy companies, and every two years, we seemed to be uprooted.”
I watch her as her fingers move on the cup. They do not settle.
“We never wanted for anything, but I guess money was tight. Mom and Dad seemed to argue more and more, and finally, they split. Dad went back to Texas to work, and Mom, my brother, and I moved to LA. Mom taught piano, and well, we continued in school.”
Listening, I put more wood on the fire. The owner walks past and smiles. She had known my parents, and she is a kind older woman.
“So, where did you study cuisine?” I ask, sitting back at Sam’s side.
“I flipped burgers as a teen to make money and help financially. Then I left school and worked in a kitchen. Each year, I kind of changed restaurants. I ended up working under a hot French chef in LA, and he pushed me hard. I did that for three years, then he sent me to Paris for a year. After that, I started to get job offers. Good offers.”
As I put my feet up, the fire crackles loudly. “So, why would you of all people come to work in a remote place and for some old, grumpy bastard?”
Samantha laughs, and I relax. She really is uncomplicated. “You’re not that old.”
I smile. She really does have sass.
“Well, I was offered jobs back in London. Also in Paris, but I’m over it. I don’t know. I was considering the affordable meal nutrition model and figured time away from cities may help. I was alsoseeing some A-hole, and I wanted… no, I needed, to get away from him.”
We share a look, and I don’t like it, or him.
“In any kind of trouble?”
“Yes, no! Not now.”
She avoids my eyes, and I lean in close. “Here’s a bit of history you don’t often hear. Fires in ancient times were used to torture people. To get the truth out. I’m just saying.”
“What the actual fuck?” she asks, turning.
