Kit cast his eyes around the room, taking in what must be a combination of village residents and visitors. Many a pair of muddied walking boots peeked out from beneath the tables. The lunch service was probably over, but it looked as though the Oak had done a roaring trade. Amy spotted the day’s specials on a chalkboard at the end of the bar: breaded brie; pan-fried wild scallops with linguine; triple-layered chocolate and raspberry cake with Amaretto ice cream. No wonder the place was packed.
‘If wearein another country,’ Kit murmured, looking over Amy’s shoulder, ‘it seems that some of the natives aredelightful. I’m almost done with this drink, and yet I feel very thirsty indeed.’
‘What are you on about?’ Amy asked.
‘Twelve o’clock,’ Kit whispered. ‘Well, six for you.Don’t look, you’ll give the game away!’
Amy rolled her eyes. ‘If there really is some talent behind me, he almost certainly doesn’t live here. Most of the men in this village are of pensionable age.’
‘Hang on …’ Kit said softly, narrowing his eyes. ‘I recognise him from somewhere. I’ve definitely seen that face before. I wonder if he’s famous …?’
Amy itched to turn around in her seat and find out who Kit was ogling. The BBC had been known to film in and around Rowton– perhaps there was some period drama shooting nearby.
‘Oh my God, it’s the lad from your photo,’ Kit breathed. ‘The one with the just-had-sex hair, the brooding look and the pint in his hand.’
Oh. Dear. God.
‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ Amy insisted, praying for this to be true rather than really believing it. ‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Itsois,’ Kit told her. ‘I’m certain.’
She was going to have to look. There was no way shecouldn’tlook.
Amy twisted in her seat, moving gradually and slowly so as not to draw any attention.
Once she’d turned far enough around, she immediately saw that Kit was right. Her stomach spasmed, then made some movement that felt like a furious backward roll.
Sam had hardly changed: he was a broader, manlier– and yes, arguably even ‘hotter’– version of his teenage self. Amy longed to look at him properly, slowly– to check him for changes that might not be obvious at first glance.
She didn’t dare. Instead, she let her eyes roam briefly over his face: still as well proportioned and fine-featured as it had always been– that moody, smart-arsed mouth quirked up in a half-smile at something he’d just heard.
Enough. She’d seen enough.
She whipped back round to face Kit, realising too late that she’d spun more quickly than was wise.
‘Amy?’ said a voice behind her.Hisvoice. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Amy said haughtily, resenting the implication that she ought to be somewhere else.
‘I live here,’Sam said. He smiled lopsidedly, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
They were the colour of dark chocolate Lindor balls, Amy noticed. Shehatedthat she noticed. She’d also forgotten about his dimples, which should probably be illegal.She shook herself slightly and tried to gather her suddenly scattered wits.
‘At the pub?’ she asked, intending to sound witty but coming off as stupid. He laughed at her.
‘In the village. At the old house.’
Now it was Amy’s turn to laugh. ‘Ha! You make it sound like some run-down old shack.’
‘Shack, no. Run-down? Very much so.’
Amy snorted.
Kit was looking from Amy to Sam and then back again, trying to parse exactly what he was witnessing. He stared at Amy meaningfully, as if to demand an explanation. When she ignored him, he took matters into his own hands.
‘I’m Kit,’ he said, holding his hand out to Sam so he could shake it. ‘Amy’s friend from work.’
‘Sam,’ Sam said, nodding. ‘Amy and I are old friends.’
