Chapter Nine

      Sam spent every night for the next week tossing and turning. When he wasn’t thinking about ideas for the skittle alley, he was haunted by images of Beth blinking up at him, her brown eyes blurred with passion, her lips plump from the force of his kisses. Stop it. He’d deliberately avoiding going anywhere near the emporium, a few more days of distance and he’d have everything back under control.

      The more he thought about creating a restaurant in the skittle alley beneath the pub, the more excited he was about it. He’d always wanted a place of his own, initially in London, because that’s where most of the top-flight chefs made their mark. Working for Tim Bray had shown him there were other options. Tim’s restaurant had turned the small town of Alderstone into one of the most popular places in Suffolk. What if Sam could do the same for Lavender Bay?

      At first glance, the alley wasn’t the most inviting of spaces, but he could turn that to his advantage. The lack of windows would allow him to design the perfect lighting system, which together with the right décor would create an other-worldly atmosphere. He wasn’t in the market for a run-of-the-mill eatery, he wanted it to be a totally immersive experience, something people would talk about for days afterwards.

      And it wouldn’t be all style and no substance. The food itself would have to be exquisite. The very best of local ingredients, including lavender straight from Gilbert’s Farm. A lavender and lemon sorbet to refresh and cleanse the palate between courses, or some delicate lavender shortbread bites served with coffee at the end of the meal. Though he loved all types of cooking, desserts were what truly made his heart sing. His training in Paris had included a placement at one of the top patisseries where he’d been taught to craft tiny morsels of perfection. The rest of the menu would be traditional dishes with a unique twist.

      With hard work, and a dollop of good luck, he might even create a venue to catch the eye of the Michelin judges.

      Dragging himself out of bed, he made a quick pass through the bathroom to brush his teeth, and his hair before dragging on his gym kit. Contrary to his best efforts, his mind was still fixated on Beth as he jogged downstairs ready to start his morning run. It was early, so she’d probably still be in bed. He bet she was a pillow-drooler, or a quilt-hog, or even worst of the worst, one of those women with permanently cold feet who insisted on sticking them against a man’s back. He’d never been in the market for a serious relationship; after long hours at work the last thing he’d wanted was to go out to dinner, or make a fancy meal which too many girls expected when dating a chef. He definitely wasn’t going to start now.

      ‘What are you smirking at?’ His mum asked as she met him at the bottom of the stairs. Something had obviously woken her up because her hair was completely flat on one side and sticking up on the other. She tugged the belt of her dressing gown more firmly around her and he couldn’t help but grin more.

      ‘Why are you up?’ She’d still been in the kitchen prepping lunches for today when he’d staggered upstairs after closing the bar the previous night.

      She glanced towards the door, then swallowed hard. ‘Your dad’s in the yard.’

      His good humour vanished. ‘Doing what?’

      ‘He said he wanted to tidy up, was fed up of it being a mess out there.’

      ‘For God’s sake, why didn’t you stop him?’

      ‘Watch your tone, young man, he’s still your father.’ Annie tugged on her belt like she was considering removing it and throttling him with it. He’d seen her quell more than one potential fight with a steely-eyed glare and a strategically twisted ear, but he couldn’t help his frustration.

      He leaned down to brush a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go and see what he’s up to and see if he’ll let me help him.’

      His mum nibbled her bottom lip, worry written large on her face. ‘Be gentle, darling.’

      ‘I promise.’

      Taking a deep, calming breath, Sam swung open the back door and stepped out into the yard. A stack of empty barrels stood against one wall, waiting to be returned to the brewery. There were some wooden pallets nearby, scavenged by Sam because his mum had talked about adding some planters to the front of the pub and he’d had some idea he might be able to make them himself. A couple of broken chairs waited a trip to the local dump along with some other bits and pieces of rubbish. Not spotless, but nothing that anyone needed to worry about on a chilly morning.

      Sam zipped up the neck of his tracksuit top and wandered over to where his dad was poking around in the junk pile. ‘You’re up early, Dad,’ he said with his best smile.

      Straightening up, Paul eyed him as though waiting for him to start fussing, but when Sam remained silent, he nudged the pile with his foot. ‘Got fed up of looking at this crap, and waiting for you to do something about it.’

      Okay then. Propping one heel against the wall behind him, Sam folded his arms across his chest. ‘This has to stop, Dad. You can’t bitch at me for doing stuff without running every tiny detail past you then blame me if something doesn’t get done on my own initiative.’

      His dad snorted in disgust. ‘You don’t have to ask me if it’s okay to make a trip to the dump.’

      ‘Are you sure about that?’ Sam closed his eyes for a second and reined in his flash of temper. ‘I want to help you, Dad, that’s the only reason I came back home—to help you.’

      ‘I didn’t ask you to do that! I didn’t ask you to walk away from everything you’ve worked so hard for to end up behind the bar of some no-mark, backwater pub…’ His dad trailed off into a fit of coughing, and Sam hurried over to offer him his arm to lean on.

      When he was waved off, he reached instead for the pocket in his dad’s sweatshirt and pulled out his inhaler. ‘Here, use this.’

      He backed off again, turning his attention to the pile of rubbish so his dad couldn’t see him wincing at every harsh rack and sputter. The tension in his shoulders eased at the familiar puff of the inhaler and the ragged indrawn breath behind him. As he waited for his dad’s breathing to settle down, he mulled over those angry, bitter words. Dad had always loved The Siren, had taken over the place from Pops with the delight of a man who was exactly where he wanted to be. To hear him denigrate the place broke Sam’s heart and gave him a fresh insight into the problem between them.

      Keeping his back turned, he traced the rough surface of the red-brick wall. ‘I came home because I wanted to, Dad. Because I love you and Mum, and you needed some help.’

      ‘You shouldn’t have had to, though.’ A familiar weight settled on his shoulder, and he reached up to pat the hand his dad placed on his shoulder.

      Unable