Valentine's Day at the Star and Sixpence

For Paris, with everlasting love

Sam Chapman was cleaning the coffee machine when she felt Joss’s arms encircle her waist.

‘Happy anniversary,’ he said, kissing her neck.

For a fleeting second Sam tensed, before forcing herself to relax. The pub had yet to open, there was no one to see them and even if there had been, it wouldn’t have mattered; what she did
with the cellarman was no one else’s business. The only person with a legitimate reason to object was Sam’s sister, Nessie, and she’d already made it clear she didn’t have a
problem with Joss and Sam’s relationship.

She twisted round to kiss him, enjoying the soft scratch of his beard against her skin. ‘Anniversary?’

Joss smiled. ‘Yep. It’s exactly six weeks since you jumped me on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Charmingly put,’ Sam said, trying not to smile. ‘I don’t remember it happening
quite
like that.’

‘I do,’ Joss replied. ‘I went down to the cellar to get more champagne, you followed me and basically admitted you’d fancied me from the very first moment we met. Then
you kissed me and we got so distracted that we almost missed the fireworks on the village green.’

And then they’d spent the rest of the night making their own fireworks, Sam reminded herself. Noisy, tipsy, headboard-rattling fireworks that Nessie must have overheard but had never
mentioned. Had that really only been six weeks ago? It felt longer. In fact, she was starting to wonder if her old life as a PR golden girl in London was a half-remembered dream, instead of a
career she hoped to go back to one day. Life in the country was certainly keeping her busy.

She reached up to kiss Joss again, before turning back to the coffee machine. ‘I think we can both agree on that last bit. Happy anniversary!’

He stepped back, watching her work. ‘How are the big Valentine’s Day plans coming along?’

Sam hesitated for a brief second, then began stacking the cups on top of the machine. He meant her plan to turn the Star and Sixpence into a restaurant for the night – or at least she
hoped he did. Between sweet-talking the up-and-coming chef she had in mind to provide the meals, arranging enough waiting staff to serve the punters and persuading Nessie that this was a perfect PR
opportunity, she didn’t have time to worry about grand romantic gestures for Joss – six-week anniversary or not. It didn’t help that she’d never had to think about
Valentine’s Day before – she’d always been single. Plenty of cards had arrived at work, of course, but Sam had binned them all. In fact, six weeks was the longest any of her
relationships had lasted and she had a sneaking suspicion the same was true for Joss.

‘I think it’s all coming along,’ she said. ‘Franny has demanded a table, although I can’t imagine her bringing a date.’

Joss grimaced and Sam knew he was wondering what kind of man would have the courage to woo Little Monkham’s fearsome postmistress. ‘Me neither.’ He paused. ‘Just to be
clear,
we’re
not doing anything for Valentine’s Day, are we? As in, you and me?’

‘We’ve been over this, Joss,’ Sam said, trying not to sigh. ‘No, we are not celebrating. No flowers, no cards, no grand romantic gestures. I’m allergic to romance,
remember?’

He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, I get it. It’s just that I’ve been caught out before by girls who’ve said that and then accused me of not making an effort.
I don’t want any misunderstandings.’

Sam was well aware that Joss had history with several of Little Monkham’s female residents. It had never really troubled her – until now. Just how many hearts had he broken in the
village? But when she glanced up at him she saw a shadow in his blue eyes, making him look younger than twenty-nine. He wasn’t playing a game with her now – this was something he meant.
‘No tricks,’ she said, softening her voice. ‘And definitely no cards.’

He nodded. ‘Got it.’

Sam turned round to survey the bar. ‘The chef is coming to inspect the place this morning, to see if it’s up to standard,’ she said. ‘I want her to like what she
sees.’

Joss glanced towards the stairs that led to the rooms Sam and Nessie lived in over the pub. ‘So that’s why Nessie is scrubbing the kitchen walls. I did wonder.’

Sam bit her lip. She knew Nessie was worried and with good reason – Sam had been so sure she could persuade Alyssa di Campo to travel from London for the pop-up event that she’d
started selling tickets before the
Superchef
winner had totally committed. If she didn’t like what she saw, she might easily pull out, leaving them with no cook and a lot of explaining
to do.

‘Speaking of which, I’d better go and meet Alyssa’s train,’ she said, dropping her cloth into the bucket of hot, soapy water. ‘Can you make sure this place is
gleaming by the time we get back?’

Joss picked up the bucket. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘This is the kitchen?’

Alyssa di Campo stared around the tiny room, taking in the single sink, the cluttered worktops and the slender fridge-freezer. ‘You expect me to produce fifty Michelin-star-worthy meals in
a room that is smaller than my shed?’

Nessie cringed inside. ‘At least the oven is new,’ she said, waving at the shiny chrome and black cooker they’d bought to replace the ancient model their father had left.
‘It’s got a plate-warmer function.’

The look Alyssa gave her said it all.

‘Come on, Al,’ Sam said, linking her arm through the chef’s. ‘You know you love a challenge. It’ll be like the old days, before you had gadgets and sous chefs to
dance on your every whim.’

Alyssa threw her a withering glare. ‘A challenge is one thing, but this? Even Gordon Ramsey would throw the towel in.’

Nessie pictured the kitchen at Snowdrop Cottage next door, with its cherry-red range and American-style fridge and fairy lights. ‘What if there was somewhere else, somewhere with more
space and a killer oven?’

‘You’re not thinking of the forge?’ Sam said, her eyebrows shooting upwards. ‘Because that has
great
PR possibilities.’

‘The forge?’ Alyssa repeated. ‘I’m confused.’

‘Nessie has a thing going on with the village blacksmith, who just happens to have his forge right next door to us,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sure she could persuade him to let you
use it to cook on.’

Nessie shook her head. ‘Firstly, I do not have a thing with Owen. And secondly, I don’t think you could cook anything on the forge. It would burn to a crisp in minutes.’

‘You are right, it would be too hot,’ Alyssa said, looking regretful. ‘Where did you actually mean, Nessie?’

Nessie described the kitchen at Snowdrop Cottage. ‘I’d have to ask first,’ she warned, as Alyssa’s eyes lit up. ‘And we’d have to find a way to keep the
dishes hot when we carry them across the yard. But if you think it sounds like an option—’

‘Show me,’ Alyssa demanded.

Nessie felt bad for disturbing Owen at work but his sister Kathryn’s Land Rover wasn’t in the yard, meaning she wasn’t around and Alyssa didn’t seem
like the type to be kept waiting. So Nessie had left Sam and the chef waiting in the yard while she slipped inside the forge, hoping it might make the intrusion less – well –
intrusive.

The fire blazed yellowy-orange under its steel hood, almost too bright to look at, and she could feel the heat even from across the room. Dressed in a slate-grey t-shirt that clung to his
biceps, Owen was fiddling with a dial on the wall, the one she vaguely remembered did something to the air flow across the burning coke. His dark curls gleamed with the faintest hint of copper as
he turned and saw her.

‘Nessie,’ he said, his deep Welsh lilt wrapping her name in warmth. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

She tried hard not to stare. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a favour.’

‘Sure,’ he said, dusting his hands on the leather apron he wore. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s not so much me, more us,’ Nessie said, opening the forge door to a blast of welcome cool air. ‘We’ve got a bit of a logistics problem and I think you might be
able to help . . .’

‘It’s not perfect, but it will have to do,’ Alyssa announced, once she’d finished her inspection of Owen’s kitchen.

‘Kathryn will be delighted to hear it,’ Owen said wryly. ‘This is her domain, although I like to think I can find my way round it when I need to.’

Sam raised her eyebrows suggestively and Nessie knew exactly what her sister was getting at –
he cooks, too!
Sam had been encouraging Nessie to see Owen as more than just a
next-door neighbour from the very first moment they’d met, viewing him as exactly what Nessie needed to get over her failed marriage to Patrick, and she seemed to be more determined than ever
to make it happen. At first, both sisters had assumed Kathryn was Owen’s wife, mostly because of the way she doted on Owen’s son, Luke. Once it became clear she was actually his sister,
Sam had been shameless in her matchmaking, much to Nessie’s embarrassment. And then there’d been that moment on New Year’s Eve when Nessie had been sure something was about to
happen . . .

The moment had slipped by and there hadn’t been another. Owen had been his usual friendly, well-mannered self since, leaving Nessie to wonder if she’d dreamed him taking her hand
beneath the blanket of midnight stars. But she couldn’t ignore the flutter she felt when she glimpsed him unexpectedly across the yard, or when his dark eyes met hers. Sam was convinced he
was interested, but Nessie wasn’t so sure.