Page 171 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Lovely.’

‘What about beetroot?’

‘Not lovely.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing wrong with beetroot . . . you won’t be eating it.’

That earned him a smile. He smiled back. The sight caught her off guard, and she forgot all about menus.

‘What about sweet potatoes?’ she asked.

‘Ready, not yet harvested.’

‘They’ll go well in the roasted vegetable tray. What about cabbages? I’m planning Swedish long cooked cabbage – it’s like a cabbage pudding.’

‘Plotting revenge, are you?’

She chuckled. ‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It sounds revolting.

‘No. It sounds incredible.’

‘Impossible – it’s called cabbage pudding. I rest my case.’

She poked him in the ribs. ‘It’s cooked for four hours.’

‘Four hours to cook cabbage?’

‘Trust me . . . butter.’

‘Mm.’

‘Cream.’

Nate nodded solemnly. ‘You’ve got my attention.’

She laughed. The sound bounced around the kitchen. For a moment it felt like old times. Before the police. Before everything had broken. The thought landed heavily between her ribs.

Sammy looked back down at her menus. ‘It’s a shame,’ she said quietly.

‘What?’

‘I’d have liked to plan . . . other . . .’ She immediately regretted saying it.

Because they both knew she wasn’t talking just about menus. She meant all of it. The job. Him.

Nate’s gaze settled on the pumpkins. ‘You’d have been good at it.’ The words were simple. She thought he might say more, wanted him to; instead, he picked up the empty box. ‘I’ll go and harvest those sweet potatoes.’

Sammy watched him head for the door. Sunlight caught the back of his neck as he stepped outside.

For once she trusted her own instincts. There had definitely been something there.

Unfortunately, neither of them appeared brave enough to act on it.

Forty

Through her open cottage window, Sammy spotted Nate in his garden, a bottle of wine in a chiller on a small round table, a glass in one hand, a hardback book in the other. She guessed it would be something highbrow – pruning techniques or propagation tips.