Page 175 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

The dress felt unfamiliar on Sammy, lighter than anything she usually wore. She checked herself once – quickly, almost guiltily – then left the mirror before she could change her mind.

She clattered down her cottage stairs. A chipped jug of chrysanthemums stood on the table, petals dark as red wine, a few already collapsing in on themselves. The fire snapped; a spark jumped the grate and skittered across the hearth. Sammy crushed it under her heel.

The kitchen door hung open. Nate had taken over the stove, his body bent into the work. She leaned against the doorframe, and he looked up. In the pan, a fillet of sea bass hissed hard against the heat, skin tightening, curling at the edges.

Sammy pulled out her phone, angling it. ‘Stand over there,’ she said, pointing at the fireplace. ‘ I want to send a photo to Jean.’

He broke into a smile, wooden spoon lifted.

She took the shot – him in the flare of the fire, his hair cropped short, her own shape ghosted in the window behind him, then sent it, tagging on a message.

I’m happy. Thank you for never giving up on me.

The reply came quickly.

I never could. You were always meant for this. Love you, sweetheart.

Sammy read it twice. Something in her chest lifting. She set the phone down and kissed Nate on the cheek, the skin stubble free but still rough.

A knock. ‘It’s open,’ she called.

Magnus, with a bottle of wine in his hand.

‘Good evening . . . Sammy.’

Occasionally he still called her Miss Jenkins – but she had stopped having to remind him not to. ‘Evening, Magnus.’

He held the bottle out. ‘I thought this might be appropriate.’

She took it, stepping aside. ‘You’d better come in properly then.’

He set the bottle down, removing his jacket, folding it over the back of the chair.

‘What are we having?’

‘Nate’s cooking sea bass. Fresh, line-caught this morning,’ said Sammy.

Magnus inclined his head. ‘Excellent.’

‘It’ll be ready in five minutes,’ said Nate and started explaining the dish he was preparing.

Sammy’s phone vibrated in her hand.

A message. From Chloe. She blew out a breath; her thumb rested against the screen.

‘Is that Jean with some cocky comment?’ asked Nate.

‘No, it’s Chloe,’ she replied.

The pan spat sharply. Nate went still.

Sammy pulled up the message:

Hey. I’m sorry about everything. Can we talk?

Nate set down the knife, wiping his hands once, twice, on a cloth, then stepped in close enough that she could feel the heat of him behind her.

His eyes scanned the message. ‘You don’t owe her anything,’ he said.