Page 54 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Nineteen

After packing up, I go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. I say a silent prayer for Mrs Lee and her family, and take a moment before I feel settled enough to see Sam. Whilst he was a great support to me after we lost Mrs Ferguson, I can’t run to him every time something like this happens. Especially if it’s going to become commonplace. Besides that, more than anything, Sam needs positive vibes. He’s doesn’t need to be reminded of death.

“Knock, knock,” I say softly as I tap my knuckles on his open door.

Sam is propped up in bed, pillows supporting his back, white covers bunched at his waist. He glances up through his dark lashes. “Hey,” he drawls. There’s no sign of Ben.

Memories of our last kiss come flooding back, filling my body with warmth from my centre outwards. “Hey,” I mimic, trying not to show how a simple ‘hey’ has me giddy.

Taking a step into the room, I remember what Kathleen said about ‘decorum’. Which is hard to comprehend when Sam is freshly shaven, and I can smell his enticing aftershave from here.

“Do you mind if I close the door?” I ask and take grip of the door handle.

“Not at all,” he says, licking at his lower lip. “Actually, I’d prefer it.”

I sweep the door until it’s almost closed and tug the handle down, clicking it quietly shut so the noise doesn’t reverberate in the hallway. “Don’t get any ideas. I got blasted earlier.”

“Boss lady chewed your arse, huh?” Sam says in a soft voice.

I perch myself on the edge of his bed, close to his shins. “You could say that.”But then she turned it around by giving me a ticket to be alone with you.“I still havemy job.”

He sighs. “Oh, good.”

“I just need to be aware of where I am and what’s expected of me. So be good.” I wave an outstretched finger at him.

He wraps his hand around my accusing finger and tugs my arm to bring me closer up the bed. “You’re the one who threw herself at me. It’s not my fault.” He smirks. When he does it lights up his face, revealing more of the Sam I know exists beneath the layers of hurt and heartache.

I play-punch him in the shoulder with my free hand, keeping up with the charade. He winces, but I can tell it’s for show. “You practically dared me.”

“Aren’t you glad I did?” He brings our joined hands to rest on the bed.

Yes. “Maybe.” I let out a heavy sigh and decide to change the subject. “So, tell me. How was your visit with the sheriff?”

“You know.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just talked shit really.”

“Like what?”

Sam’s brows draw together. “I dunno. Nothing much.” He pauses and looks up to the ceiling, and then back at me. “We were talking about the pumpkin festival.”

As a child, the festival was the highlight of the year—a close second to Christmas. Dad and I used to make scarecrows, taking out the occasional ribbon, and I’d spend hours getting through the hay-bale maze with my school friends. I ate anything and everything from the rows of food stalls until I was almost sick. I always made it out of the gates without throwing up, but there were many times that the car trip home brought me unstuck.

My cheeks stretch to accommodate a wide smile. “I love the festival,” I gush. “I’ve never missed a year since I was born.”

“So, it’s good then?” he asks, lifting his brows.

“Course. It’s huge ’round here. People come from everywhere. The town swells from five hundred locals to sometimes six or seven thousand. It’s good for the area and brings some of the more remote people in to town to be social. My parents used to be big supporters of the event, until they set off on their travels.”

“Do they play country music at the dance thingy?”

“It depends on what band they can get. Council budget is usually pretty tight, so sometimes it comes down to volunteers.”

He nods. “Right. So, you’re goin’ this year?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.” I’m not planning on breaking tradition. Nothing has ever kept me from it, and I can’t imagine that’ll change.

“Good to know,” Sam says, like he has something to hide.

“You know, I was hoping to take out the prize for award-winning golden nugget pumpkin, but unfortunately, no entry for me this year.” I stick out my bottom lip, pouting just like I did when I sprung Butch attacking my crop.

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