Chapter 11 Sam
Sam
Give me a chance to win something tonight
The darkness swallows the tension in the room; the only sound is the wind rattling the windows and my rapidly thumping heart. My hand brushes against the countertop, still dusted with flour and cocoa, as I reach for the drawer where I vaguely remember keeping a few tealights and a lighter.
Frankie’s voice cuts through the silence, soft and teasing, despite the blackout and the almost… whatever that was. “So, is this when you confess you don’t own any candles because they’re too ‘festive’?”
I glance over my shoulder, the faint light from the window catching the curve of her cheek. “I own candles,” I say, opening the drawer and taking some out. “I just don’t have any festive scents you’d probably approve of.”
She chuckles, stepping closer. The nudge of her shoulder against mine sends a jolt through me, a reminder of just how close we’d been moments ago. Too close.
I flick the lighter, and the small flame springs to life, flickering as I touch it to the wick of the first candle.
Warm light fills the space, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
It feels... intimate. Too intimate. More intimate than when I almost kissed her a minute ago.
My chest tightens as I light another, the memory still fresh in my mind.
What the hell was I thinking? Did I take it too far?
It’s been four years. Four years since Lucy cheated on me.
I fully withdrew from any and all relationships after that.
Six months since I moved here to escape the ghost of my past that lingered in every corner of our old life in England.
And now, in this small space, with Frankie standing close enough to touch, there’s something here I haven’t felt in years: the pull of connection. And I’m scared.
I push the thought away, handing her a candle. “Here.”
She smiles, taking it without comment, and placing it down. The dim light softens everything: the chaos of the flour-covered kitchen, the beautiful woman in my kitchen also dusted with the same flour. I focus on the simple task, trying to steady my wayward thoughts.
“Do you want to clean up?” I say, breaking the silence. “The bathroom is upstairs to the left, or there’s one back there.”
“Is this your first blackout here?”
I nod. “Why?”
“Our water system runs on a well system, no power, no water. I have reserve bottles of water at my place. I can get you one.”
“I had no idea,” I say, rubbing my chin. “Does it take long to come back on?”
“Depends on the storm. Lots of folk around here have supplies though. Some houses have a generator, too.”
I look back to the kitchen and the fridge. “How would I know if this house has one?” Just as the words leave my mouth, a kick sound happens somewhere out back, followed by a machinery hum. The fridge seems to come back to life, and the emergency lights above the front door.
Frankie gestures to the kitchen. “There you go. You have a generator. I have one too.”
I watch her and try to think of what to say that isn’t something along the lines of ‘did you want me to kiss you? I’m not sure this is a good idea but I don’t want you to go either.’
“I guess I should probably…” she starts, gesturing to the door. “Check on my generator too.”
Panic strikes me square in my solar plexus, and I move toward her as soon as she steps away.
Why does the thought of her leaving make me feel a little off balance?
“You don’t have to go,” I blurt. Her brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across her face at the urgency in my voice.
Meanwhile, my subconscious is screaming, ‘what the hell are you doing?’
“I mean…” I clear my throat, searching for composure. “My generator works, chances are yours does too. The roads are still a mess. And it’s late. It’d be safer if you stayed a little longer.”
She studies me, head tilted, curls bouncing around her cheekbones. “Safer… to walk across the street?” Her voice rises at the end, as though she sees right through my pathetic excuse to keep her here.
I want to take it back, rephrase it, but the truth is I don’t want her to leave. Not yet. “There’s at least a foot out there, and you’re pretty short.”
She snorts, but it loosens the tension between us at my ridiculous excuse and slight insult.
“Besides,” I say, reaching for the drawer in the kitchen for the pack of cards I know is in there, “you can’t leave before we’ve even played. You should stay. Give me a chance to win something tonight.”
Her mouth curves, amused, but her gaze lingers on me in a way that feels less like teasing and more like peeling back a layer I try to keep hidden.
“I think…” she steps closer, and every bit of air abandons my lungs at her nearness, “you just don’t like losing.”
“Not to you,” I admit on an exhale, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
The air shifts—subtle but unmistakable. She blinks slowly, lips parting as if she might say something, then closing again. For once, Frankie seems at a loss for words, and I know we’re both replaying that moment.
She takes a deliberate step back toward the sofa, her voice steady. “Then maybe you should deal us in.”
And as I follow her, cards in hand, maybe the game isn’t really what I’m trying to win.
A few rounds later, and she’s managed to beat me every time at Rummy.
I’m utterly distracted by her and her skills to not only dress me down at my favorite card game, but also to keep blinding me with smiles that make me want to kiss her senseless.
She comes out of the kitchen with a fresh bottle of wine, already uncorked, moving like she’s been here a hundred times before.
The glug of the wine fills our glasses, then she drops onto the sofa beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine.
“So,” she says, handing me my glass, our fingers brush and my body comes to life with one little graze of her pinky, that seed of want growing within me the more time I spend with her, “tell me what it’s like living in England.”
The question catches me off guard. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Plenty,” she says, taking her first sip. “It’s England. That’s already more interesting than most people in Holly Creek. You also write books, my favorite books in fact. I’m imagining a little cottage in a small village, with a fireplace crackling while you read or write. Jude Law might be there.”
“You know Jude Law doesn’t live in all cottages in England?”
“Don’t ruin the fantasy for me.” She tips her glass to her mouth, eyes glinting. “You’re supposed to play along and say tea, scones, and charming accents.”
I swallow a mouthful of wine, its weight lingering on my tongue. “Being English isn’t a personality trait.”
“I disagree. You are the epitome of a Mr. Darcy type. Dark, mysterious, devilishly handsome, and of course, English.”
Sidestepping the handsome comment is my biggest flex of the night, but it does make me more brazen. “If I’m Mr. Darcy, that makes you Elizabeth Bennet, no?”
She snorts again; that ridiculous sound. “Please. I’ve been ready to put a brooding man in his place since I was twelve.”
The crimson liquid stains her lips, and once again, I’m transfixed. Those luscious lips coated in liquid make me want her more and more. I want to claim those lips, taste the wine from her mouth.
Her throat clears, my attention lifting back to her eyes. “So tell me then, do you drink tea constantly? Own a tweed jacket? Say ‘pip-pip’ and call everyone ‘guvnor’? Oh, oh, is your best friend a chimney sweep?”
I smirk, swirling my glass. “Yes. That’s exactly what it’s like. I rode a red double-decker bus to work every day, sipping tea and tipping my bowler hat to strangers. I also only make calls in red telephone boxes.”
“Knew it,” she chuckles, and I can’t help but do the same. “So how does it compare to being here?”
Her question isn’t prying, but it hits like a rock in my chest again. I hesitate, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass.
Her brow furrows slightly at my lack of response, her eyes steady on mine. “Or do you not want to talk about what you left behind?”
The silence after carries more weight than the question itself.
Or maybe it doesn’t. I’ve avoided talking about this since the day I arrived in Holly Creek, even before that.
Sharing the details feels like opening a door I’ve spent years trying to keep shut.
But the way she’s looking at me, with big, kind eyes, makes it hard to keep the door closed.
“I just wanted a fresh start,” I say finally. “Everything back at home... it reminded me of them.”
“Them?”
I take a deep breath, then she reaches for me, her thumb brushing idly over the back of my hand. The simple touch feels so good, soothing something in me. Her skin is on mine, and for the first time in years, I don’t want to pull away.
“My ex,” I start, the words rough in my throat. “Lucy. Four years ago, she was… my fiancée.”
Frankie’s unwavering gaze coaxes more from me.
“And Darren,” I force out along with a bitter laugh. “My best mate. I caught them together. Christmas Eve, no less. Talk about cliché.”
Her lips part, a faint gasp escaping.
“A life spent planning our future,” I continue, staring at the flickering candlelight instead of her.
“Gone in one night. I stayed in London out of spite, stubborn as hell, but every street corner had their shadow on it. Then one day I saw them at a market—hand in hand like nothing had happened—and it broke something I hadn’t realized was still intact. ”
Her fingers squeeze mine, warm and unflinching.
Most people looked at me like a cautionary tale. Like I was proof of what happens when you are na?ve. But she looks at me like I’m still a person. Like, I’m not defined by the worst thing that ever happened to me.
“It wasn’t just losing her,” I admit quietly. “It was losing him too. I didn’t just lose a fiancée, I lost my best friend and eventually all my friends. And I haven’t really let anyone close since.”
The words come out flat, but the weight of them never lessens. She leans back slightly, her gaze not leaving mine. “I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been.”
I nod. One day, I was living in a fourth-floor flat with a view of the Thames. Next thing I knew, I’d lost years of my life, and I was hauling boxes through the door to this place, hoping no one in Holly Creek would hurt me like that.
I let her soft touch soothe me. It’s such a simple thing, skin against skin, but it feels like my body has forgotten what it feels like.
I haven’t had anyone reach for me in years—not in comfort, not in affection, not without an agenda.
The last time someone held my hand, it was Lucy, and even that memory is tainted now.
Since then, it’s been handshakes with editors, the occasional brush of a stranger on the Tube; the kind of contact that means nothing and leaves nothing behind.
But Frankie’s palm is warm against mine, her thumb moving absently like she isn’t even aware of what she’s giving me, it unravels something in my chest I thought had calcified. For the first time in longer than I want to admit, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact.
“I told myself a lot of things the last six months.” I glance at her. “Like I didn’t need people. Like I could write again if I just got away from everything. But the truth is, I haven’t written a word since I got here, and I’ve been lonely.”
I don’t miss Lucy, not anymore. Haven’t in years. But the betrayal left behind has clung to me like smoke, impossible to scrub out no matter how far away I start over. Frankie doesn’t press, doesn’t prod, and that silence feels like mercy.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, my fingers curling slightly under hers.
“For what?” she asks, her voice warm.
“For not treating me like I’m broken.” I meet her gaze. “Most people do.”
There’s a faint curve of her lips. “You’re not broken, Sam. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still here.”
The truth of her words settles low, reverberating in places I thought were long dead, but it’s like a sliver of light, awakening something inside me. Like a door cracking open in a dark room. And she’s the reason.