The sun had sunk behind the top terraces by the time the band had finished and the temperature had dropped too. There were still a good number of people milling around or sitting at the pub tables with pints but custom had dropped off sharply.

‘Shall we close up?’ Stefan asked. ‘It’s been a good gig.’

Sam nodded happily. In the end, Bryony and Sacha hadn’t dented trade too much. Sam loved it when they sent dozens of happy customers on their way. It made the hard work worthwhile. ‘I think so. We’re almost out of stock anyway, which is always a good thing.’

Stefan started to cash up and Sam was about to switch off the oven when a new customer jogged up to the counter.

‘Not too late, am I?’ Gabe grinned up at her.

He was the last person she expected to see because as far as she knew, he was still in London, and part of her had feared he might not come back at all until much closer to the festival. Her stomach did an annoying flip and a ripple of excitement ran through her. That shivery feeling was just as strong as it had been when she was nineteen. Sam swallowed. His temporary absence from Porthmellow had done nothing to damp down her fires, only stoked them higher.

‘I thought you were still in London,’ she said.

‘My business finished earlier than I expected so I got a last-minute flight. Can’t seem to stay away, I guess.’

Sam flashed him an apologetic smile. ‘We were just about to close.’

He frowned. ‘That’s a shame. I was longing to try one of your delicious pies.’

‘I would have thought you’d be into fine dining,’ she said, trying to steady her racing heart. How did he still have the power to make her feel like this? Why couldn’t she stop her reaction?

‘Sometimes, but I like simple food too. Have you forgotten I was brought up in a fish and chip shop?’ He smiled again. His black hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it away. Was that a thread of grey at the temples? Wow … Sam thought, but she must look different too. Did she look older to him? His eyes were still the deep brown she’d always loved. Like a peaty pool on the moorland behind Porthmellow, she used to think in her dreamier days, a pool with the sunlight glinting off it.

Or perhaps the colour was more like the glossy gravy in her beef pies. She stifled a giggle. How things had changed. Age and bitter experience had brought the Greek god that used to be Gabe crashing down to earth for her, no matter how he made her feel.

‘What’s up?’ he said, a line appearing between his eyebrows. ‘Do I have spinach on my teeth or something?’