‘No.’ Sam assumed her best customer-friendly voice. ‘We do have a couple of pies left. There’s a roast chicken in a scrumpy sauce or a Cornish beef with red wine and mushrooms.’

Gabe rubbed his chin. ‘Both sound extremely tempting. What do you recommend, chef?’

Was he simply joking or seriously taking the mickey? Sam wasn’t sure.

‘We-ell … the chicken is free range, of course, from a supplier near Mullion. The scrumpy is a top-quality apple cider from the Tywardene farm, which I think you’ll know, having drunk enough of it when you were younger.’ She smirked and Gabe nodded.

‘The beef is local too and farmed to the highest standards,’ she went on. ‘The mushrooms came from a market garden that recently opened on the north coast and the red wine – well, I have to confess – the wine was from the St Erth cash and carry, but it did win a gold medal in some sommelier awards.’

He considered for a moment. ‘Hmm. What about the pastry cases themselves?’

‘Hand crimped and baked in specially commissioned tins to my own secret recipe. I could divulge it to you, but then I’d have to kill you,’ she said, and couldn’t resist throwing him a beaming smile.

‘That won’t be necessary. Sorry to disappoint you.’ His mouth turned down in mock horror.

Sam wanted to laugh but kept it to a smile. In the good old days, Gabe had made her laugh a lot and feel so good about herself, she could have taken on the world.

He sighed. ‘They sound so delicious, I can’t decide so I’ll have both.’

‘Great. That means I have no leftover stock. That’ll be seven pounds ninety-eight, please.’

He pulled a note from his wallet. ‘Here’s a tenner. Keep the change.’

‘Thanks. I’ll add it to the festival fund,’ Sam said pointedly.

Gabe shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

After popping the pies in the trademark stiff paper bag and handing them over, Sam put Gabe’s cash in the mini till. Instead of leaving to eat his pies at home as she’d expected, he hung around, blowing on the crust of the chicken one and taking tiny bites as it cooled. Stefan raised a significant eyebrow, but Sam refused to react to her colleague’s knowing looks. She tried to busy herself by cleaning down the surfaces while Gabe tucked into the pie.

She’d convinced herself she didn’t care what he thought of her – but she did care what he thought of her cooking. She was dying to know his opinion, but she would rather have run naked through the Festival Marquee than ask. So, she took off her apron and climbed out of the van, ready to lock up. Gabe was eating the second of the pies while talking to the landlord of the Smuggler’s Tavern.