‘These are great,’ I exclaimed, sitting back and stroking the arms.

‘Thanks.’ Sam grinned.

‘Where did you get them? I just bought a couple of chairs and table for my garden, but I really need two more.’

‘Here,’ he replied, pointing the chunk of potato on the end of his fork at the trees to one side of us.

‘They’re made from Bigley Forest trees?’ I asked, impressed.

‘Yep.’

‘So where could I get some from, given that my city girl skills don’t include turning a tree into a comfy chair?’

He shrugged. ‘I can knock you a couple of chairs up. Let me know when you need them by.’

‘You made these chairs.’

The dimple was back.

‘You really are the wild man of the forest.’

‘Apparently so.’

We chatted for a while about the other things he’d made (which turned out to be most of his house, as well various pieces of furniture for friends and family). It was nice. Very nice. And remarkedly non-awkward, considering that I was eating dinner in a beautiful setting with a man who looked like Mr May Forest Ranger. After a lifetime of meals rife with subtext, emotional manipulation and self-absorption, this was refreshingly pleasant. The more time I spent with Sam, the more I hoped we would become genuine friends.

And, possibly, somewhere deep down where I could mostly pretend it didn’t exist, was hidden a tiny hope that if I raced through the Dream List fast enough, we could, perhaps, one day grow to be more than that.

When Sam went to fetch the cheesecake, and returned with a bottle of white wine, offering to walk me home if I wanted a drink, with the option of fetching the car tomorrow, I did wonder for a flabbergasted second if he might be thinking along those lines, too. But then, I scolded myself when he excused himself to take a call from someone called Lilly, he was gorgeous, easy-going, ridiculously friendly Sam. It was probably unthinkable for him not to offer me some of the food I’d brought round. He’d have almost certainly done the same for Irene Jenkins. Or Ebenezer. I heard a guffaw drift through the sliding door and realised that for all I knew, Lilly was his girlfriend and she was rolling her eyes at him inviting in yet another waif. They’d probably had a right laugh about the woman with the uncontrollable dog.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, returning to the table. ‘Would you like some wine?’

By now, I just wanted to go home again.

‘I would,’ I said apologetically. ‘But I’ve got work tomorrow, so I’d better not. I don’t want to get home too late.’

‘Right, of course!’ Sam replied, a twinge of pink creeping across his cheeks. ‘Me too. You’ll stay for some pudding, though?’