Her Sweet Surrender: The First Crush Is the Deepest

Sam’s arms wrapped tighter around her waist, the fingers pressing oh so gently into her ribcage and Amber closed her eyes, her pulse racing. It had been a long time. And he smelt fabulous. Felt. Fabulous.

Sam pressed his head into the side of her neck, his light stubble grazing against her skin, and her head dropped back slightly so that it was resting on his.

Bad head.

Bad need for contact with this man.

Bad full stop.

One of his hands slid up the side of her neck and smoothed her hair away from her face so that he could press his lips against the back of her neck.

‘It was all my fault,’ he said, and his low, soft voice sounded different. Strained. Hesitant. ‘I was trying to do the right thing and in the end I caused you pain. I’m so sorry.’

Amber sighed and looked up at the twinkling stars in the night sky, but sensed her shoulders lift with tension.

‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. It was eleven years ago and we were both so young and trying to find our way. It’s just...it never crossed my mind that you were trying to do the noble thing by walking out on me. I wasted a lot of angry tears. And that is just sad, Sam.’

Sam continued to breathe into her neck, and one of his hands slid up from her waist to move in small circles on her shoulders under his jacket, and Amber suddenly began to heat up at a remarkably rapid rate.

‘I know you’re tired. No wonder. I’ve watched you dance the night away and I’m glad that I was here to see that. So thank you again for inviting me. Although Kate was watching me like a hawk to make sure that I wasn’t making any moves on you.’

And that did make Amber grin. ‘Kate the virtue keeper. I like that.’

Sam said nothing, but the hand tracing circles slid down her arm from shoulder to wrist, and he moved impossibly closer, his hand moving slowly up and down her arm.

‘And necessary. You look very beautiful tonight.’

Amber smiled wide enough for Sam to sense her movement. ‘Thank you. And thank you for finally telling me the truth about what happened.’

She slowly lifted one of Sam’s hands from her waist and pushed gently away from him, instantly sorry that she had broken the touch, but turned back to face him.

‘It’s gone midnight. And I have had a very bad year, Sam. In so many ways. I don’t want to start the next year of my life with regrets and bitterness.’

The smile on his lips faded and his upper lip twitched a couple of times. Amber knew that move. He couldn’t be nervous. Could he?

She looked into his face and smiled a closed mouth smile. ‘We both made mistakes. And I’m the last person who should be judging anyone. So how about starting the next year of my life as we mean to go on? As old friends who have just met up again after a long break. Can you do that?’

‘Old friends,’ he replied and lifted her fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘I’ll drink to that. How about...’

But, before Sam could finish speaking, a fat lounger cushion whacked him on the side of the head. And then a second time.

‘You can stop that right now, Sam Richards. I mean it. Stop or I’ll go and find the rolling pin and wrap it around your ears.’

‘It’s okay, Kate.’ Amber sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Sam has just passed the audition. He’ll be coming to India to interview me next week. You can put the pillow down.’

Sam stopped ducking his head and whipped around. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I have changed my mind about going to Parvita’s wedding.’ Amber smiled, her eyebrows high. ‘Isn’t that exciting?’

TEN (#u29378553-e29f-58a7-a157-617b1a189ac7)

From: Amber@AmberDuBois.net

To: Kate@LondonBespokeTailoring.com;

Saskia@ElwoodHouse.co.uk

Subject: Sam Report

Hey Goddesses

Greetings from another gorgeous day in Kerala. The girls are still trying to settle down after all of the excitement of Parvita’s wedding so lots to do, but my wrist is feeling a lot better today—despite all of the sitar playing!

Sam’s flight was an hour late leaving London so he won’t arrive until very late in the evening, which is probably a good thing considering this pre monsoon heatwave. No doubt he is bursting to get this interview over and done with so he can get back to his nice cool London office. Especially since I asked the janitor to pick Sam up at the airport in his rusty old motor, which is definitely on its last legs. Just for Kate.

Will report back tomorrow. Have fun. Amber

Sam Richards slid his rucksack off his shoulder and mopped the sweat from his brow and neck with one of his dad’s pocket handkerchiefs as he strolled up the few steps to the single storey white building. If it was this hot at dusk he was dreading the midday temperature. But he would find out soon enough.

Great! Not.

The school janitor, who had picked him up at the airport, had pointed him towards the main entrance to the girls’ home but Sam had barely been able to hear what he said since he kept the wreck of a car engine going just in case it broke down before he made it home.

The last hour had been spent in a bone-shaking car from the nineteen-sixties driven by a friendly janitor who seemed oblivious to the fact that he was hitting every pothole on the dirt road between the local airport and the girls’ home in a car with bald tyres and no suspension.

Sam was amazed that the patched up, barely intact motor had lasted the journey without breaking down in a coconut grove or rice paddy. But it had got him here and for that he was grateful.

Slipping his sunglasses into his shirt breast pocket, Sam stretched his arms tall and tried to take in the sensory overload that was the Kerala coastline at sunset.

And failed.

The sea breeze from the shockingly beautiful crescent shaped bay was blocked by the low brick wall which formed the boundary of the property, creating a breathless oasis of fruit trees, a vegetable garden and exotic flowering plants which spilled out in an explosion of startlingly bright colours from wooden tubs and planters.

The immaculately kept gardens stretched down to the ocean and a wide strip of stunning white sand which glowed in the reflected shades of deep rich apricot, scarlet and gold from the setting sun. His view of the lapping waves was broken only by the thin trunks of tall coconut palms, banana plants and fruit trees.

It was like a poster of a dream beach from the cover of a holiday brochure. Complete with a long wooden fishing boat on the shore and umbrellas made from coconut palm fronds to protect the fishermen and occasional tourists who were out on the beach this late in the evening.

Coconuts. He was looking at real coconut palm trees. Compared to the grey, drizzly London Sam had left the previous afternoon the warm breeze was luxuriously dry and scented with the salty tang from the sea blended with spice and a tropical sweet floral scent.

A great garland of bougainvillea with stunning bright purple and hot pink flowers wound its way up the side of the school entrance and onto the coconut fibre roof, intertwined with a wonderful frangipani which spilled out from a blue ceramic pot, attracting bees and other nectar-seeking insects to the intensely fragrant blossoms. The perfume almost balanced out the heavy red dust from the dirt road and the bio odours from the cows and chickens who roamed freely on the other side of a low coconut matting fence.

He loved writing and his life as a journalist. He always had, but it was only when he came to villages like this one that it really struck home how much of his life was spent in open plan offices under fluorescent light tubes.

Even the air tasted different on his tongue. Traffic from the coast road roared past. Trucks in all colours, painted auto rickshaws and bright yellow buses competed with birdsong and the chatter of people and motor scooters. Everywhere he looked his eyes and ears were assaulted by a cacophony of life.

But as he relaxed into the scene, hands on his hips, the sound of piano music drifted out through the partly open door of what looked like a school building to his left and Sam smiled and wandered over, his shirt sticking to his back in the oppressive heat and humidity.

Amber was sitting on a very frail looking low wooden bench in front of an upright piano which had definitely seen better days. The polish was flaking off, the lid was warped and, from where he was standing, it looked as if some of the black keys were missing at the bottom of the scale.