Title: Where To, Sir?
Summary: Foyle and Sam didn't really hit it off on Day One…or did they?
Genre: (Im)pure, (almost) unadulterated Foyle-fluff.
A/N: An antidote to all those fics that make them play the waiting game.
Previously in "Where to, Sir?":
Samantha was in heaven… his hands were threaded through her hair and his body was merging with hers and she had become a kind of sacred music soaring to the topmost corner of the nave… shedding sweetly joyous tears in answer to his forceful tenderness… climbing to an exhilarating height and anchoring herself against the only solid thing in reach: her Christopher.
Never had she felt a rush of joy and pleasure such as this, and, though she'd never known such intimacy in her life, her instincts hungered for his deliverance to be hot and deep inside her. She heard his low dark moan of agonized anticipation and clutched his shoulders yet more tightly, answering his thrusts with upward pelvic movements of her own, and punctuating all his gasps for air with her breathlessly loving sounds of soft encouragement.
Must pull out in time…
He stilled for a split second and began to shudder. Then to her horror he began to pull away. If he did, her mind somehow reasoned, she would succumb to vertigo, be denied completion; and the absolute rightness of this union—this feeding of her very spirit—would be lost.
Sam could not let this come about; in less than a second she had clamped both legs about his waist and locked him into place within her.
"Sam! I need to—"
In that instant, he discovered the power of a determined woman's thighs, combined with the tight inner muscles of an until-now-unnavigated channel. His cry of alarm became a surging growl as his hips gave an involuntary jerk and he felt the hot seed jetting out of him and into her.
With that final thrust, the huge desk shifted on its pillars, knocking the sturdy chair behind it into the adjacent coat-stand. The tall stand toppled sideways, sliding down the wall, and dislodging Rosalind's precious watercolour from its hook.
The cherished picture hit the filing cabinet, whence it bounced and landed face-down on the floor with a resounding crash.
Chapter 2
Somewhere in the depths of his completion, Foyle perceived a strident crashing noise, as if at a great distance. Still dazed in the aftermath of climax, he turned his face the merest inch or two from where he nestled, gasping, in the fragrant crook of his young driver's neck. His bleary, half-unfocussed eyes sought out the source of the commotion.
Oh, Christ! Her painting! Foyle let out a groan. Vague consciousness of what—or whom—he still held in his arms seeped back to own his full awareness. And that same gorgeous bundle, feeling his head pull from her neck, moved her face to fill the gap and nestle in his own.
"Mmm. Christopher. So wonderful!" she purred. She felt him softening inside her, and gave a small sound of distress as he slipped from her. "No, oh no, oh Christopher!"
"Ssh, Love. I've got you..." Dragging his gaze back from the picture lying on the floor, Foyle reached down to retrieve his half-mast trousers and, fastening them quietly, stepped back from Sam, gently smoothing her clothing into place. "Come and sit with me."
She felt a soft warm version of the sharp ecstasy she had just been experiencing at the sound of his voice speaking so mildly and sweetly to her.
Foyle led her to his chair, and drew her down so she was cradled on his lap.
By now their breaths had calmed, and Sam burrowed into his neck like a small child seeking comfort. From the angle of the chair, Foyle had a clear view of his late wife's painting face-down on his office floor. He lowered his lids, attempting to shut out his guilt, but succeeded only in intensifying it. How could I? And now this sweet young woman, cuddling into his shoulder, tearing down the fortress he had built around his heart. How was he meant to comport himself around her now? Her sweet, childlike demeanour suddenly in stark contrast to the act they had just shared? How was he meant to feel, now it was over? What did she expect of him? A fond protection and concern, perhaps, but please God! NOT the feelings of a father.
But already, the heaven of breathing in her slightly sweat-damp hair and feeling her arms wound around him was summoning him back from the edge of self-rebuke once more. He felt almost dizzy from the emotional veering, and hauled his eyes back from the fallen painting onto Sam.
The next thing he knew, her soft brown eyes were seeking his. They shone now with a radiance he hardly dared to hope was meant for him, and as she drank his gaze, her right hand rose to stroke his ear, tracing round its shell with such an air of fascination that he had to smile to think how foolish he must appear to her now.
Sam watched his lids close in a kind of ecstasy, and fancied that his lashes looked like dark-winged butterflies upon his cheeks. A low, contented hum built up inside her as her fingers glided lightly round his lobes.
Foyle lifted blurry eyes and blinked in foggy bewilderment at the soft vibrations coming from her chest. Could it be that she had no regrets at their liaison? Struck by how innocent she seemed in this first moment of "innocence lost", he tucked his chin into his chest and, frowning benignly, began to rock her in his arms.
Soothed by the gentle movement, Sam moved her fingers to her lover's face, and, wearing an expression of rapt wonderment, traced adoringly the sunburst of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Foyle hugged her swiftly to him then, folding her head against his shoulder, lest she see the tear of poor apology to Rosalind escape his guilt-creased eye. My Darling, please forgive me, but this girl feels... right... as if she were my... Destiny? Foyle shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. Listen to yourself, man! There can be no excuse for this. Pull yourself together and apologise to the girl!
He swallowed. "Sam... um... Sam..." the words caught like a log-jam in his throat. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and pushed hard at the sentiment with his mind until the agonizing obstruction cleared. "Could you ever—ever— forgive this—my—abominable behaviour?"
A chuckle from Samantha then. Of all the responses he might have expected, this was definitely not one. It built to a delighted little peal of laughter that startled him.
"Whatever is there to forgive?" she laughed. "Forgive you for... for..."— any number of things clamoured to be said, but every one of them sounded to her like clichés from a penny romance. In the end, she settled for just one word: — "us?" But in her mind, she said, For making me feel as if I were in Heaven? For making me happier than I can ever remember feeling?
His voice cracked with upset, "I could hardly hope that you would..."
Sam watched his face—a veritable picture as he struggled to unravel a whole nexus of emotions. His brow furrowed with concern, but in spite of himself, his eyes still crinkled at the tender joy with which this girl had touched him. A small smile surfaced on his lips, struggling defiantly through a fierce attack of teeth upon his inner cheek, as if two facets of his nature were in direct conflict.
Truth to tell, Christopher Foyle's nature, in relation to the female sex, had not been complex. He had not had many women in his lifetime, and since the death of Rosalind, not even one. Which was not to say that there had not been overtures. He'd been flirted with by widowed friends, by witnesses pulled in for questioning—even by arrested prostitutes. Once, at one of Charles and Alice Howard's parties (Rosalind's brother and his wife), a much younger woman had fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he had puzzled over it. A young beauty like that, surrounded by swains in dinner jackets, and here she was making eyes at a man nearly 20 years older (as he had been then, aged 42)?
Why had he not taken any of these women up on their warm welcomes? Perhaps because, as lovely to him as some of the candidates had appeared, not one had managed to engage his mind in the way he felt it should be... whereas those whose minds or spirits he had most admired had not quite moved his heart. Once, to his rank dismay, he had even found himself physically drawn to a young lady of the evening. Sensing his attraction, she had promptly made it clear that she'd be his at no charge... but it was not his nature to exploit such an unfortunate, let alone ignore the very laws he was employed to uphold. No. In summary, his history with women was a short, simple chronicle of abstinence, or failure—whichever label one might care to put upon it.
What was so different, then, about this encounter, this girl?
He still could not find the answer, but... there were those eyes... preposterously large and looking at him now with such a trust and warmth. Eyes that showed intelligence, and spoke determination—small matter if the goal of the moment were no more grandiose than making tea. Everything about Samantha Stewart said that if she had a job to do, by golly, she was going to do it!
He glanced at the small table near the wall, where she had placed the tea tray. The tea itself was probably quite tepid by now, but he needed something to assuage the soreness in his throat. He had breathed so hard, and vocalized so much... He felt a growing blush creep up his cheeks as he remembered. Every. Single. Detail.
And vivid though his recall was, one more gentle caress of her nose-tip at the curve of his ear, and he felt something else incredible—the twitch of his arousal once again. What had it been, twenty minutes since they'd...?
He fidgeted, and his eyes stretched in alarm. He couldn't risk another round inside his office—Lady Luck was already finding his demands too insolent. That he had got away with one... episode... was hard to credit. Two would be pushing providence.
"Sam," he told her gently, curbing a desire to stroke the softness of her cheek, and giving her instead a light pat on the elbow, "can't stay here. We have to... um... I should go home."
Sam was less reserved in her gestures. Reaching with thumb and forefinger to steady his chin, she raised her head and planted a kiss on his lips. "I'll take you, then," she told him simply, jumping to her feet. "Anywhere you want to go."
As they stood and readjusted clothing, Foyle's eyes came to rest upon the painting, lying face-down on the floor. He began to bite his lip in dread of picking it up and finding that the damage was irreparable.
Before he could carry out his intention, Sam had bent down and retrieved the picture with a flourish.
"Gosh!" she marvelled, turning it to show him. "Look! The glass isn't even chipped!"
She hung the painting back on its hook and took a few seconds to straighten it.
"Lovely painting," she observed appreciatively. "Do you know the artist?"
Christopher's eyes were closed, she noticed, and that funny characteristic internal chewing of the side of his mouth had ratcheted to ferocious.
"Christopher, are you all right?" she fretted.
He forced himself out of his angst-laden reverie. "Yes. Um. Artist. Matter of fact, I do. We should maybe..." He gestured toward the door, managing a small smile.
Though Sam had made an impressive job of neatening her clothing, her hair still bore a tell-tale flyaway quality. Foyle found he had to quell the impulse to stroke the strands of ginger-tinged blonde hair more neatly into place, and plunged his hands into his pockets.
She snapped to, just short of saluting him again, and retrieved the unconsumed tea things to carry them back to the station kitchen.
Having barely conquered his desire to neaten Sam's hair, Foyle ran a tentative hand over his own, then dusted off the jacket and hat that had fallen from the toppled coat-stand during their frenzied coupling.
For a moment, he gazed down at the trilby and fed it through his fingers by the brim. When he looked up, Samantha Stewart had left the room, and the door into the corridor stood open before him.
Blinking in shame, he placed the hat atop his head and stepped out of his office, into a world that had remade itself in the last hour.
As Foyle waited for Samantha to bring the car round to the front of the station, he turned events over in his mind. Part of his confusion was attributable to her happiness about it all. Another part was the head-spinning speed with which all this had occurred.
Inevitably, he drew comparisons with his other relationships.
With Elizabeth, his attachment had formed quickly, but for a time thereafter he had loved her rather from afar… she had seemed unattainable, and ultimately circumstance had made her so. His love for Rosalind had developed more gradually; they had known each other since her childhood, with Rosalind shyly worshipping her older brother's friend, and Christopher, treating her indulgently at first, had come to cherish and finally to covet her regard. It had been a revelation when their romance began as it had. He thought, too, of his brief affair with Caroline, two years before he married Rosalind. That, too, had been a lightning attraction (for soldiers, so many of those turned into involvements), but always there had been an air of melancholy about the time they spent together. Their stolen moments had been tainted by the shadow of her sadness and the awful tyranny of her marriage.
All in marked contrast to this… sunniness of wanting Sam.
And Caroline had proved to have her weaknesses… the inability to extricate her life from Charles Devereaux's being the most painfully memorable. Strength, he mused. It was part of what already enthralled him about Samantha Stewart.
Foyle examined his confusion further. All the evidence pointed to the fact that he had fallen for this girl at the drop of a... a bin lid? Fallen for her sunny disposition and her strength… equally, he had fallen for the sweetness with which Sam seemed to feel no shame at their liaison. It was a wondrous compliment, but in his view, ill-merited.
For—look what he had done! Taken egregious advantage of a much younger person—woman—employed as his subordinate… a person over whom he had direct authority… and put her at risk of pregnancy with one reckless act. No matter how much magic they had felt, he had behaved irresponsibly, and was guilty of a deplorable lack of judgement amounting to professional misconduct. There was nothing for it but to apologise profusely to her, and to give her his assurance that he would resign.
His resignation, he reasoned, would not affect her prospects. Samantha's war could be spent assisting someone engaged in far more worthwhile work. Something for the war effort. Instead of being caught up with some aging, provincial copper pursuing petty criminals for petty crimes in petty bloody circumstances. Christ! He wouldn't drag her down into his loneliness, or use her to assuage his personal desperation. He would give her a glowing reference, and then resign.
Sam drew up to the kerb outside the station, and Mr Foyle slipped into the passenger seat, disappointingly subdued. Her boss, she reflected sadly, seemed to be having a harder time with this than she was.
"Where to, Sir?" she asked him in her cheeriest tone, in hopes of dispelling his (in her view) unnecessarily bleak mood.
Then in that instant, an awareness hit her, leaving her aghast. In all the euphoria of her new post and her excitement at helping and earning his approval, followed by the sheer bliss of their lovemaking, Sam had never once stopped to consider his familial situation. Had Assistant Commissioner Summers ever mentioned it, when he telephoned her? He had seemed quite brusque and peremptory about the whole thing; in the space of one minute, she had received her orders and the call was over. It seemed likely he hadn't considered the matter any of her business. No, all he had said was that she was required to act as driver and otherwise assist the Detective Chief Superintendent, Hastings Station, and "other detectives or officers, as and when required".
An attractive, good-natured man of Mr Foyle's age… he must be married. Sam's eyes struggled to focus on the road in front of the parked car, all at once fearful even to look at her boss. What on earth had she done, initiating the encounter?
She was still struggling with this coup de foudre when he replied, "31, Steep Lane, please Sam." Her eyes began to fog with tears as she gazed down at the street plan ready in her hands. Blinking back the tell-tale moisture as unobtrusively as she could, she stole a glance sideways and saw that Mr Foyle's face was turned away from her. As well it might be, she reflected, abashed. I'm driving him home to his wife, and quite probably children, too.
The drive was a short one, but by the time the Wolseley pulled up on the hill outside her boss's house, Samantha Stewart could no longer contain her desolation, and began to weep quite openly, but silently, next to him.
Having spent the journey staring sightlessly through the passenger window, in contemplation of his resignation from the Force, Foyle spoke only to give Sam guidance once they'd reached Steep Lane.
"Um. Look, just pull up on the left here, would you, Sam? This is my house."
It was only when the noise of the engine stopped that he became aware of a muffled sniffing noise coming from Samantha on his right, and turned, surprised to see her wiping her eyes on the back of her right hand whilst applying the handbrake with her left.
In his consternation, he supposed that some delayed reaction had set in, and that now she was regretful of the whole encounter, just as he'd suspected that she would be all along. For a moment or two, he sat wordlessly beside her, chewing vigorously on the inside of his bottom lip, and gazing mournfully at her in his shame.
When her tears showed no sign of abating, though the sniffles had subsided somewhat, he shifted round to face her profile, delving into his trouser pocket to hand her his handkerchief.
She ignored the gesture, staring straight ahead.
"Sam," he pleaded, wincing under puckered brows as he tendered the hanky, "for the love of God, tell me why you're crying, will you?"
"I'm so s-sorry, Sir. Your w-w-wife!"
Foyle blinked. What did Rosalind's death have to do with this? "It's uh. It's all right, Sam," he told her kindly. "No reason to upset yourself. It was a long time ago."
Sam turned and stared at him, bewildered and not a little hurt. "A long time? It was only an hour ago!"
Foyle's eyes grew wide as he tried to make sense of her words. He sat blinking in puzzlement.
Finally he ventured, "I think, um, you should come in for a moment, and compose yourself?"
"I can't do that!" Sam looked at him as if he'd lost his senses. "What would your wife... ?"
The penny dropped.
"Sam, what... ? What wife? I'm... Sam, I thought the Commissioner would have told you. I lost my wife eight years ago."
"OHTHANKGOD!" Even as the words left her mouth in a gush of utter relief, Sam blanched... "Oh. Goodness. Heavens. I'm SO sorry, Sir…"
His wide eyes never left her face. "I—I'm, um, quite unmarried, but that doesn't remotely excuse..."
She put her hand over her mouth and gave one loud, heartrending sob.
Foyle urged her once again to come inside, adding gently, "If you could, ah, try and calm yourself before you step out of the car, I'd be immensely grateful?"
By mutual agreement, they both climbed out of the Wolseley at the same time, but as Foyle walked up the steps to the front door, a sense of bleakness overtook him, as he worried that her crying still related to regret.
Sam was still dabbing her eyes and enjoying the scent of his handkerchief as he ushered her ahead of him into his front hall.
She removed her hat, glancing past the coat-stand as her vision adjusted to the dim light. On the wall was a triptych of English country scenes in serene watercolours: a mountainside river overlooked by white cottages; a cluster of small houses near a channel peninsula with a view of cliffs in the background; a castle ruin in the sun.
"Sir!" she cried involuntarily, then blushed. "Is this the same painter as… ?"
Christopher stood beside her, and she could see reflected in the glass the ineffable sadness that veiled his eyes as he said, "Yesss… my… wife painted them."
She turned, catching sight again of the pained look in his eyes, and ached to chase that look away. "They're very good. She was immensely talented. And you can tell that she loved to paint."
The look he gave her then was one of admiration. How did she know? Rosalind had found solace in her painting above all else, with the possible exception of—He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory.
"Tea. Please," he pressed, guiding her by the elbow. "I need some, and I imagine you probably do, too. Have a seat in here, Sam." He showed her through into the living room. "Warm enough? Good. I'll just, um, put the kettle on and make a pot."
Foyle stood before the hob, watching the kettle boil and massaging the back of his neck. A loud rumble from his stomach broke the silence, and it struck him then that Sam was very likely starving, too. There was very little in the pantry, but it crossed his mind that, with some ingenuity, he could make it stretch and give her some approximation of a meal, at least.
Meanwhile in the living room, Sam sat on the settee, still sniffing back the remnants of her earlier upset and waggling her knees as she waited for him to come back. Her stomach rumbled, but she resolved not to bother him with it. Tea—perhaps he had some sugar?—would sort things out.
The more Sam bounced her knees, the more she was reminded that Things Felt a Little Sticky Down There. Rising, she crept into the kitchen, and caught Mr Foyle leaning over the sink, rubbing the back of his head and looking distinctly queasy.
"Are you all right, Sir?"
Instantly, he drew himself upright and turned, clearly startled at the intrusion on his introspection. "Yes, um, yes. A little tired. What can I do for you, Sam?"
From somewhere, she found the courage to ask to use the facilities.
"Um, yes, of course, I'll show you where..." Foyle frowned at his own embarrassment. It was all well and good, but there was no excuse to shirk his very real responsibility. As they reached the landing, he indicated the bathroom door to Sam and, though unable to meet her eyes, signalled with a soft touch to her shoulder that she should wait there. "I, um. Just a moment, and I'll find you something."
Disappearing into his bedroom, he delved into drawers unopened in more years than he cared to remember. It was not long before he was able to return to Sam and press a bundle into her hands, with a subdued "My wife's. I hope, um..."
She thanked him, and without another word, he turned and trotted down the flight of stairs.
Down in the kitchen, Foyle set about with a frying pan and spatula to throw together a quick and filling meal while the tea brewed in a brown glazed teapot underneath a knitted cosy. Ten minutes later, by the time the tea was well and truly stewed, he'd managed something rather nice, if simple, from the leftovers in the pantry.
Just as he was deftly decanting the contents of the pan onto two dinner plates, Sam crept back into the kitchen, with what he took to be her folded knickers in her hand. Setting down the pan, he indicated she should sit down at the kitchen table, and deliberately avoiding too close an examination of what she was carrying, he mumbled, "I'll find you a bag for that. Why don't you pour the tea?"
Sam nodded silently, then sat, placing the small wadded bundle in her lap. The meal smelled delicious, although it wasn't easy to deduce what it contained. But from the creamy aroma, Sam suspected that he'd loaded the frying pan with his butter ration for the week. Her taste buds began to weep as she reached for the teapot and poured the welcome, still hot, dark brew into two teacups he had placed on the table.
Shortly afterwards Foyle returned from the pantry with what looked like a greaseproof bag. "Bit short of, um... hope this will do," he slid it toward her across the table, then looked away as she slipped the wad of silken material inside.
When he looked back at Sam again, he could see her trying to decide where to put the small package, so he held out his hand and offered, "Let me put that on the dresser for you, just for now."
As she looked up and smiled shyly, handing him the small, half-translucent parcel, Foyle thought how vulnerable she looked, but tore his thoughts away to ask, "So… anyway, are you hungry?"
Sam grinned, happily anticipating food. "Didn't have much time for lunch, Sir."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "STOP... um. Please stop calling me 'Sir', won't you, Sam? I really don't deserve the respect." He carried her parcel to the dresser, muttering under his breath, "Not fit to have you under my command."
Her face was suddenly panicked. "Will I no longer be working for you, then, S—Christopher?"
"Please start," he urged her absently, gesturing toward her plate. "No need to wait for me."
As he placed Sam's parcel on the dresser, the bloodstain on her underwear was clearly visible through the greaseproof paper.
Christ! He half-crumpled then, hands braced apart, leaning forward with his eyes screwed shut.
"Sam. I'm so sorry..." Oh, God forgive me. Raising one supporting hand from the dresser surface, he drew the back of it across his brow, then dragged his fingers down to wring at his face. With a sigh he began walking aimlessly back and forth.
Sam was acutely aware that he had not answered her earlier question about still working for him. She began to worry then: What must he think of me? For all he knows, I'm no better than a common tart.
The worry pushed her into a sudden protestation of virtue. "Sir, I hope you know I've never..."
"Yes, Sam, I think I probably worked that out..." He closed his eyes in irritation against a flood of arousing thought of her tight passage embracing him, and to his chagrin, felt a twinge of renewed stimulation.
"I mean. Not even fumbled, really," Sam went on earnestly, relieved by his instant assurance, and to all appearances, oblivious to the effect she was having. "A few kisses, perhaps, but never anything that felt like... well, what we did."
He caught the radiant widening of her eyes as she recalled it, and had to shut his own. When he opened them again, it was to run a hand over his head in tense exasperation.
"Look. Sam, you mustn't... let's not talk about it, just now. We'll have some dinner, and perhaps then... we can talk things out."
Sam looked at him pleadingly. "In that case, would you mind awfully sitting down, Christopher? Your pacing's putting me off my food."
In the end they'd eaten a fairly calm meal, and even managed some cordial conversation.
Sam had told Foyle a little about her upbringing in Lyminster, and how her father often took her fishing as a girl. Hearing this, Foyle seemed to grow shyly interested, and asked her some very knowledgeable questions about the type of fish they used to catch, and what conditions were like on the rivers where they fished. It soon became apparent to Sam that his interest wasn't idle; it was informed.
"So you fish, Christopher?" she asked him, hopefully, relieved to have some ground in common, other than... the obvious.
He nodded modestly. "I—um—as it happens, I'm a keen angler myself. I don't suppose, sometime, you'd care to—" He checked himself. What was he playing at? One minute he was convinced that his best resolve was to cut their connection and fall on his own sword, and the next, he was hooked into the idea of inviting her fishing.
Foyle looked at the girl across the table from him, and saw no trace of regret in her demeanour. Nothing to indicate she felt he was "taking advantage" of her. In fact, her cheerfulness and continued obvious welcome of his company again had him all confused.
Yet, stuck in his mind was the prejudice of being older, in a position of superiority at work, and in a prolonged state of... what else could he call it but 'mourning'? for his late wife.
No sooner had the ill-advised invitation left his lips, than Sam had jumped in with an eager, "I'd love to. Saturday? Shall we? We could meet here first and tie some flies."
Foyle's finger crept inside the rim of his collar. This was not going at all how he had planned.
"Let's, um... move into the living room, shall we?" He stood and moved round the table to the back of her chair to pull it out for her in his best chivalrous manner, ushering her back along the hall and over to the settee before the fire.
On the way, he had begun to question precisely what he had planned. Honestly, what had he expected when he had moved them away from his office, off his professional territory and to his home? He had to admit to himself that his motives looked bad. In point of fact, he couldn't be certain whether, subliminally at least, when he had removed their... discussion... from the station, he didn't in fact have a Round Two in mind.
To himself now, he was beginning to look like the worst kind of hypocrite.
Sam sat on the settee and looked at him expectantly. As he was not sitting for the moment, she hoped he would not begin his restless pacing again. He looked at her and noted her slightly anxious, concerned-for-him mien. How dear she was. Putting aside the idea of suggesting more tea as a stopgap, he steeled his nerves and lowered himself into the chair to the right of the fire, pulling it round slightly so that it was nearer the couch.
"Sam. I don't believe—not for a moment—that you have done anything wrong. You are…" he faltered, staring glazedly at the floor as he struggled to express himself. "You are good at your job, you are kind and giving. I... have done an egregious thing, though. I should not have let any of this happen. I don't regret it in terms of the way it feels, but from the standpoint of what is best for you—what is proper —I must not let it happen again."
The eyes that lifted to meet Samantha's were kind but resolute. Hers filled; her boss was telling her that it was over.
TBC...