Number Three:

True to her word, Sam repeats her offer to cook Coq au Vin for Foyle when she has placed her meagre belongings in his spare room and managed to freshen up a bit.

Knowing that Sam will prefer to repay his kindness, Foyle accepts but offers to help her. Sam quickly hides her surprise, but not quickly enough. Foyle raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry, sir. I don't know why I'd be surprised, of course you can cook – otherwise how would you have managed? It's just that at home no men ever cook. None of the vicars. It was always my mum's and aunts' and my job. I always snuck out." She grins. "Which is probably why I still can't cook anything but Coq au Vin without the Vin."

Foyle chuckles at her story and begins to slice the vegetables she has dug out. Mushrooms, carrots, even a few small onions. In the vicar's original recipe, there had been more meat and less vegetables but the war has changed that. Vegetables that grow in England are far easier to get in large quantities than meat is – even though onions can often be hard to come by.

So by the time Foyle finishes with the vegetables, Sam has cleaned the chicken and cut it up into smaller pieces and is peeling the potatoes while the chicken is browning in a skillet on the stove.

"Anything else I can do?" Foyle asks, wiping his hands on a tea towel. Sam looks back over her shoulder and smiles.

"No thanks, sir. Please, just relax. This is the least I can do."

Nodding, Foyle turns on the radio and sits down at the kitchen table with a few papers he still has to go over. Even though the recent days has been full of truly frustrating cases, Foyle feels a strange sense of calm wash over him as he sits at the table, listening to the radio and Sam softly humming along while making dinner for them. A while later he looks up from his papers to watch Sam instead and the sheer domesticity of the situation catches him by surprise.

Until a few days ago, Sam had been his driver, his colleague, maybe even his friend… then her house had been hit in a raid and he had had to come to terms with his feelings for her, which are rather warmer than they ought to be. And here she is, barefoot in his kitchen, wearing an apron and humming along to the radio while cooking dinner. The silence is comfortable, like this is a completely normal situation.

He can almost forget that they are at war. He can almost forget that he has lost his wife and that Sam will never see him as anything but a father-figure or at best (or worst) have a sort of school-girl thing for him. He can almost forget that this isn't permanent, that she isn't living with him, that she will soon find somewhere else and leave his house.

"Dinner is ready in a moment, would you mind setting the table please?"

"Of course."

As they sit across from each other at the small kitchen table, they speak only of neutral subjects while they eat. But when they are both full and Foyle has complimented her skills as a chef – or at least as a chef of 'Coq sans Vin' – he reaches out a hand and takes hers briefly across the expanse of the table.

"How are you holding up, Sam? Really?"

In the short moment that his hand is covering hers before once more letting go, she realises how much she needs the warm touch of his skin, how much she wants to be held by him, how much she wants him to protect her and tell her he loves her like she loves him. She's known it for a while now; that her feelings for her boss are not as platonic as they should be, but she has had no real trouble hiding them until now.

"I'm all right, sir," she tries to say but her voice breaks and a sharp sting behind her eyes warns her about the tears even before they fill her eyes. She looks down, ashamed of herself.

Without thinking or caring, Foyle reaches out for her again, hesitatingly because they are who they are, but needing to comfort her.

He knows that he shouldn't be thinking it, but he can't help but want to tell her everything. He knows that she is a young, vibrant woman who deserves someone younger and better than him. He knows that, should things work out between them, society won't be kind – he knows what they'll say, the gossiping hags, and what they'll insinuate. He knows that he will not live as long as her; that he will leave her widowed at too early an age when she deserves a full life with the one she loves.

But she could have died and for some reason that changes everything. He doesn't expect her to return his feelings – in fact, he's fairly sure she will be embarrassed by them; or worse, disgusted by them – but he can't bear the thought of her dying without knowing. So, as he gathers her into his arms, he prepares himself mentally to tell her and steels himself against the rejection that is bound to come.

When Sam feels him pulling her closer and encircling her with his surprisingly strong arms she almost loses the fight against her tears. The tenderness in his embrace, even as he almost crushes her to him makes her feel something she hasn't ever felt with anyone and once again she damns the fact that he could not be twenty years younger.

She knows that the tenderness of his arms is the tenderness for a daughter; she knows that his protection is the protection of a friend. She knows that he is still in love with his late wife and she is sure that if anyone was to change his mind about moving on, it would be someone quite different from herself. She knows all of this and she has tried to fall for more 'suitable' young men; it just hasn't worked.

But she could have died and somehow that changes everything. Something about the quiet man she works for has got under her skin and she can't be bothered to conceal it anymore. She's in his arms and even though she knows he'll be embarrassed by her feelings for him, perhaps even doubt her sincerity, she doesn't want to hide the fact that she is completely and utterly smitten with him anymore.

He doesn't know what it is, but when Sam looks up at him with her eyes wide, all he can see is an innocent little girl who has been hurt and scared beyond what she should have to and he realises that no matter how much he wants to tell her of his feelings, he can't take that bit of innocence away from her. He can't age her further.

As Sam pulls back slightly and looks up at Foyle, preparing to say the three most important words in her life to him, she suddenly loses courage. For once, Samantha Stewart is speechless. But the affection in his eyes gives her the courage she needs so desperately to complete her private little 'mission'.

She is so close to him, he can feel the heat from her body and their eyes are locked. He sees the change in her eyes. The damaged innocence disappears and a determined glint is the last thing he sees in them before her lips are suddenly on his and he's briefly wondering if this can really be happening. Then all thought disappears and all he senses is the softness of her lips, the feeling of her body in his arms and the smell of her soap.

"I love you, Christopher," Sam says quietly but determinedly when they part and Foyle is not prepared for the way he feels as his name rolls off her tongue. "I know you probably don't return my feelings, but I needed you to know."

Foyle looks at her intently for a moment or two, searching her eyes. They hold no shame, just honesty. Then he raises his hand to her face and caresses her cheek.

"Sam, you deserve so much better than me. You should not waste your affection on someone like me. You need someone younger, who will be able to give you a full life." It pains him to say it, especially when the words he never thought he'd hear from her are still ringing in his ears and the taste of her mouth is still on his lips.

"And what if I don't want anyone else?" Sam asks quietly. When he doesn't answer, she looks down, her throat tightening until it is almost too tight to speak.

"I'm sorry, sir," she finally manages to continue, her voice painfully formal. "Do forgive my impudence. I should not have assumed…"

She moves to extract herself completely from his embrace, but his arms tighten around her.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Are you sure? You're so, well, young."

She nods, tentative hope lighting in her eyes. "I'm sure, sir."

"You had it right the first time. It's Christopher. At least when we're not working. And well, if you don't want anyone else, I suppose I shall have to live with that," Foyle says with a small smile, his hand caressing her cheek again, his fingers grazing her lips. "I love you too, Samantha."

The end

A/N: As you may have noticed, I changed the title. This means that this will be the last installement of this fic. Sorry guys but I just lost inspiration and I didn't think it was fair to leave you all hanging (just goes to show me that I should never ever post unfinished stories. Never have before either). Might one day write a continuation but for the time being, this is all you get. Hope you enjoyed it nevertheless. I will be back! Bwahaha.