A/N: 'Dear Sir' picks up where 'Last Man Standing' left off. But while 'Last Man Standing' was written from Foyle's POV, 'Dear Sir' is Sam's POV. Thanks again to Persiflage for her help.

Dear Sir

There. I'd come right out and said it, the thing I'd been waiting to say for so long: I couldn't marry Adam, because I'm in love with you.

The look on Mr. Foyle's face was not disapproving, as I had feared it would be. Startled, perhaps, but not disapproving. When he reached out to brush my cheek with the back of his hand, I nearly lost control of the car. Wouldn't that have been a sad situation! All those years that I drove him hither and yon, only to land in a ditch now because of a simple caress and a single word:

"Darling."

"Oh my," I bleated rather gracelessly, but then I wasn't breathing very well at the moment. "You mean it? You're not angry? I was so certain that you'd be angry."

"Angry?" Mr. Foyle – Christopher – smiled at me. "Not angry, Sam. Stunned, perhaps, but not angry."

I forced myself to pay attention to the road ahead of me, wanting more than anything to park the car right here along the side of the road and throw myself into his arms.

"I've wanted to tell you for so long now, and I was never sure how best to do it. I was afraid you'd think I had a silly crush on you."

"I've never thought you to be the sort to entertain silly crushes."

"No. No, I'm not," I agreed.

Christopher shifted so that his right arm rested on the back of my seat. His fingertips lightly brushed my shoulder, and I drew in a sudden, ragged breath in response.

"Sorry," he said, withdrawing his arm at once. "I don't mean to distract you."

"Please don't move it," I begged. "You don't know how long I've hoped that you would touch me."

"How long?" Foyle asked softly, returning his arm to its previous resting place. "How long have you felt this way?"

"A very long time," I assured him. "Years, really. I always wanted it to be you, you know. Whenever some bloke would ask me out, I always wished you were the one doing the asking."

"Always?"

"Always. Although I was sure that it wouldn't happen. I think that's why I said yes when Adam proposed. I'd convinced myself that you would never feel anything for me. I'd always be just your driver, just Sam."

The gentle pressure from Christopher's hand on my shoulder increased.

"You were never 'just Sam'."

I glanced to my left and saw the familiar Foyle half-smile. It took a real effort to return my attention to the road, knowing full well that I was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Perhaps, just perhaps, I wasn't messing this whole thing up too badly. If only my stomach would stop doing somersaults… I took a deep breath.

"May I ask how long you – er – felt something towards me?"

There was a brief silence. Even without looking, I knew that Christopher was wearing the pensive expression I'd seen hundreds of times as he pondered the clues in some murder investigation; he was weighing his response.

"Honestly, Sam? A very long time," he answered, echoing my own phrase. "And I, too, had convinced myself that it wouldn't – couldn't – happen."

"Why?"

"Because you are a lovely young woman who never wanted for admirers. Young admirers," Christopher clarified. "You turned down some very decent young men, you know. If they weren't good enough for you, why should I think that I could fill the bill?"

It was food for thought. I gnawed briefly on my lip.

"Ought I to have told you earlier?"

Another brief silence.

"No. I don't think I would have been at all receptive." Christopher reached up to rub his forehead beneath the brim of his hat. "But there's something about being alone in a foreign country; there's so much distance between you and home that things can become a lot clearer."

"You thought about me?" I asked, delighted.

"Of course I thought about you. And what I thought was that you were marrying Adam Wainwright and that any regard I had for you was a dead issue."

"So… this is rather like starting out fresh, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sam. Yes, it is."

…..

By the time we reached Christopher's house, I was exhausted. Surely there must be a limit to how long two people can carry on an emotionally charged conversation without being able to gaze into each other's eyes. When the conversation finally shifted to unimportant chatter as I filled him in on goings-on around Hastings, I felt as though I had run a very long race.

I parked the car and my butterflies returned in force. Of all the times I had driven Mr. Foyle home, this was completely and utterly different, and I had absolutely no idea what to do from here. If this had been a Hollywood movie, I would know exactly what to say and do. Plus, I would be ravishing and delectable and irresistible, and Christopher would drop his suitcase to the ground and sweep me into his arms.

But this was Christopher Foyle, of course, and a very public display of affection at his front door was definitely out of the question. We did have a moment where, as he fumbled in a pocket for his key, our eyes met, and the longing I saw there took my breath away.

Nor did he sweep me into his arms once we were inside. It took only seconds to realize that the house was cold, damp, and likely covered with a healthy layer of dust. My sneeze wasn't in the script either. Real life, I noted, was definitely not like a Hollywood movie.

"Best to leave the top coats on for now, I think," Foyle muttered.

"Shall I help you lay the fires, sir?" I asked, peeling off my gloves. Too late, I realized that I had fallen into the old habit of using the honorific. Already I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks.

"I suspect it's time to begin using my Christian name, Sam," he said drily.

"Of course. Sorry, sir. I mean, Christopher." Could I possibly embarrass myself any further? "Golly, it sounds odd to call you that. Aloud, I mean."

"I think it sounds delightful." He reached out then to take my hands and give them a reassuring squeeze. "Why don't you make tea while I try to warm this place up a bit, hmm? Then we'll be more comfortable while we talk."

"Jolly good idea." I headed to the kitchen.

Thanks to the many mornings I had picked him up for work – often a few minutes early in case he might have any leftover offerings at his breakfast table – I had a basic knowledge of Christopher's kitchen. In no time I had the burner lit and a teakettle going. My mind began racing ahead: presuming that we would marry (and I could envision no other outcome), would we live here in the house that Rosalind Foyle had once called home? Would Christopher be upset if I rearranged things, or would he want everything just as she had left it? I couldn't imagine him being that way, but then I'd never contemplated marriage to a man who'd been married before.

By the time the tea tray was ready, I could hear the fire crackling merrily in the front room. I'd noted Christopher 's footfalls on the stairs a bit earlier, and now he appeared at the kitchen door wearing a worn-looking brown jumper and dark blue corduroy trousers. It occurred to me that I'd rarely seen the man in anything other than a suit.

"You look comfortable," I pointed out.

"I couldn't resist. I've had to wear the contents of my suitcase for so many weeks now that I'm nearly ready to burn everything, right down to the last sock." Christopher reached out to take the tea tray out of my hands.

I assumed that he would carry the tray straightway into the front room. Instead, he merely placed it on the nearby kitchen table.

"First things first," he said, and reached out to cradle my face in his hands. "Dearest Sam…"

The kiss – kisses, actually, as they went on for a wonderfully long time – were as tender as could be, with none of the impatience I'd sensed when Andrew, Joe, or Adam kissed me. If Christopher hadn't put his arms around me, I would have melted into a puddle right there in the middle of the kitchen floor. Finally, he pulled away to study my face as thoroughly as though he'd never seen me before.

"I'm afraid if I blink, I'll wake up and find myself back in a dreary American hotel room," he said softly.

"Please don't do that. That would mean you're not back yet, and I'd have to work up the courage to tell you I love you all over again," I protested with a smile.

"I do hope you intend to tell me that for a very long time. Just as I plan to tell you how very much I love you."

It was the first time Christopher had come right out and said those three words. I shivered in response, which he took to mean that I was still freezing.

"Enough in here," he said, retrieving the tea tray and heading for the front room. "We can't talk properly if your lips are turning blue."

I followed behind, wanting to say that as long as he kissed me like that, my lips were in absolutely no danger of turning blue. I managed to keep silent for once.

You could already feel the warmth emanating from the fireplace, and I finally shrugged out of my winter coat. Christopher placed the tea tray on the coffee table, then took my coat away to hang it on a hook in the hallway. I sat down on the sofa; Christopher sat down next to me, but angled so that we were nearly facing each other.

"Better," he muttered. "The front seat of a car is not always the best spot for a conversation."

"I noticed. I was never so grateful to get out of a car in my life," I said, smiling. "Shall I pour?"

"Please." It was so very odd, performing this ordinary chore of pouring tea while knowing that we were about to have an earth-shaking discussion. The first sip of tea spread welcome warmth throughout my body, and for that I was grateful.

"So…" Christopher swallowed a mouthful of tea and returned the cup to its saucer. "We have much to talk about, don't we?"

"Yes." I hesitated. "Perhaps I should have allowed you to recover from your trip for a day or two before bringing all this up."

"On the contrary. I would have spent my first evening at home wondering if you were already married to Adam."

I blushed. "Poor Adam."

"That must have been a difficult conversation."

"It was," I admitted. "But he understood, though. He said that he had seen the way I looked at you."

"Wish I had seen the way you looked at me. It might have saved a lot of time and trouble." Christopher paused to take another sip of tea. "To be honest, Sam, I don't ever recall a time when I suspected that you had feelings for me."

"That's because I never believed it possible that such a thing could actually happen. I thought they were only lovely pipe dreams. And the closer I got to marrying Adam, the more I could see that my feelings were quite real."

"Is Adam all right?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "He also said that he had seen the way you looked at me. And no, I never noticed that, either."

"Hmm. Same lovely pipe dreams." Christopher turned to place the cup and saucer on the coffee table. "May I court you, Sam?"

"I would like that very much," I said fervently. I rather liked the old-fashioned sound of it – as would my parents.

"There are a few things to keep in mind, though."

"Oh?" We had gotten past all the obstacles, hadn't we?

Christopher reached for my hands and encased them in his.

"It surely hasn't escaped your attention that there is a considerable age difference between us. And I won't insult your intelligence by pretending it's never occurred to you, or that you haven't considered it at length. Others, however, will find it a bit shocking. There will be whispers behind our backs as well as stares when we're out and about. People will think I'm robbing the cradle, or that you see me as some sort of father figure."

"Well, that's just silly, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it's going to happen. Have you considered what Andrew will think?"

"I have wondered what his response would be," I admitted with some reluctance.

"I suspect that Andrew will think I've taken leave of my senses initially, but then he doesn't run my life. I live life according to my rules, not his. He's given me enough gray hairs; I think it's time I gave him a few."

I grinned. "Bravo for you, sir!"

"Samantha!" It was a cry of utter frustration.

"Christopher, I mean," I moaned. How long would it take me to get out of the old habit?

"Then there is one more thing."

"Yes?" My eyes widened.

"Yes. I doubt this will come as a shock, but I am a very poor dancer. And I know that you, Sam, like to dance very much," Christopher continued. "I can manage a waltz or something else that's rather slow and uncomplicated, but if you want to jitterbug, do not expect it of me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Christopher!"

He was laughing now, something I had rarely seen over the years.

"What am I to do with you, Samantha Stewart?" Christopher asked, cradling my face in his hands once again.

I wondered briefly if anyone had ever been as happy as I felt at this moment.

"I rather thought you'd think of something."

And this time, I forgot to add the 'sir'.