Page 24 of Twisted Paths

I clear my throat, breaking the moment before it can stretch too far.

Then, before I even realise what I’m doing, I lift a hand and pat him lightly on the chest.

His very firm, very solid chest.

My palm meets warm muscle, and it takes everything in me not to let out some kind of noise.

Oh. Oh, wow.

A tiny part of me debates fanning myself on the spot.

Luke blinks, clearly not expecting the contact, and I realise I should probably remove my hand before this goes from mild flirtation to outright groping.

I step back, letting my hand drop, forcing myself into nonchalance. “See you next time, then.”

Luke watches me for a second longer, his smile returning, this time slower. “See you.”

I turn, heading up the drive to my cottage, willing my heart rate to calm down.

As I close the door behind me, I lean against it, exhaling sharply.

First hike? Definitely a success.

Dog farts aside.

I stand outside Luke’s house, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, staring up at the stone façade that looms over me. It’s nothing like my cottage. Where mine is small, warm, and full of mismatched charm, his is… grand. Imposing. The kind of house that makes you instinctively stand up straighter just being near it.

He clearly has money. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a lawyer, after all. He must be into corporate law or something.

Somehow, I can’t really picture him as a corporate lawyer. Trying to screw over someone or find a loophole for his clients to avoid tax. No, that so doesn’t sound like the man that joined my walking group a week ago.

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the doorbell.

Is this a terrible idea?

Possibly.

I chew my lip, then, before I can talk myself out of it, I press the bell.

Nothing.

I shift on my feet, waiting. Still nothing.

I frown and ring it again, this time holding the button down just a fraction longer.

There’s movement. A low, muttered curse. Then, the distinct sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

The door swings open.

Luke stands there, gym shorts slung low on his hips, chest bare, skin damp with sweat. His hair, usually tousled in a way that seems unintentional, is now slightly damp, sticking to his forehead. A faint sheen clings to the lean, defined muscles of his torso, his breathing still slightly uneven.

I take all of this in within the span of a second.

My brain, very helpfully, short-circuits.

He looks grumpy at first, brows furrowed like he’s fully prepared to tell off whoever dared to interrupt him.

Then, his eyes land on me.

---