Page 52 of Twisted Paths

His grip tightens at my waist. “And Bernard’s ability to clear a field with one fart.”

I bite my lip, shaking with silent laughter. “Think of it as an endurance challenge.”

Luke lifts his head, giving me a flat, unimpressed look. “I’d rather take my chances with a mountain lion.”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “Mrs Higgins could probably take one in a fight.”

“I’m never getting out of this, am I?”

I grin, looping my arms around his neck. “Not a chance.”

Luke hums, voice lower now. “Reckon I’ll find ways to make it worth my while.”

Before I can retort, he claims my mouth again, cutting off whatever nonsense was about to escape me.

His kiss is slower this time, deeper… less teasing, more certain. His hands slide down, pulling me flush against him, and I swear I can feel the way his heart pounds in his chest. My fingers curl against his shoulders, my breath coming uneven, my whole body tilting towards him like he’s some kind of gravitational force.

Everything else—Bernard, the Ramblers, even Mrs Higgins—fades to nothing.

All that’s left is this. Him.Us.

Whatever this is between us…

It’s only just beginning.

Epilogue

Luke

Philip’svoicecracklesthroughthe speaker, far too smug for this hour.

“Another bestseller,” he says, the sound of a wine glass clinking in the background. “Honestly, Luke, at this point, you should just let me pick your next house. I assume a mansion in the Cotswolds is in order?”

I rub my temples, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Philip!”

“Oh, don’t ‘Philip’ me.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “I know you're not planning to leave your little corner in Yorkshire. But three weeks at number one. The bookshops can’t keep it in stock.Don’t tell the Vicaris officially your most successful launch yet. And—drum roll please—we just got an email from a certain director you claimed would ‘never touch a John Brooks novel with a barge pole.’”

I make my way through the living room, phone balanced against my ear. “Let me guess. He wants the rights.”

“Of course he bloody does,” Philip says. “Can you at least pretend to consider it? For me?”

I glance towards the garden, spotting Nancy curled up in one of the chairs by the fire pit, wrapped in her favourite oversized blanket, book in hand. A mug of tea rests on the table beside her, steam curling into the night air.

Six months into our relationship she moved in.

And somehow, without me even realising it, my house became a home.

I lower myself onto the arm of the sofa, my gaze sweeping over the room. The space no longer looks like the cold, impersonal bachelor pad I bought.

There are books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, some with dog-eared pages because Nancy refuses to believe in bookmarks. Fairy lights flicker softly along the bookshelf, a ridiculous addition she insisted on because my old reading lamp was apparently ‘criminally dull’. The walls, once bare, now hold framed photos of us, of walks in the Dales, of a spontaneous weekend trip to the coast.

And the plants. God, the plants. I was fine with them in the conservatory, but now they are everywhere, hanging, sitting on windowsills, filling corners with splashes of green. I’d mocked her about them at first, muttering something about “turning my house into a greenhouse.” She’d just grinned and told me to wait.

And somehow… she was right. It feels better like this. Warmer. Lived in.Ours.

Philip’s still talking, riding the high of the book’s success, but I barely hear him anymore.

I watch Nancy tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear, her lips parting slightly as she gets lost in whatever she’s reading.

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