Page 6 of Twisted Paths

She studies me, arms folded, a slight smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “What is your type, then?”

I blink. “What?”

“You said you’re not the rambling type. So what type are you?”

I shift my weight. “I prefer solitude.”

“Ah,” she says, as if that confirms something for her. “The brooding variety. Got it.”

I give her a flat look. “I am not brooding.”

“You are absolutely brooding.”

Angela coughs pointedly behind the counter. “He does a bit of brooding, aye.”

I take a long sip of coffee. “This conversation has been very illuminating.”

Nancy grins. “So you’ll think about it?”

“I will not.”

“You’re definitely thinking about it.”

I shake my head, slipping on my jacket before picking up my coffee. “Nice meeting you, Nancy.”

“You too, Luke,” she says easily, stepping aside as I move to leave. Just as I reach the door, she calls out, “See you at the walk on Saturday!”

I glance over my shoulder. “I never said I was coming.”

She winks. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

I step outside, the cold air biting against my face.

I amnotgoing to that walking group.

No chance.

Chapter 2

Nancy

Thesunisdoingits best today.

It’s not exactly blazing, but it’s making a decent effort—pushing through the gaps in the clouds, casting a warm, golden light over the Dales. The kind of weather that makes people think,Oh, I might go for a nice walk today,rather than,I might be risking trench foot.

Which is a good sign.

I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to go.

The meeting spot is as picturesque as it gets—rolling fields, dry-stone walls, a little gate leading out onto the footpath. A proper postcard view. I picked this starting point deliberately. If I was trying to convince people that walking was an enjoyable pastime, I needed all the help I could get.

What I don’t know yet is whether anyone is actually coming.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to look relaxed, just in case anyone is watching. There’s a good chance half the village is waiting to see if this idea is a spectacular success or a tragic failure. St Claire thrives on minor drama.

I tug the sleeves of my fleece down over my hands. It’s not cold, exactly, but there’s a slight breeze, the kind that sneaks past your collar when you’re standing still for too long.

I’ve planned a simple route for today. A flat, circular walk, nothing too ambitious. If people turn up, I don’t want anyone keeling over in a ditch five minutes in.

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