Page 17 of Twisted Paths

I blink at him. “Really?”

He tears off a piece of bread and holds it out to me. “Can’t have you starving to death.”

Mrs Higgins, still seated comfortably at the bench, calls out in a far-too-pleased voice, “Very generous of you, Luke.”

I send her a look but take the food before she can start matchmaking again.

Luke and I settle in the grass a safe distance away from the bench, aka, as far from Bernard’s digestive destruction as possible.

The air is finally breathable. The food is much better than my BLT ever was.

And, somehow, Luke and I are sharing lunch.

Not what I expected from today.

Not at all.

The wind rustles through the grass, carrying the fresh scent of the fields below. Now that we’re at a safe distance from Bernard, the air feels lighter, fresher, no longer an immediate threat to our survival.

Luke sits beside me, rolling up his sleeves slightly before taking a bite of his bread. His movements are calm, methodical, like this is just any other lunch and not the aftermath of an emergency evacuation.

I take a bite of the chicken he handed me, expecting it to be fine… edible, but nothing special. Instead, it’s ridiculously good. Tender, full of flavour, clearly not just thrown in an oven and forgotten about like most of my cooking attempts.

I glance at him, then back at my food. “This is really good.”

Luke shifts slightly, keeping his eyes on his meal. “It’s just chicken.”

“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “It’s really good chicken. And the bread—” I break off a piece and take a bite, letting out a small hum of appreciation. It’s soft, fresh, with a hint of something warm and comforting in the flavour. “Did you make this, too?”

He nods, still not looking at me.

I blink at him. “From scratch?”

Another small nod.

I shake my head in disbelief. “I feel like you’re underselling yourself here. This is actual cooking, not just ‘throwing a meal together.’”

His fingers tighten slightly around the torn bread in his hands. “It’s nothing.”

I study him for a second, realising he’s embarrassed. It’s subtle—just a faint shift in his posture, the way he’s deliberately focusing on his food rather than the conversation.

He’s not the kind of man who enjoys compliments.

Which, of course, makes me want to keep going.

“You know, people pay good money for food like this,” I say, tearing off another piece of bread. “You could charge twenty quid for this in a café, and people would happily pay it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, finally glancing at me. “It’s just a hobby.”

“A very good hobby,” I counter. “Honestly, I’m kind of annoyed.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Annoyed?”

I nod, gesturing at my now completely forgotten shop-bought sandwich, still lying in the dirt. “Here I was, thinking my perfectly fine BLT would get me through the day, and now I know I’ve been living a lie.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile. “A bit dramatic.”

I tear off another bite of bread. “If I knew this was an option, I’d have sabotaged my own sandwich earlier.”

---