Page 20 of Twisted Paths

She reaches for the glasses, moving with the practised ease of someone who’s been behind a bar long enough to pour a pint without thinking. “Not seen you in here before.”

I shake my head. “First time.”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, setting the first glass under the tap. “You visiting St Claire, then?”

“Live here.”

She glances up again. “Do you now?”

I nod. “Outskirts.”

She hums in acknowledgment, tilting the glass just so, the beer pouring smoothly. “You’ll be the Londoner, then.”

“Ah, the gossip mill,” I groan.

She smirks. “It’s a village, love. You move here but don’t tell anyone anything about you, people gossip.”

I exhale through my nose. “Brilliant.”

She doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic, switching to my pint of bitter. “Well, welcome to the Running Horse, then. I’m Alexandra.”

“Luke.”

She nods and slides both pints towards me. “That’ll be nine-fifty.”

I hand her a tenner. “Keep the change.”

She nods in approval. “Ta. Enjoy.”

I wrap my fingers around the cool pint glasses and push open the door with my shoulder, stepping back into the warmth of the afternoon.

Nancy is already at the table, her face tilted up towards the sun. Her eyes are closed, the light catching in her hair, a faint breeze stirring a few strands against her cheek.

I set the drinks down with a quiet thud against the worn wood of the table.

Her eyes flutter open, and a slow grin spreads across her face. “Perfect timing.”

I slide into the chair opposite her, the wood slightly warm from the sun, and nudge her pint towards her.

She lifts it with a small nod of thanks, then raises it slightly. “So, what are we drinking to?”

I hesitate for half a second, then lift mine to meet hers. “To the Ramblers of St Claire.”

Her lips quirk. “That almost sounded sincere.”

We clink glasses, the soft chime settling into the hum of the beer garden. She takes a sip, eyes still on me, like she’s weighing something up. I meet her gaze briefly before drinking, the bitterness of the beer grounding me.

“So?” she asks, setting her pint down. Her fingers drum absently against the wood. “Did you actually enjoy it?”

I lean back slightly, rolling my shoulders. “It wasn’t terrible.”

She lets out a small, amused hum, tilting her pint towards me. “That’s practically glowing praise.”

“It’s accurate.”

Nancy shifts forward, resting her elbow against the table, her expression light but knowing. “Not terrible is basically almost enjoyable.”

“Or it’s just tolerable.”

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