Page 26 of Twisted Paths

Instead, I fold my arms. “Is that why you’re here?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No. I had an idea for the Ramblers, to drum up more interest, and I need your help. But I didn’t have your number, so…” She gestures toward my door like that explains everything.

My mouth twitches. “So, you decided to turn up at my house unannounced?”

“Well, yeah.”

I exhale, dragging a hand through my damp hair.

“Is now a good time?” she asks, tone light but her eyes watching me carefully.

I glance down at myself, still shirtless, sweat cooling against my skin. I should say no.

Instead, I step back, holding the door open. “Fine. Come in.”

She grins, stepping past me, and I catch a whiff of something frustratingly pleasant—something lightly citrusy, fresh, warm.

I close the door and gesture toward the living room. “Wait in there. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Nancy nods, already looking around with barely concealed curiosity.

I leave before she can start asking questions.

Once upstairs, I strip off my shorts and step into the shower, the warm water rushing over me as I press both hands against the tiled wall, letting out a slow breath.

Nancy. In my house.

I scrub a hand over my face, trying to ignore the way my thoughts keep drifting back to her standing on my doorstep, her eyes flicking over me, her cheeks turning pink.

I should not be thinking about that.

Or about how she smells. Or how her lips parted slightly before she caught herself. Or how she just invited herself over like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I close my eyes and let the water pound against my shoulders.

This is not an appropriate train of thought.

I tell myself to stop thinking about her curves. About the way her blue eyes lock onto mine with too much curiosity.

I tell myself a lot of things.

None of them work.

When I step into the living room, Nancy is standing in front of my bookshelf, fingers drifting along the spines like she’s committing them to memory. Her lips move slightly as she reads the titles, pausing now and then as if something catches her eye.

I don’t like it.

Not that she’s looking, but how she’s looking. Like she’s piecing something together, following a thread she hadn’t expected to find.

I clear my throat. “Finding anything good?”

She hums, pulling a hardback halfway from the shelf before sliding it back in. “Didn’t expect you to have so many copies of the same author.”

I keep my posture relaxed, heading towards the kitchen. “I like books.”

Her gaze flicks to me, eyebrows raised. “You really like John Brooks.”

I open a cupboard in the open plan kitchen, reaching for the kettle out of habit. “His books cover a lot. Different angles on crime. Some focus on the legal side, some more procedural. The later ones lean more into psychological elements.” I nod toward the shelf as I fill the kettle. “If you put them in order, you can see the shift.”

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