Page 49 of Twisted Paths

“My parents are gone. No siblings. No family.” I exhale slowly. “It’s just me.”

Something flickers across her face, but she keeps her voice steady. “That sounds… lonely.”

I don’t answer. Because it is.

I shift slightly in my seat, clearing my throat. “I like to cook. Obviously. Not a fan of dogs… especially after Bernard’s biological attack last week.”

Nancy snorts, and for a brief moment, the weight on my chest lifts.

“Winter is my favourite time of year,” I add.

Her head jerks up slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “You? The human embodiment of mild disapproval, enjoying winter?”

I exhale a small laugh. “Yeah.”

“Explain yourself, Evans.”

“I like the way everything slows down. The cold. Fires. The excuse to stay in and just… exist.” I pause. “And I like Christmas.”

Nancy’s eyes widen slightly, and it’s ridiculous how much I like that reaction.

“You?” she breathes.

I nod. “I put up a tree every year. Lights. Tacky decorations. The whole thing.” My throat tightens. “Even though nobody ever sees it… aside from me, of course.”

Something flickers across her face. Something soft, something that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I haven’t completely messed this up.

I clear my throat. “I hate book signings. Hate having to be John Brooks. Because I have the same name as a Hollywood actor, I had to pick a pen name and somehow this pen name has taken on its own persona. John Brooks is a self-assured, crime-obsessed author. But it’s all fake. I’d rather just be Luke Evans.”

Silence stretches between us.

Then, softly, she says, “I think I like Luke Evans.”

And just like that, the walls I’ve spent years building crack a little more.

Chapter 13

Nancy

Forthefirsttimesince I met him, I feel like I’m really seeing him.

Not Luke Evans, the gruff, reserved newcomer who reluctantly joined a walking group. Not John Brooks, the famous, guarded crime writer.

Just Luke.

And I like what I see.

The side that admits he doesn’t like being alone, the side that secretly loves Christmas, the side that, despite all his cynicism, lets himself hope for something more.

It unsettles me how much I like it.

I want to know more.

I want to ask about his childhood, about his favourite books, about whether he’d ever owned a cat or if he just dislikes dogs. I want to hear more of that deep, careful voice telling me things that feel so much bigger than they should.

But before I can say anything, he beats me to it.

“I more than like you, Nancy,” he says, voice low and steady.

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