Page 5 of Twisted Paths

Angela nods. "Aye, Nancy, go on then. Just shift the advert for Pete’s chimney sweeping.”

The blonde pins the flyer up on the pinboard next to my table with a satisfied little nod. She steps back, admiring her work, then glances around. Her gaze lands on me.

To my horror, she does not move on.

Her head tilts slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She’s trying to place me.

Then, before I can pretend to be invisible, she steps closer.

“You’re the one who moved into that big house on the edge of the village, aren’t you?”

I consider lying, but suspect she already knows the answer. “Depends, who’s asking.”

She gives me a look, amused but patient, like she’s dealt with this sort of attitude before. “Nancy Walker. Nice to finally meet you.”

I nod. “Luke.”

Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a response. Instead, she studies me, head cocked slightly, like she’s trying to see past the surface. “The village has been wondering about you.”

A muscle in my jaw tightens. “Have they?”

She grins, clearly enjoying this. “’Course they have. Mysterious man from London, keeps to himself, never says much to anyone—ofcoursepeople talk.”

Fantastic. I’ve spent months successfully avoiding social interaction, and now it turns out I’ve been accidentally interesting this entire time.

I sip my coffee. “And what conclusions have been drawn?”

She shrugs. “Jury’s still out. You might be a tortured artist type, or possibly someone in witness protection.”

“Could be both,” I mutter.

That makes her laugh, a proper one, head tilting back slightly. I should not notice how gorgeous she looks when she does that, but I do.

She gestures towards the flyer. “So, how about it?”

I frown. “How about what?”

“Join my walking group.”

I stare at her. “You don’t even know if I like walking.”

“Well,” she says, thoughtful, “you do have legs, which suggestssomelevel of participation in the activity.”

I exhale slowly. “Oh, you are a comedian now?” I bite back a grin.

She shrugs. “Depends on who you ask. Some people call it optimism. My sister calls it exhausting.”

I glance at the noticeboard, where the flyer now sits in bold, cheerful lettering.The Ramblers of St Claire.Even the name sounds like a club for people who enjoy light chit-chat and fresh air, neither of which rank highly on my list of interests.

Nancy watches me, waiting. I shake my head. “Not really my thing.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know myself.”

“That’s a bit closed-minded,” she says, but there’s no malice in it. Just curiosity.

I sigh, rubbing my fingers over my jaw. “Look, I appreciate the invite, but I’m not exactly the ‘rambling’ type.”

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