5. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Nancy
T he hill isn’t much, just a small incline that adds a bit of variety to the otherwise mostly flat walk. Still, as we reach the top, I’m glad for the excuse to stop.
The bench sits slightly off the path, a perfect resting spot overlooking the Dales. Below, St Claire nestles into the landscape, rooftops and chimneys poking through a patchwork of fields. It’s a view I’ve seen a hundred times but never get tired of.
Mrs Higgins lowers herself onto the bench with a satisfied sigh. Bernard collapses dramatically at her feet, looking like he’s just completed an Olympic-level trek instead of a casual stroll.
Luke hesitates before sitting at the far end of the bench, as if maintaining a safe buffer zone.
I drop onto the middle section, relieved to rest my legs for a minute, and start rummaging in my bag for my sandwich. A quick glance at the others tells me I’m in for some judgement.
Mrs Higgins, ever the traditionalist, unwraps a foil-covered sandwich, revealing thick slices of white bread with a slab of cheese and a generous helping of pickles stuffed between them.
I retrieve my shop-bought BLT, the plastic crinkling as I peel it open. Immediately, I feel a pair of disapproving eyes on me.
Mrs Higgins tuts. “Shop-bought?”
I scowl. “I was busy.”
She gives me a look. “Too busy to make a sandwich?”
“Yes, actually,” I mutter, taking an aggressive bite.
Then, Luke starts unpacking.
Not just a sandwich. Not even a neat little lunchbox. No, he’s got full-on Tupperware organisation happening.
One container of roast chicken, sliced neatly. Another with fresh salad, properly chopped. A bread roll that doesn’t look like any I have seen around the village and I have a suspicion it may be homemade. It’s the kind with a golden crust that suggests actual skill.
Mrs Higgins and I both stare at it.
Luke frowns. “What?”
Mrs Higgins gestures vaguely. “That’s… rather civilised.”
I glance at my limp sandwich and feel instant regret. “Did you make all that this morning?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
Mrs Higgins sighs dreamily. “Now that is a useful skill.”
I brace myself.
“A man who can cook,” she continues, shaking her head in admiration. “You don’t see that often.”
I shove another bite of BLT into my mouth, hoping it’ll stop me from being dragged into whatever this is.
Mrs Higgins isn’t done. “Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing, Nancy? Having someone in your life who knows their way around a kitchen.”
I choke slightly. “You are relentless.”
She ignores me. “Especially when certain young ladies don’t have the same talents.”
I freeze mid-chew. “Excuse me?”
She gives me a knowing look. “You can’t cook, love.”
I scoff, straightening up. “That’s not true.”
Mrs Higgins lifts an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully on her non-shop-bought sandwich. “Mmm. You say that, but I seem to recall a certain cake incident at the winter book club.”
Oh no.
I glance at Luke, who is now watching with vague amusement, clearly intrigued. I shake my head slightly, warning her not to continue.
She continues anyway.
“Lovely idea, bringing a homemade cake,” she says, voice dripping with innocent nostalgia. “Shame about the burning.”
I groan. “It wasn’t that bad.”
She turns to Luke, eyes sparkling with glee. “We all politely ignored the smoke coming off it.”
Luke’s eyebrows rise. “Actual smoke?”
“It was slightly overbaked.”
Mrs Higgins beams. “Only on one side! The other side was completely raw.”
Luke’s mouth twitches. “Impressive.”
I huff. “That oven is temperamental.”
Mrs Higgins waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a gas oven, Nancy, not a wild animal.”
I scowl at my BLT, hating it more with every bite. “I just… prefer other creative pursuits.”
Mrs Higgins sighs dreamily, looking towards Luke’s perfect homemade meal. “And some people have a natural gift, don’t they?”
I ignore the implication.
Luke, for his part, just takes a slow bite of his chicken, glancing between us like a man who is thoroughly enjoying the show but has no intention of getting involved.
Smart.
Mrs Higgins leans forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. “Cooking’s such a useful skill. Can make all the difference in a home, you know.”
Before I can groan again—
It happens.
A low, slow, gut-wrenching noise rumbles from beneath the bench.
Luke stiffens. I freeze. Mrs Higgins stops mid-chew.
There’s a beat—a moment of awful, suspended silence—before the smell hits.
It is immediate. It is catastrophic. It is every bad decision Bernard has ever made in one concentrated cloud.
“Oh for—” Luke swears under his breath, shoving away from the bench like he’s just been hit with mustard gas.
I’m right behind him, yanking my rucksack up and stumbling sideways, desperately trying to escape the toxic wave engulfing us. In the rush, I reach out to grab his precariously balanced Tupperware before he loses anything—
And that’s when it happens.
My sandwich.
My entire sandwich.
For one horrifying second, I feel it slipping from my hand. I make a desperate attempt to snatch it—my fingers just graze the plastic wrapper—
But it’s too late.
Time slows as my poor, innocent BLT tumbles toward the ground.
It flips mid-air, falls apart, gravity claiming it in the cruellest way possible, before landing in pieces on the grass. Mayonnaise side down. Of course.
I stare at it, frozen in horror.
“Oh, come on!”
Luke, still juggling his own food and rucksack, barely glances at it. “Should’ve held onto that instead of saving my salad.”
I whip my head toward him. “I tried! But you,” I gesture at his ridiculous balancing act of homemade bread, chicken, and backpack survival strategy “had a lot going on! How about a thank you?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You are right. Sorry. Thank you for saving my salad.” He very much looks like he is biting back a grin. That little twerp.
I fold my arms. “Well, I hope you enjoy your meal, Luke, because I’ll be wasting away over here.”
Luke lets out a short breath, shakes his head slightly, and then pushes his Tupperware toward me.
“Here.”
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.”
Luke shakes his head, but there’s the faintest trace of amusement behind his eyes.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s easy. The teasing fades into something softer, the kind of conversation that lingers rather than rushes.
I glance at him again. His brown hair is neatly trimmed. His eyes appear dark from a distance, but close up, I realise they are a deep, almost midnight blue. There are laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, which surprises me, given that I’ve yet to see him smile. He is handsome, but in a way that doesn’t demand attention. He’s not the type to spend hours in front of a mirror, perfecting his appearance. His lean physique suggests he works out, but not to sculpt muscle, more to stay active, to keep his body moving rather than shape it into something for show.
But there’s more to him than just looks. Something deeper. He doesn’t just blurt out whatever comes to mind… the way I tend to do. No, he thinks first, weighs his words. It’s clear he likes to be in control, not in an overbearing way, but in the little things—the way he carefully pulls apart his bread instead of tearing into it, the way he takes measured bites, never rushing. There’s a precision to him, a quiet restraint that makes me wonder what else he keeps in check.
“What?” he asks when he catches me watching him.
“Nothing,” I grin. He lets it go and returns his attention back to his salad. I can’t help noticing though, for someone who seemed like he wanted to escape this walk as soon as it started, he looks… comfortable.
And somehow, that feels surprising.
Pleasant, but surprising.