Fated Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #3)

Chapter 1

Aaron

Imust be out of my bloody mind.

Will’s voice fills the car through the speakers. “Mate, you’re doing the right thing, taking a break, but are you sure you want to travel to Yorkshire at the end of January? The weather up there can be shit at the best of times. In January, you’re in with a real chance of freezing your arse off.”

I smirk. “It was your idea in the first place.”

“No, no! If I recall rightly, I suggested a break somewhere warm where you can lie in the sun and ogle women in bikinis. I only suggested the Dales after you insisted that any trip you take doesn’t involve squeezing yourself into a plane seat.

You picked a cold and wet English January over something tropical,” he protests.

“Good thing I’ve had practice in uncomfortable conditions. The army was basically one long lesson in being cold and miserable or hot and unbearable.”

“You used to get paid for it,” he says. “Now you’re a soft Londoner who thinks a bad day is when Pret runs out of your fancy coffee beans.”

“Don’t pretend you miss those field jobs,” I tell him.

He laughs, that dry, familiar sound that still makes me think of dodgy instant coffee and long nights in tents halfway around the world.

We built our security company after we left the army, but he’s the one who kept the field teams running while I stuck to the office.

That was until the job nearly killed him.

Will doesn’t talk about it much, but I can still see him at the hospital—bandages, bruises, the kind of look in his eyes you only get when you’ve come close to not making it back.

After that, neither of us wanted to be the hero anymore.

We share the management now, keep things running from London, and let the younger consultants chase the adventure. They’ve got the energy for it.

It’s strange how danger becomes routine in no time until it stops being abstract and starts bleeding.

That was the point I knew I’d had enough.

My marriage had been wobbling for years, and I thought stepping back from field work would fix it.

Spending more time at home, prove I could be a normal husband.

But it didn’t quite work out that way.

Will must sense where my head’s gone, because he clears his throat. “You’re not still beating yourself up about it, are you?”

“About what?” I ask, though we both know.

“Nicola,” he says. “You couldn’t have known she’d end up falling for a woman. She didn’t even know she was into women until it happened.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “Yeah, well, it still makes you question a few things. Hard not to wonder if I ever really knew her.”

“Mate, you were married for years. You knew her. Just not the part that she was hiding from herself. That’s not on you.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “And I’m glad she’s happy. It just… wasn’t what I expected, that’s all.”

He makes a low, thoughtful sound of agreement. “Life never is. You gave it everything you had, Aaron. Nobody could say otherwise.”

“Didn’t stop it from ending.”

“No,” he says. “But at least it ended honestly. Most people never get that.”

The motorway curves ahead, a long grey line stretching north. I focus on the road, the drizzle smudging the horizon. “That’s why I’m taking the break,” I tell him. “Just need to get my head straight.”

“Which is exactly why I suggested Jon and Abby’s place,” Will says. “If you’re shunning the Caribbean, you can at least stay somewhere called Sunshine Cottage. Sounds cheerful enough to sort you out.”

I can’t help a short laugh. “Cheerful’s not exactly what I’m after.”

“You could do with a bit of it though. They’ll look after you. Abby will feed you properly, and Jon will talk your ear off about something medical you won’t understand.”

“Comforting.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s quiet, good walking country, and the locals are friendly. Mostly.”

“I’m not planning to stay long,” I say. “Just a few weeks, clear my head, then back to London.”

“Uh-huh,” Will says, dragging the sound out. “That’s what Jon said when he first went up there. Remember? Claimed he was just taking a break. Now he’s practically a Yorkshireman. Has a vegetable patch and everything.”

I snort. “I’ll pass on the vegetables.”

“You say that now.”

“Will, I’m not moving to the Dales.”

“Give it time,” he says. “The place has a way of getting under your skin. Fresh air, proper pints, people who actually say good morning. You’ll see.”

I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re predictable,” he says. “Go on, prove me wrong.”

“Fine. I’ll take the fresh air and the pints, but I’m coming back to London once I’ve remembered how to sleep through the night.”

“Good man. Still—don’t be surprised if Sunshine Cottage works its magic.”

“Pretty sure I’m immune to magic,” I say, watching the rain ease into mist.

He chuckles softly. “That’s what Jon said too. Speak to you later.”

The line crackles, then goes quiet. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, half smiling despite myself.

Sunshine Cottage. Ridiculous name, really. But it’s somewhere to start.

By the time I pull into the gravel drive outside Jon and Abby’s B&B the sky has given up pretending to be daylight. It’s a dull, washed-out grey, merging with the dull winter landscape in the distance.

The wind’s howling straight off the hills, driving the rain sideways. I grab my jacket, take one look at the boot, and decide the bags can wait. The plan is simple: sprint to the door, say hello to Jon, then come back for the luggage once I can feel my fingers again.

I make a dash for it, the wind lashing my face from every direction. By the time I reach the porch, I’m half-blind from the drizzle and cursing under my breath.

The door opens before I can knock.

Jon stands there, mug in hand, hair sticking up like he didn’t find his brush this morning. He grins when he sees me. “You picked a lovely day for it.”

“Couldn’t resist,” I say, stamping the water off my boots. “Thought I’d start as I mean to go on—cold, wet, and questioning my life choices. Good to see you, Jon.”

“You too, mate. Come in before you freeze solid.”

Warm air hits me as soon as I step inside, carrying the smell of butter and sugar. Somewhere in the back, a child’s voice is singing.

Jon grins. “Abby and Layla are in the kitchen. They’ve been making muffins for you. Chocolate chip, if my little sunshine gets her way.”

“Smart kid,” I chuckle.

He leads the way through to the kitchen, and sure enough, Abby’s there with Layla perched on a stool beside her, wooden spoon in hand, both dusted in flour.

Abby looks up, smiling warmly. “Aaron! You made it. I was just saying to Layla you’d be here soon.”

“Looks like I’ve arrived in time for dessert.” I nod toward the mixing bowl.

“Tea first,” she says, laughing, already reaching for another mug.

Layla grins at me. “Do you like chocolate chips, Mr Aaron?”

“Best kind,” I tell her.

“Good,” she says seriously. “Because I put loads in.”

Abby wipes her hands on a tea towel and crosses the room to hug me. “It’s really good to see you, Aaron. You look exhausted.”

“Long drive,” I reply, smiling as she lets go. “And I got caught behind a tractor somewhere near Skipton. I think it was doing seven miles an hour.”

The wood creaks beneath me as I drop into the chair opposite Jon. Abby heads back to the counter, humming while she tidies, and Layla resumes stirring the mixture with complete seriousness.

Jon takes a sip of his tea, then gives me that doctor’s look of his—the one that manages to be both kind and annoyingly perceptive. “So, how are you really doing?”

“Not bad,” I lie. “Bit of a reset, that’s all. Needed a change of scenery.”

He nods slowly. “Fair enough. You’re welcome for as long as you need. Plenty of space—no one usually stays in January unless there’s a wedding at Morton Hall… the hotel in the village.”

“That’s exactly why I picked now,” I say. “Peace and quiet. And whilst we are at it, I’d really like to pay you for the room.”

Jon waves the idea away immediately. “Don’t start that again.”

“Come on, mate. I’m not here on charity.”

Abby turns around, smiling. “You’re here as a friend. That’s different. We’ve got the room sitting empty, and it’s nice to have some company when the weather’s grim.”

“Exactly,” Jon says. “If you insist on paying, you’ll ruin my reputation as a generous host.”

I grin, holding up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll stop arguing. You win.”

“That’s more like it,” Jon says, nodding with satisfaction.

Before I can say anything else, Layla looks up from the bowl, her face lighting up.

“Do you like roast dinner? I love roast dinner! The pub does such a good one. Even better than mum’s!

” she says. “They do the best Yorkshire pudding and pigs in blankets. Proper ones, not the tiny ones from the supermarket.”

Abby laughs softly. “She’s not wrong. The roast dinners at The Running Horse are worth braving the weather for. They are so popular they have them on their menu all week, not just for Sunday lunch.”

Jon glances over at me. “Would you be up for it at some point whilst you're here?”

“Absolutely! Why don’t we go tonight? Saves Abby having to cook,” I say. “But it’s my treat. Least I can do to say thanks for letting me stay.”

Abby waves the idea away. “Don’t be daft.”

“I mean it,” I insist. “You’re putting me up, feeding me, making sure I behave. The least I can do is buy a roast dinner.”

Jon chuckles. “If you insist. But just so you know, Layla eats her own body weight in roast potatoes.”

Layla grins proudly. “And pigs in blankets.”

“Sounds like money well spent,” I grin.

Abby slides the tray into the oven and turns back to the table, the scent of chocolate and butter filling the air. The kitchen is warm with relaxed chatter, and the tight knot I've been carrying for months finally starts to loosen.