Chapter 4
Eve
The rain is steady now, the sort that doesn’t look too bad from indoors but somehow manages to soak you to the bone the moment you step outside. I’ve been standing at the edge of the village green for a few minutes, pretending to check my phone while quietly wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.
The walking group is easy to spot—a blur of bright jackets and cheerful voices. They look like they’ve all known each other for years, laughing and adjusting walking poles while I hover awkwardly at the edge, trying to look casual and failing miserably.
I could still back out. Go back to the hotel, order tea, and call it a day. No one would know.
Before I can decide, he turns, scanning the group, and spots me immediately. Of course he does. He gives me that slow, knowing smile of his, then saunters over, hands tucked into his jacket pockets as if the rain’s too polite to bother him.
“Morning,” he says, voice warm despite the weather. “You found us.”
“I did,” I reply, aware of the nervous wobble in my voice. “It wasn’t difficult. The waterproofs gave it away.”
He laughs, “I promise we’re mostly friendly.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, cautiously smiling.
He turns slightly and gestures to the man standing a few paces away—a tall, fair-haired man with an expensive-looking jacket and the kind of confidence that suggests he’s rarely without an audience.
“This is Peter,” Hunter says. “My best mate and, if I get my way, my soon-to-be brother-in-law.”
Peter smirks as he shakes my hand. “He’s getting ahead of himself. My sister’s still pretending she hasn’t noticed his grand plan.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “Alex's pretending nothing. She’s been running the plan.”
Peter chuckles. “Fair point.” He turns back to me. “Brave choice, coming here in January. Most people prefer it when the wind doesn’t attack them.”
“I like a challenge,” I say, though my voice comes out lighter than I mean it to.
Hunter glances at me, smiling. “We’ll take that as commitment.”
“Or madness,” Peter adds. “It’s a fine line.”
They both laugh, the familiar sort that suggests a long friendship, and I find myself smiling despite the cold creeping into my gloves.
Hunter checks his watch. “I’d better pop into the pub and say hi to Alex before Nancy drags the group off without me.” He gives me a quick grin. “You’ll be fine with Peter. He can talk to anyone.”
“That’s true,” Peter says. “I’ve been known to hold entire conversations with pigeons.”
Hunter shakes his head, amused. “That’s not the selling point you think it is,” he says before heading towards the pub next to the village green.
As soon as he’s gone, Peter turns to me with a playful smile. “Don’t worry, I’m much less annoying once you get used to me.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, tucking a stray strand of wet hair back under my hood.
“You’re brave, you know,” he says conversationally. “Most first-timers take one look at the weather and head straight for the pub instead.”
“I did think about it,” I admit softly.
“Ah, but you didn’t do it,” he says. “That’s the mark of a true Rambler. Foolish optimism.”
I nod. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
He studies me for a moment, still friendly, but with a hint of teasing in his eyes. “So, are you visiting or hiding out?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Everyone in this village is either local, tourist, or lying low,” he says cheerfully. “Just trying to work out which category you fall into.”
“Visiting,” I say quickly, and immediately regret how defensive that sounds.
“Visiting,” he repeats with mock gravity. “The second most mysterious of the three.”
I let out a quiet laugh, mostly at how determined he seems to fill every silence.
He grins, clearly pleased. “There it is! A smile. Knew I’d get one eventually.”
I glance down, focusing on adjusting my gloves even though they don’t need adjusting. “You’re very confident.”
“Occupational hazard,” he chuckles. “I’m a banker. We’re trained to sound sure of ourselves, even when we’re not.”
I nod politely, unsure what to say to that.
He looks at me for a moment, then smiles. “Tell you what, since you’re new, I could show you around the village later. There’s not much to see, but I know where they keep the good coffee.”
“Oh,” I say, caught completely off guard. “That’s… kind.”
My mind scrambles for the next line, something polite but firm, something that doesn’t sound like please don’t make me talk for an entire afternoon.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe this is just small-town friendliness. Not every man offering to show you around is flirting, Eve. Some people are simply nice. Still, the thought makes my stomach tighten.
It’s been so long since anyone’s even tried to flirt with me that I’m not sure I’d recognise it if they did. Was this flirting? A man being pleasant about coffee shouldn’t make my pulse do odd things.
I could say I already have plans, but that would be a lie. I could say I prefer exploring alone, but that would sound strange. I could also just say yes, but then I’d actually have to do it, and the idea of spending an hour being interesting enough to justify the invitation feels exhausting.
Peter doesn’t seem to notice the silent chaos in my head. He smiles again, undeterred. “It’s nothing fancy, just a walk round the village. Coffee, maybe a slice of cake if we feel wild. What do you say?”
I open my mouth, still fumbling for a polite escape, when a voice behind me says, “Sorry I’m late.”
Peter and I both turn.
The man standing there looks unbothered, despite the rain clinging to his jacket. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of steady presence that makes people stop talking.
For a moment, I’m too startled to speak.
He steps closer, giving Peter a polite nod before turning to me. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he says, then looks back to Peter, “My name is Aaron, nice to meet you. I’m her partner.”
The word lands between us like a pebble dropped in a still pond. Partner. Not boyfriend, not colleague, not anything clear enough to challenge. Just… partner.
Peter blinks. “Oh. Right. Peter,” he introduces himself, “I didn’t realise you were—” He gestures vaguely, unsure what shape his sentence should take.
Aaron smiles, the kind that gives nothing away. “Easy mistake.”
Something in his tone is light but firm, and for a second Peter looks almost apologetic, though he recovers quickly. “Well, good to meet you, mate. Brave of you both to come out in this weather.”
“Couldn’t miss it,” Aaron says.
Peter laughs, though there’s a flicker of awkwardness in it now. “Right, well… I’ll see you both up ahead then.”
As he walks off to join the others, I turn to Aaron, still trying to process what just happened. “What was that for?” I ask, my voice half surprise, half disbelief.
He glances at me, rain dripping from his hood. “You looked all tense and tight, like you wanted to run from the conversation but couldn’t find a polite escape route. Thought I’d give you one.” He hesitates. “Unless I read that wrong.”
I blink at him. “No… thank you.”
The words come out softer than I intend, carried away by the rain.
He nods once, as if that’s all the answer he needs, and turns his gaze back toward the rest of the group. But I’m still standing there, trying to catch up with the moment.
I can’t remember the last time anyone noticed my discomfort. Not properly. Most people either miss it entirely or assume quiet means content. They talk louder, fill the gaps, never realising I’m quietly edging backwards, already halfway out of the conversation in my head.
It’s strange, being seen like that. Disarming. Almost intimate.
These days, people rarely pay attention to silences unless they’re uncomfortable ones. Everyone wants noise, company, constant connection. No one stops to think that some of us prefer to breathe in the quiet.
And yet, somehow, this stranger—this man standing beside me, dripping rain onto his boots—saw it instantly.
It shouldn’t matter. But it does.
A woman's cheerful voice cuts through the wind. “Right, everyone! Let’s get moving before we freeze solid.”
The group begins to shuffle into motion, waterproofs crackling, boots squelching against the wet ground.
Aaron turns to me, his expression relaxed. “I’d better walk with you, if you don’t mind,” he says. “Just to keep the ruse going. Wouldn’t want your ‘partner’ disappearing too quickly.”
A laugh catches in my throat, small but genuine. “Right. Of course.”
He adjusts his hood and adds, “I’ll leave you to your thoughts unless you feel like talking.”
That earns him a small nod. “Thank you.”
And just like that, we fall into step together.
The group spreads out along the muddy path, voices drifting ahead and behind. The wind whistles through the trees at the edge of the green, tugging at my hood and stinging my cheeks, but beside me, Aaron walks in quiet rhythm.
He doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t ask questions. Just matches his pace to mine, steady and unhurried, like he’s been doing it for years.
It’s oddly comforting. And as ridiculous as it sounds, for the first time all morning, the weather doesn’t feel quite so terrible.
We fall a little behind the group. Not because we’re slower, just because I’ve slipped into my usual rhythm, leaving a gap, giving space. I’ve always done it. It’s easier that way, not having to match anyone’s stride or feel obliged to talk.
Aaron doesn’t comment. He simply follows my lead, slowing with me as if he understands without needing it explained.
No one’s ever done that before.
The others are still within sight, a blur of bright jackets and movement ahead of us, their voices carried away by the wind. Behind them, it’s just us, the soft thud of our boots on wet ground and the occasional call of a crow somewhere in the distance.
It’s strange. With most people, silence feels like a gap that needs filling, something to apologise for or patch up quickly before it turns uncomfortable. But not with him.
He walks quietly, content, lost in his own thoughts. No restless glances, no polite chatter to fill the air.
And somehow, that makes me curious.
It’s not that I want him to talk, I’m grateful he doesn’t, but there’s something about the way he carries himself that makes me wonder what he’s thinking. What sort of man can remain in complete silence and still seem entirely at ease?
I risk a quick glance at him, but his expression gives nothing away. Nothing at all.
And that, more than anything, draws me in.
I glance at him again, then look away just as quickly. It hits me that he doesn’t even know my name. He stepped in like some kind of silent knight in shining armour and hasn’t once asked who I am.
The thought makes me oddly self-conscious.
I clear my throat, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. “Um… I just realised you don’t actually know my name.”
He turns his head slightly, his expression relaxed but attentive. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“I’m Eve,” I say, the words tumbling out awkwardly. “Eve Crawford.”
He nods once, as if filing it away properly. “Nice to meet you, Eve Crawford.”
I smile despite myself. “You don’t have to use both names.”
“Too late,” he says with the faintest grin. “I’m sticking with it now. Has a nice ring to it.”
I look down at the muddy path, trying to hide the smile that insists on creeping up. “And you’re Aaron, right?”
“Guilty.”
There’s another stretch of silence after that, but it’s softer somehow. Comfortable.
I focus on the rhythm of our steps, the rain pattering against our hoods, the steady sound of our breathing in sync.
I should say something. Normal people make conversation, don’t they? Except every topic that comes to mind feels either too personal or painfully dull. The weather? Too obvious. Work? Too long to explain. Compliments? Absolutely not.
Still, the silence feels full of potential now, not heavy, and before I can talk myself out of it I say, “So… have you done this walk before?”
He glances at me, rain sliding off the edge of his hood. “First time. I only got here yesterday.”
“Oh, you’re not from here either,” I say, relieved to have found neutral ground.
“Not even close,” he replies, smiling faintly. “London originally. Thought I’d trade the traffic for mud.”
“That’s… brave,” I say, my lips twitching into a small smile. “Or reckless.”
“Still deciding which,” he admits.
That pulls a quiet laugh from me, the sound surprising me. “I was told it’s just a short, gentle walk. Which I now suspect was an outright lie.”
He chuckles. “Depends on your definition of gentle. Around here, it usually means uphill both ways.”
“Good to know,” I say, glancing ahead at the faint outline of the group disappearing into the mist. “I’ll pace myself.”
We walk on for a bit, our boots squelching through the mud. I risk another glance at him. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “So, what brings you to St Claire then? Holiday?”
As soon as the words are out, I almost wince. Holiday? Really, Eve? I don’t even make small talk with my neighbours, and now I’m interrogating strangers in the rain.
He looks at me, and there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Something like that,” he says. “Bit of a holiday, bit of a reset. Needed to get out of London for a while.”
“That makes sense,” I say quickly, relieved that he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s definitely quieter here.”
He smiles. “That was the idea. I figured a few weeks of peace and bad weather might do the trick.”
I smile back. “So far so good, then.”
The joke is gentle, unforced, and something about it settles my nerves. I’m not used to this—conversation that doesn’t feel like a performance.
He carries on, his voice unhurried. “What about you? You visiting too?”
I hesitate, not because it’s a secret but because it feels strange to talk about myself. “Yes. Just a short stay. Needed a change of scenery as well.”
He nods thoughtfully, then glances over. “Where’s home, then?”
“Norfolk coast,” I say, tucking a damp curl back under my hood. “Small village. Not much happens there, which I quite like.”
He chuckles. “So you left one quiet place for another?”
“I suppose I did,” I admit. “Seems a bit pointless when you put it like that.”
“Not at all,” he says easily. “Different kind of quiet. The sea kind is wide and loud, even when it’s calm. Up here it’s softer. More… close.”
I glance at him, surprised by the accuracy of it. “That’s a good way of putting it.”
He shrugs lightly. “Spent a lot of time outdoors. You start to notice the difference in silences.”
There’s something in his tone—not heavy, just lived-in—that makes me want to ask what kind of outdoors he means, but I don’t. Instead, I nod, pretending to focus on the path.
It’s strange, this balance we’ve found. Two strangers walking in the rain, trading fragments of conversation that somehow feel more honest than anything I’ve said in months.
And it’s even stranger how much I don’t want it to end.