8. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Luke
I wipe a hand over my face, my breath still a little uneven, the last of my workout clinging to my skin.
When I pull open the door, I’m already bracing for some kind of nuisance—a delivery I didn’t order, a neighbour I don’t want to talk to, or someone trying to convince me my windows need replacing.
What I’m not expecting is Nancy.
She stands there, shifting slightly on her feet, hands clasped together, her expression somewhere between determined and uncertain.
For a second, I just stare.
Because I’ve been thinking about her. More than I should be. More than I normally let myself think about anyone.
Her golden blonde hair, always slightly tousled, like she’s just come in from the wind. Her bright blue eyes, alive with something quick and sharp, always watching, always aware. The way she smiles, not just a polite upturn of lips but a full, face-lighting kind of thing that feels like warmth spilling over.
And the curves. Soft, natural. The kind that make my fingers itch for something I shouldn’t be thinking about.
It’s been distracting. Enough that I started wondering if she was exactly what I needed.
A muse.
Because, for the first time in months, I managed to write.
Not just half-hearted notes or a single moody sentence. A full outline. A story that actually made sense. A murder mystery, set in a quiet English village, where a nosy female vicar refuses to mind her own business and ends up solving a crime.
I blink, snapping back into the present.
Nancy’s eyes drop briefly to my bare chest, her lips parting slightly before she clamps them shut again. A faint flush creeps into her cheeks as her gaze lingers on my chest.
I clear my throat. “Nancy.”
Nancy’s eyes snap up to mine, like she’s just remembered why she’s here. “What kind of lawyer are you?”
I blink, caught off guard by the abrupt question. “Do you need a lawyer?”
Her forehead creases slightly. “No, I was just wondering.”
I study her for a second, but her expression is unreadable. “Criminal defence.”
“Oh.”
She doesn’t elaborate.
I tilt my head slightly. “Why?”
Nancy shifts on her feet. “Oh, the house.”
I arch an eyebrow. “The house?”
She gestures vaguely to the stone walls and entrance door. “It’s just… big. Expensive looking. I thought maybe you did something more… corporate?”
I exhale through my nose, ignoring the comment. The last thing I need is to explain why I actually own this house.
Instead, I fold my arms. “Is that why you’re here?”
She shakes her head quickly. “No. I had an idea for the Ramblers, to drum up more interest, and I need your help. But I didn’t have your number, so…” She gestures toward my door like that explains everything.
My mouth twitches. “So, you decided to turn up at my house unannounced?”
“Well, yeah.”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
“Is now a good time?” she asks, tone light but her eyes watching me carefully.
I glance down at myself, still shirtless, sweat cooling against my skin. I should say no.
Instead, I step back, holding the door open. “Fine. Come in.”
She grins, stepping past me, and I catch a whiff of something frustratingly pleasant—something lightly citrusy, fresh, warm.
I close the door and gesture toward the living room. “Wait in there. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Nancy nods, already looking around with barely concealed curiosity.
I leave before she can start asking questions.
Once upstairs, I strip off my shorts and step into the shower, the warm water rushing over me as I press both hands against the tiled wall, letting out a slow breath.
Nancy. In my house.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to ignore the way my thoughts keep drifting back to her standing on my doorstep, her eyes flicking over me, her cheeks turning pink.
I should not be thinking about that.
Or about how she smells. Or how her lips parted slightly before she caught herself. Or how she just invited herself over like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I close my eyes and let the water pound against my shoulders.
This is not an appropriate train of thought.
I tell myself to stop thinking about her curves. About the way her blue eyes lock onto mine with too much curiosity.
I tell myself a lot of things.
None of them work.
When I step into the living room, Nancy is standing in front of my bookshelf, fingers drifting along the spines like she’s committing them to memory. Her lips move slightly as she reads the titles, pausing now and then as if something catches her eye.
I don’t like it.
Not that she’s looking, but how she’s looking. Like she’s piecing something together, following a thread she hadn’t expected to find.
I clear my throat. “Finding anything good?”
She hums, pulling a hardback halfway from the shelf before sliding it back in. “Didn’t expect you to have so many copies of the same author.”
I keep my posture relaxed, heading towards the kitchen. “I like books.”
Her gaze flicks to me, eyebrows raised. “You really like John Brooks.”
I open a cupboard in the open plan kitchen, reaching for the kettle out of habit. “His books cover a lot. Different angles on crime. Some focus on the legal side, some more procedural. The later ones lean more into psychological elements.” I nod toward the shelf as I fill the kettle. “If you put them in order, you can see the shift.”
Nancy tilts her head slightly, considering. “So, you’re a fan of his?”
I flick the kettle on, leaning against the counter. “Never really thought about it.”
That, at least, is true.
She frowns slightly, looking back at the shelf. “You’ve got editions in different languages. Special covers. Signed copies.” She points to a leather-bound hardback sitting near the top. “That looks expensive.”
I cross my arms. “I like well-made books.”
Nancy studies me for a second, and I can see the gears turning in her head.
I don’t like that either.
Before she can push further, I gesture toward the mugs lined up on the counter. “Tea?”
She shakes her head, eyes still flicking between me and the books. “Just water, thanks.”
I grab a glass and fill it from the tap, handing it to her when I step back into the living room. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine for a brief second.
Before she can start in on the bookshelf again, I nod toward the armchair. “So, this idea of yours?”
She hesitates for half a second, eyes still flicking towards the books. Then, with a small shake of her head, she steps away from the shelf and lowers herself into the chair.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my damp hair.
Crisis averted.
For now.
Nancy shifts in the armchair, reaching for the strap of the oversized crossbody bag resting in her lap. The thing looks like it could hold half her life in it, and judging by the way she digs around for a few seconds before pulling out her laptop, it probably does.
She flips it open in one smooth motion, the soft glow of the screen reflecting in her eyes as she taps the keyboard. The faint sound of keys clicking fills the room, her fingers moving with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.
“I’ve set up a group page,” she says, her tone light but focused. “For the Ramblers.”
I glance at the screen, where what looks like a Facebook page is pulled up. A cover photo of rolling hills stretches across the top, and beneath it, a handful of posts, mostly with updates and an invitation to join.
Nancy looks up briefly, gauging my reaction, then continues. “Thought it’d be easier to keep people updated this way. Make it feel like more of a community.”
I nod slowly. Makes sense. Efficient. Nothing wrong with that.
Then, she pauses, her fingers hovering over the trackpad, like she’s about to drop something heavier into the conversation.
“I was thinking of adding some videos.”
My shoulders tense slightly.
She keeps her gaze locked on the screen, as if easing me into the idea. “Just short ones. Nothing too fancy. Just interviews about the last walk, so people get a feel for it.”
Nancy still doesn’t look at me, which is a clear red flag. She’s easing me in, like I’m some skittish horse that might bolt if she moves too fast.
“Mrs Higgins has already done hers,” she adds casually, like it’s no big deal. Like I’m supposed to nod and move on.
Instead, I fold my arms. “Of course she has.”
Nancy finally looks up, eyes sparkling with amusement as she spins the laptop towards me. “It’s actually very charming. Have a look.”
I glance at the screen. A paused video of Mrs Higgins fills the frame, standing in front of a hedgerow, Bernard panting at her feet. Her expression is delighted, hands gesturing mid-sentence, as if she’s in the middle of recounting something very important.
I exhale and press play.
“—lovely time,” Mrs Higgins is saying, her voice crisp and clear. “You don’t get many communities coming together like this anymore, and it’s so important, isn’t it? A bit of fresh air, some good company. And Luke, of course, was a wonderful addition. Bit serious, but we’ll fix that.”
I pause the video.
Nancy bites her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “She really took a shine to you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I refuse to comment.”
Nancy grins, nudging the laptop closer. “So? What do you think?”
“I think I need a drink.”
She huffs a laugh. “Come on, it’s nice, isn’t it? And all I need now is your take on the walk.”
I lean back slightly, crossing my arms. “Absolutely not.”
Nancy groans, flopping against the chair dramatically. “Luke.”
I shake my head, unmoved.
She leans forward again, hands clasped together. “Please?”
“No.”
“Please?”
I give her a flat look. “I’m not a performing seal, Nancy.”
She presses her lips together, studying me for a moment. Then her face brightens. “I’ll edit it so you only have to say one sentence. Just something short, simple.”
I shake my head again, but I can already feel my resolve cracking, which is ridiculous because I don’t do this. I don’t do videos, I don’t do interviews, I don’t do publicity stunts for a walking group I didn’t even want to join.
But.
Nancy is looking at me with those bright blue eyes, hopeful and expectant, and I realise I don’t actually want to say no to her.
Which is exactly why I should.
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “I don’t do cameras.”
Nancy pouts. Actually pouts. “But it’s just for the Ramblers.”
I exhale slowly, staring at the laptop like it’s a trap, which it absolutely is.
I could say no.
I should say no.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Fine. But one sentence. And you don’t post it if I hate it.”
Nancy beams, clapping her hands together like she’s just won something. “Deal.”
I lean back, already regretting this. “I really hope I hate it.”
She grins. “I really hope you don’t.”