11. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Luke
T he bed feels different before I even open my eyes. The sheets aren’t tangled the way they should be, the warmth that should be beside me is gone.
I reach out instinctively, fingers brushing over nothing but cool fabric.
My eyes open, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. The room is quiet, too still. The space beside me is empty.
She left.
I push up onto my elbows, running a hand over my face. There’s no sound from downstairs, no movement, no lingering presence. Just an odd sense of something missing.
I drag on a pair of shorts and head down to the kitchen, the wooden floor cool beneath my feet.
The air holds no trace of her perfume, no sign that she was ever here at all.
Except for the note.
It’s propped against the kettle, the edges slightly curled, like she wrote it in a hurry but still wanted to leave it somewhere I’d see.
My name is scrawled across the front in loose, looping handwriting. I pick it up, unfolding it, my eyes scanning the words.
Morning, sleepyhead,
I had to run. I’m meeting my sister at the farmers' market. Didn’t want to wake you (partly because you looked peaceful, partly because I suspected you’d be grumpy about it).
Last night was… well, you were there, you know how good it was.
Not sure what this all was, but if you want to talk about it, maybe you fancy coming to mine for dinner tonight?
Or, if this was just a one-night thing, no hard feelings. I promise I won’t make it awkward. (I mean, I might, but not on purpose.)
Either way, thanks for a great night.
Nancy
Her phone number is scribbled at the bottom.
My thumb drags absently over the corner of the paper, the faintest smile tugging at the edge of my lips despite the flicker of something uncertain twisting in my chest.
She’s giving me a choice.
I stare at the note a little longer, my fingers smoothing the fold as if that will somehow help me process what I’m feeling.
Butterflies.
It’s an absurd thing to admit, even to myself. I don’t get butterflies. I don’t do butterflies. And yet, there’s something unsettlingly real about the way my stomach shifts as I reread her words.
It’s not nerves. It’s not regret. It’s just… different.
I set the note down carefully on the counter, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.
She’s giving me a choice and I don’t immediately know what to do with it.
I could go. Have dinner. See where this thing between us leads.
Or I could leave it. Let it be what it was. A one-night thing with no expectations.
That should be the easy answer.
It always has been before.
I exhale, shaking my head. I leave it for now. Overthinking things has never done me any good.
Instead, I fill the kettle, setting it to boil, then grab a couple of slices of bread and shove them in the toaster. The routine is familiar, easy, something that doesn’t require thought.
The tea is strong, the toast buttered and unremarkable, but it’s enough. I take my mug and plate upstairs, setting them on my desk as I sink into my office chair.
The screen of my laptop flickers to life.
I open the document, the bare bones of an outline staring back at me. The vicar, the small village, the murder she’s about to get tangled in.
The cursor blinks.
I crack my knuckles, take a sip of tea, and start typing.
For the first time in months, the words come easily.
The sound of my phone ringing jolts me out of my head.
I blink at the screen, adjusting to my surroundings like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. The tea next to my laptop has gone stone cold. The toast plate sits untouched, a sad, abandoned crust on the edge. My fingers ache slightly from typing, and when I glance at the screen, I realise—
Five chapters.
I’ve written five whole chapters without stopping, without thinking about anything else, without second-guessing every damn word.
That hasn’t happened in… longer than I care to admit.
The phone keeps ringing.
I roll my shoulders, ignoring the strange buzz of satisfaction in my chest as I answer. “Philip.”
“Well, hello to you, too,” comes the familiar voice, bright and far too energetic. “I was just calling to check in, but you—” he pauses for dramatic effect “—sent me an outline. An actual, well-structured, coherent outline.”
I rub a hand over my face. “That is usually the goal.”
“Luke, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but it’s been months since you’ve sent me anything that didn’t sound like a man on the verge of setting his laptop on fire.”
I exhale through my nose, leaning back in my chair. “So, you like it?”
“Like it?” Philip lets out an actual cackle. “Luke. A modern, dating, forty-something vicar solving a murder in a small Yorkshire village? A woman of faith who drinks cocktails, goes on bad dates, and has opinions about the state of the world while also solving crime? This is brilliant.”
I smirk slightly. “You think?”
“I know. It’s sharp, it’s clever, and it’s different enough to keep people hooked. It’s still got your usual darkness, but there’s… something else in it. A spark. Where the hell did this come from?”
I stare at the screen. The cursor still blinks at the end of my last sentence.
Nancy’s face flickers through my mind.
The way she had looked at me last night, completely unafraid of wanting me.
I clear my throat. “It just… came to me.”
Philip scoffs. “Oh, suddenly we’re being mysterious?”
I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “I joined a walking group.”
There’s a sharp silence.
Then, Philip lets out an actual gasp. “I’m sorry, you what?”
I sigh, already regretting saying anything. “You heard me.”
A delighted laugh bursts through the phone. “Luke Evans, voluntarily engaging in an outdoor social activity. Walking. With other humans.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Yes, Philip.”
“Like… on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t kidnapped? Drugged?”
“No.”
Philip hums. “Wow. I mean, I did suggest you join a group, but I was thinking, I don’t know… something with minimal effort involved. Like a pub quiz. But instead, you went full ‘embrace the countryside’ mode? I have to say, I’m proud.”
I sigh, hoping this conversation might derail into something else. “See? Your idea. Blame yourself.”
“Oh, I love taking credit for this,” he says brightly. “Now tell me more. Who are these fine Yorkshire folk who have welcomed the infamous Luke Evans into their flock?”
I hesitate, keeping my tone casual. “A mix of people. A woman runs it—Nancy.”
Philip goes suspiciously quiet for a second. “Nancy.”
“Yes.”
Philip bursts into laughter, the kind that tells me he’s just pieced something together that I probably should have noticed myself.
“So, like the vicar,” he cackles.
I frown, his words sinking in. And then— oh, shit.
Nancy.
I named the vicar after her.
Of course, I knew I’d done it. I wasn’t completely oblivious. But I hadn’t really thought about it. Hadn’t connected the dots properly until now.
Philip is still laughing. “Luke. Please tell me you realise what you’ve done.”
I rub my temple, feeling very much like I should have seen this coming. “It’s just a name.”
Philip gasps, like I’ve just personally insulted him. “It’s just a name? It’s just a name?” He lets out another delighted laugh. “Mate. You’re telling me that, out of every name in existence, the one you subconsciously chose for your new, charismatic, crime-solving, modern and witty vicar—who also happens to be your first original character idea in months—just happens to be the name of the woman who got you to leave your house?”
I press my fingers to my forehead. “It’s a coincidence.”
Philip snorts. “Sure. And I suppose this vicar has absolutely nothing in common with your Nancy, either?”
I say nothing, which is, apparently, an answer in itself.
Philip’s laughter somehow gets worse.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, clearly delighted. “This is better than I imagined.”
I shake my head, trying to divert the conversation. “Do you like the outline or not?”
“Oh, I love the outline,” Philip says, still grinning. “But let’s be honest, I could have hated it, and I’d still be enjoying this moment.”
I sigh, already regretting everything. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m invested,” Philip corrects. “And honestly, you should be too. Because if this isn’t proof that Nancy has gotten under your skin, I don’t know what is.”
Philip hums, far too pleased with himself. “Wait until I tell Mark.”
I sit up straighter. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, absolutely yes.”
“Philip.” My voice comes out sharp, a warning.
Philip ignores it entirely. “You know he’ll want to hear about this. We’ve all been convinced you were going to die alone in that house of yours, surrounded by stacks of unread books and an unopened bottle of whisky.”
I scowl. “I might still.”
“Answer me this, are you seeing her again?”
It’s a simple question, and I could so easily lie, but something makes me tell him the truth. Maybe because I want to tell someone—anyone—about her. “Tonight… I think.”
“Oh…” he is silent for a moment before laughing, “I didn’t expect you to admit it. Next you’ll tell me you already shagged her.”
Silence. I will not admit that. But my silence apparently did that for me.
“Luke! No, what? A week ago, you didn’t want to leave the house and now you are hooking up with a woman who has wormed her way into your brain, inspired some brilliant writing and is the inspiration for your vicar. Oh, shit, tell me it’s not the local vicar.”
I snort, “No, Nancy is a marketing freelancer.”
“Oh, phew. Not that I have something against vicars, but an atheist like you, I can’t see you having a happily-ever-after with a vicar.” He genuinely sounds relieved.
“Who said anything about happily-ever—”
“Stop right there, Luke. You don’t need to explain anything to me, and I won’t tease you any further, but don’t downplay this. You and I both know that, at best, you’ve had one-night-stands in the last few years. Especially after the bitch went after your book. This is the first time where there is more to it than just a quick fuck. You don’t have to explain anything to me, but you need to promise me that you’ll give this a chance.”
“Philip, I—”
“No, Luke. Promise me. Just let it happen.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
Because he’s right.
And that realisation hits me harder than I expect.
Philip lets the silence stretch. Then, as if sensing my internal breakdown, he changes tactics. “So, what exactly is tonight? Are you asking her out? Making a move? Seeing where it leads?”
I shake my head, trying to find the right words. “I… it’s just dinner.”
Philip makes a doubtful noise. “Just dinner.”
I exhale. “She invited me.”
He perks up. “Oh?”
“It’s just—” I stop myself before I finish that sentence. Because there’s no just about it.
Philip howls with laughter. “Oh, you are so done for.”
I drop my head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling, trying to will some sense into this conversation.
“Philip, this is ridiculous. How can I have feelings for her? I barely know her.”
Philip hums thoughtfully but miraculously doesn’t jump in with some sarcastic response. “Alright,” he says, voice lighter now, almost like a challenge. “What do you know?”
I exhale, rubbing my jaw. “I know she’s originally from Yorkshire. Grew up not far from here.”
Philip makes a vague noise of acknowledgment, like he’s taking mental notes.
“She’s got a sister, Abby, who runs a bed and breakfast. They’re close. She helps out sometimes, mostly looking after her niece, Layla.”
Another hum from Philip.
“She works in her pyjamas, mostly. Likes the freedom. Hates the corporate rat race.”
I pause, glancing at the note still sitting on the counter.
“She can’t cook.”
Philip actually snorts at that.
I keep going. “Or bake. Tried to make something for her book club once, and it came out half-burnt.”
“She’s got a thing for rambling but doesn’t like doing it alone. Not because she’s scared or anything, but because she thinks it’s a bit sad wandering the hills by herself with no one to talk to.”
Philip stays silent.
I shift in my seat, frowning slightly. “She gets this crease between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating. Proper focused. Like when she was setting up the camera for that stupid rambler group video.”
My mind flickers back to that moment: her biting her lip slightly, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the angle, standing back with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, utterly determined to get it right.
I rub the back of my neck. “She does this thing where she tucks her hair behind her ear, but it never stays there. She’s constantly pushing it back. It drives her mad.”
My fingers tap against the desk.
“She smells like…” I trail off, realising how insane I sound. But Philip is still quiet, so I keep going. “Like something citrusy. But not overpowering. Subtle. And she always runs her fingers through her hair when she’s thinking. I don’t even think she realises she’s doing it.”
I sit back, suddenly feeling far too aware of what just came out of my mouth.
“Oh, mate.” His voice is soft now. “You’re so falling for her, you’ve got to give this a chance.”
I let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s not that simple.”
“But it is.” His voice is steady, certain. “I’ve known you for years, and I have never heard you talk about someone like this. Not even close.”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “That doesn’t mean—”
“That you’re falling for her?” Philip interrupts, unimpressed. “Oh, it absolutely does. You just listed more details about this woman than you have ever willingly shared about yourself.”
I stay quiet, because… well.
I don’t have a good argument against that.
Philip exhales. “Look. When I met Mark, it wasn’t planned. We were in a bar, right? Just chatting, nothing serious. Then, completely out of nowhere, he says, ‘Fancy getting the train to Whitstable?’”
I frown. “What?”
“Exactly. It made no sense. I barely knew him. But something in me just knew I had to say yes.” His voice shifts slightly, quieter now, like he’s remembering it in real time. “So, we went. Spent the whole weekend there. Ate chips on the beach, drank terrible wine, stayed in some tiny, overpriced B&B. And that was it. That was us.”
I lean back in my chair, the weight of his words pressing against something in my chest.
“You never know when love’s going to hit you, Luke,” Philip continues. “There isn’t some perfect formula. No checklist. No slow build that follows all the right steps. Sometimes it’s a spur-of-the-moment train ride to the coast with a stranger.” He pauses. “Or a walking group you had no intention of joining.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Philip.”
“No, listen. You’re not the kind of person who just lets people in. And yet, here you are, obsessing over a woman who has completely gotten under your skin. That doesn’t happen to you, Luke. Ever.”
I swallow, my fingers tapping against my desk.
“Trust me,” Philip says, a little softer now. “I know this is new for you. And I know it’s probably terrifying. But if you don’t at least see where this goes, you’re going to regret it. And I’m not going to sit back and watch you let something good pass you by because you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.
Nancy’s note is still in the kitchen.
I don’t have to think hard to know what I’m going to do.
But admitting it? That’s another thing entirely.