12. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Nancy
I nudge the cottage door open with my hip, juggling bags full of fresh produce, homemade jam, and, because I apparently have a problem, yet another jar of honey to add to my already overflowing shelf.
I’d planned to use the trip to the farmers’ market to tell Abby about Luke, but that idea got completely derailed when I arrived at the B&B and found Layla standing in the hallway, proudly holding Jon’s trousers in her tiny hands. Jon, the grumpy guest that had been staying with them for a couple of weeks.
“Mummy and Jon had a sleepover!” she announced, far too delighted. Abby went bright red. And I had the best time of my life teasing her as the four of us—Layla insisted on inviting Jon along—strolled through the market.
Seeing my sister, who never lets her guard down, falling for a man she barely knows, gives me hope.
Maybe it isn’t so ridiculous to let myself feel something for Luke. Maybe it isn’t completely mad to think that something real could come from this, even though it has happened fast.
But then again… Abby is brave when it comes to these things. I’m not sure I am.
And, more importantly, I’m not sure Luke is.
I’ve spent exactly one night tangled up in him, one night seeing flashes of something softer underneath all that gruff distance. But is that just him in the moment? Or is that who he really is?
Because Luke doesn’t seem like a man who dates. He seems like a man who keeps his life carefully contained—separate compartments, no overlap, no mess.
And me? I am absolutely a mess.
I sigh, rubbing my temples.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe I should just let whatever this is be what it is, without trying to label it.
But the truth is, I already know I’m past that point.
Because the second my phone starts ringing with an unknown number, my stomach flips.
I stare at it for a second longer than necessary, already knowing it’s him. It has to be him. Please, pretty please with sugar on it.
I swallow and swipe to answer. “Hello?”
A beat of silence. Just long enough to make my heart thud harder.
Then, his voice. “Hey, Nancy.”
I grip the edge of the counter, warmth spreading through me far too easily.
I shouldn’t be this affected. I really shouldn’t.
But Luke isn’t like the men I’ve known for years, the ones who’ve never surprised me. He’s different. Mysterious. Reserved. Infuriatingly grumpy. But warm, too, when he lets his guard slip.
And now, he’s calling me.
I close my eyes, willing myself to sound normal, casual… like my stomach isn’t flipping all over the place just because he called me.
“So,” I say, keeping my tone light, “does this mean you’re accepting my dinner invite?”
There’s a pause, just long enough for my nerves to prickle.
“No,” Luke says.
My stomach drops.
Oh.
Right.
I force a small laugh, aiming for breezy, but it comes out a little stiff. “Oh. Well. No worries. It was just an—”
“I’m cooking,” he adds before I can finish.
I blink. “What?”
“You can’t cook,” he says simply.
I open my mouth, then shut it again.
Because, well… fair point.
“You don’t have to sound so smug about it,” I grumble, crossing my arms, but warmth spreads through me anyway.
Luke remembers.
He actually remembers that tiny, stupid detail about me.
And now, he wants to cook for me.
I lean against the counter, twisting the strap of my tote bag between my fingers. “So, what are we talking here? A proper meal? Or are you just heating up a tin of beans and hoping for the best?”
Luke snorts. “I take offence at that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Unlike you, I can actually function in a kitchen.”
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest won’t go away. “Fine, Gordon Ramsay, what’s on the menu?”
“You’ll find out when you get here.”
“Bit risky, don’t you think? What if I have allergies? What if I’m secretly a picky eater?”
“You’re not,” he says flatly. “And if you were, I assume I’d have already heard a long speech about your dietary preferences.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t always give long speeches.”
“You do,” he says. “But it’s fine. I find it… entertaining.”
My stomach flips at that.
I clear my throat. “So, what time does this grand meal take place?”
“Six.”
I raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see me. “Oh? No room for negotiation?”
“Nope,” he says. “I’m taking control of the situation.”
I exhale a laugh. Assertive Luke, I can get used to this.
“Alright,” I say, unable to fight the smile in my voice. “Six it is.”
There’s a pause. A tiny hesitation, like he’s considering something.
Then, in that low, impossibly steady voice of his, he says, “I make poached eggs on toast for breakfast.”
I frown slightly, caught off guard. “Good to know?”
He clears his throat. “Just saying… if you fancy that, maybe you should bring some pyjamas.”
I freeze.
The words hang there between us, casual as anything, but I hear what he’s really saying. He’s not asking me to stay. Not outright. He’s leaving it open, giving me the choice, making it easy for me to brush it off as a joke if I want to.
Smart man.
I swallow, my grip tightening on my phone. “Is that your way of saying you’re planning to seduce me with food, Evans?”
He hums. “I don’t need food for that.”
Oh.
I stare at the wall, desperately trying to act like my entire body isn’t tingling.
I clear my throat. “Well, I do love poached eggs.”
“Good,” he says, maddening calm, like he hasn’t just completely derailed my ability to function. “See you at six.”
And then, he hangs up.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at my phone, brain short-circuiting, stomach doing some kind of ridiculous gymnastics routine.
He wants me to stay over… again.
I glance at the clock.
I have exactly three hours to decide if I’m bringing pyjamas.
I lean back into the sofa, swirling the last sip of wine in my glass, feeling warm and far too comfortable in Luke’s living room.
Dinner was ridiculously good. I knew he could cook but I hadn’t expected something this good. Slow-roasted pork, crispy crackling, buttery mashed potatoes, roasted carrots with honey glaze. The kind of meal you order in a fancy gastropub, not casually whip up in your kitchen like it’s no big deal.
I let out a contented sigh, stretching my legs out slightly. “Alright,” I admit. “I’ll give it to you. That was probably the best roast pork I’ve ever had.”
Luke, sitting beside me, takes a slow sip of his drink. “Probably?”
I smirk, shifting to face him. “I mean, Abby does make a solid Sunday roast.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So, your sister is my competition?”
I nod solemnly. “Big shoes to fill.”
Luke tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering something. “Guess I’ll have to keep cooking for you, then,” he winks.
Butterflies. Thousands of butterflies. I keep my expression calm, tilting my head. “Is this your way of luring me back here with food?”
He smirks slightly. “Is it working?”
I exhale a laugh, shaking my head. “Maybe.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for just a fraction of a second, but I catch it.
I swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how close we’re sitting.
His arm is stretched across the back of the sofa, his body turned slightly towards mine, his knee brushing against me every time either of us moves.
I clear my throat, aiming for casual. “I should probably thank you for cooking.”
Luke hums. “You should.”
His voice is deeper now. Lower.
My pulse pounds.
I set my glass down on the coffee table, turning fully towards him, resting my elbow on the back of the sofa. “How do you propose I do that?”
His gaze flickers over my face, dark and unreadable, but I don’t miss the way his fingers flex slightly on the smooth leather of the sofa.
“Figure it out,” he murmurs.
And just like that, I close the space between us, pressing my lips to his.
Luke responds instantly, his hand sliding around my waist, pulling me closer as his mouth moves against mine, slow and deliberate.
I shift, pressing against him, threading my fingers through his hair, deepening the kiss.
He exhales sharply, his other hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb dragging slowly along my cheekbone.
I sigh into him, my whole body melting into the heat of him, into the way he kisses me like he actually means it.
Luke’s hands slide down my back, gripping my waist, pulling me even closer. The slow, steady way he moves—completely in control, completely focused on me—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
I shift, breaking the kiss just enough to catch my breath, my fingers dragging down his chest, tracing the firm lines beneath his shirt. His breathing is heavier now, his eyes dark as he watches me.
I place a teasing kiss to his jaw, then lower, letting my lips brush against the sensitive spot at the base of his throat. His hands flex on my hips, his whole body tensing slightly beneath my touch.
I move slowly, deliberately, sliding off the sofa and kneeling between his legs.
Luke inhales sharply, his gaze dropping to me, his lips parting slightly. He looks wrecked already, and I’ve barely done anything.
His hand comes up, his fingers brushing lightly through my hair, like he’s both encouraging and steadying himself at the same time.
“Nancy,” he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something dangerously close to desperation.
I glance up at him, smirking slightly. “Hmm?”
His jaw tightens, his fingers curling into my hair as I reach for the button of his jeans.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Luke Evans look so completely undone.
And I plan on making it worse.