Page 127 of Secret Paths

“You are a woman who avoids rotas.”

“Only recreationally.”

She gives me a look, but she is too busy to interrogate properly. A queue forms almost at once, and for twenty minutes, I sell tickets, make change, explain prizes and prevent a small child from putting his entire hand into the jar with sweets.

It helps.

Being useful usually does.

Then Mrs Higgins arrives to ask whether Bernard is allowed to enter the best-dressed scarecrow competition.

Alexandra says no.

Mrs Higgins says the rules do not specifically exclude dogs.

Bernard yawns.

I look away before I laugh, and that is when I see Peter.

He is behind the Morton Hall baked-apple stall.

For a second, my body reacts before my brain does. A tightening. A lift of my heart. Something foolish and immediate.

He is wearing jeans, a dark jumper and a white apron that is too small for him. Morton Hall is stitched across the front, which would make sense if he had started the accounts job already. He has not. The bank is still limping towards closure.

Then I remember Alexandra saying the hotel had a wedding this weekend and Hunter was short on hands for the festival stall. Of course Hunter asked Peter. Of course Peter said yes.

He is good at it.

That is the first thing that hits me.

Not handsome, though he is. Not mine, because he is not. Just a good guy.

He serves baked apples in paper bowls, adds custard, takes coins, smiles at people without making it feel like an act. An elderly woman says something to him, and he leans forward to hear her properly over the noise. A little boy points suspiciously at the raisins, and Peter gives him the solemn attention of a man negotiating international peace.

The boy takes the bowl.

Peter looks absurdly pleased with himself.

I should look away, but I just can’t.

A woman steps up to the stall.

She is not from St Claire, I do not think. Green coat, glossy hair, clean boots, the faintly polished look of someone staying at Morton Hall rather than living anywhere near a field. She says something to Peter, and he smiles.

My stomach drops before common sense catches up.

He is not flirting.

I know what Peter looks like when he flirts. I have seen him do it in pubs, on walks, in my kitchen, against my front door and, unfortunately, in several places I am trying not to think about while standing near a raffle table.

This is not that.

He is polite. Warm. Funny enough to make her laugh, but not the way he is when he wants to be followed. He ladles custard into her bowl, answers whatever question she asks, then turns to serve the next person.

He has done nothing wrong.

Neither has she.