Page 1 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Alexandra

M onday nights at The Running Horse are quiet enough to hear your own thoughts, which, in my case, usually involves deciding between leftover shepherd’s pie or toast for tea.

The telly’s on in the corner, playing the end of some darts tournament, no one’s paying attention to.

The few regulars still hang around, but otherwise, not much is happening on a Monday.

“Seriously, Ally,” Peter says from his usual stool at the end of the bar. “You’d really like this one. Solid bloke. Drives a Jag. All his hair.”

I roll my eyes and yank open the dishwasher.

Aren’t brothers supposed to want to scare guys away from you?

Why do I have one that treats me like a spinster in a Victorian novel?

“You’ve got to stop trying to fix me up with your banker mates.

Just because someone can afford the overpriced tasting menu at that place in Harrogate doesn’t mean he’s God’s gift. ”

Peter shrugs, grinning. “I’m just saying, you’ve been single for—”

“Two years. I know.” I pull out a glass and hold it to the light. “And somehow, I’ve managed not to combust without a man in a suit who uses 'networking' as a verb.”

He laughs, but I spot that look in his eyes. The one he saves for when he’s worried about me but doesn’t want to say it outright. It’s soft, familiar, and just a little bit annoying.

“Come on, Ally. You’re not getting any younger.”

“Oi.” I flick a beer mat at his head. “Forty-one isn’t ancient.”

“Exactly. Prime time to meet someone before you start bulk-buying cat toys.”

“Oh, and what about you?” I shoot back, eyebrow raised. “You’re thirty-nine and single. Shall I sign you up for speed dating at the village hall?”

“Difference is, I’m a free spirit. Bachelor by design,” Peter grins.

“Right. That’s why you are sitting in my pub almost every evening.”

“Hey, I get out there. I date. I socialise. You, on the other hand, work, lock up, then vanish into your flat with a glass of wine and QI reruns.”

I sniff. “ QI is brilliant, thank you very much. Just because I enjoy clever people being witty doesn’t mean I’ve given up on life.”

“You know all the answers before Sandi’s finished reading the card.”

“That’s a skill. And you’ll thank me at the Christmas quiz.”

Peter chuckles, leaning forward like he’s about to drop some kind of truth bomb. “You’re not just single. You’ve gone full hermit. Emotionally wrapped in fluffy pyjamas and eating crisps straight from the bag.”

I snort. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“When was the last time you cooked for someone who wasn’t you or me?”

I turn back to the bar, flicking my tea towel over one shoulder. “Off the top of my head? None of your business.”

“Exactly.” He takes a smug sip of his pint. “You’re hibernating. A very attractive, sharp-tongued hermit who could still absolutely pull if she left the pub once in a blue moon.”

I flinch. Attractive.

Funny, that. My ex-husband certainly didn’t seem to think so—not when I caught him with other women.

The first time was someone from his gym.

The second was a friend of a friend. But the final straw?

That was his secretary. Darren didn’t even try to hide it.

Snogged her in plain sight at the village bank holiday picnic, right by the trestle tables, like we weren’t married, like I wasn’t standing ten feet away holding a plate of sausage rolls and trying not to drop them.

Half of St Claire saw it. The other half heard by teatime.

The divorce was fast and humiliating. According to the local gossip, it was overdue. I didn’t fight it. Just signed the papers and quietly peeled myself away from village life wherever I could.

Not just to avoid him, though he’s still here—still swanning around with his smug grin and the secretary-now-girlfriend. No, it was the looks I couldn’t take. The pitying smiles from the village gossips, the awkward silences, the way voices dropped when I walked into the bakery.

But here, behind the bar, I’ve got a bit of power.

I’m not the woman who got publicly humiliated.

I’m the landlady of The Running Horse. I’ve got beer taps, regulars, a decent Yorkshire pudding on Sundays, and most importantly, a bar counter between me and the rest of them.

A bit of polished oak, a built-in excuse to keep people at arm’s length. It helps. Mostly.

Peter opens his mouth, no doubt about to call Darren a wanker again—his favourite hobby lately—but he doesn’t get the chance.

“You’ll want to mind your language, Peter,” comes a voice from further down the bar. “Some of us are trying to enjoy our sherry without a side of filth.”

We both turn. Mrs Higgins is perched on her usual stool, handbag nestled next to her like it contains state secrets and a packet of crisps in hand.

Peter offers a sheepish smile. “I would never, Mrs Higgins.”

She raises her eyebrows over the rim of her glass. “I mean, Darren was a wanker . But we don’t need to shout it about. Let the man ruin his own reputation in peace.”

I smirk into the tea towel I’m folding.

Mrs Higgins turns her attention to me now, her eyes sharp, but her tone breezy. “And you , Alexandra, could do with a bit more colour in your cheeks. When was the last time you got out of this place for something other than bin night?”

“Not you too! I get out,” I defend myself, not very convincingly .

“Hmm,” she says, nibbling a crisp. “I suppose standing in the beer garden to shout at the delivery driver counts.”

Peter chuckles. I do not.

Mrs Higgins pretends to examine the back of her crisp packet like it’s a classified ad. “You know, there’s that walking group on Saturdays. All sorts turn up. Good for the lungs. And the legs. And sometimes… well. You never know who you might find striding beside you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you suggesting I take up rambling?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting anything,” she says, all innocence, though the twinkle in her eye suggests otherwise. “Just making conversation.”

Peter jumps on it. “Actually, Hunter told me about the group. Said it might be good for his hotel guests. We’re both going this Saturday, so you may as well come along.”

The moment he says Hunter, something tightens low in my stomach. Not nerves exactly. Not dread either. More like... butterflies.

Peter’s best mate since they were six and I was eight. He has been a fixture in my life ever since, first as a little tornado of scraped knees and loud opinions, and now as... well. As something else entirely.

He grew into himself. Rugged, sun-kissed, maddeningly easy on the eye. All broad shoulders and warm smiles. And the worst part is, he carries it all without a shred of arrogance. Like he doesn’t even notice the way people look at him when he walks into a room. Or the way I have to pretend not to.

And now I’m supposed to spend a Saturday tramping through fields and stiles with him walking beside me ?

I’ll be breathless before we clear the first hill.

My idea of a workout lately is hauling the cider order through the back door.

He runs. Properly. I’ve seen him on Saturday mornings, jogging past the pub before I’ve even had my first cup of tea.

Always in those black running shorts. Tight running shorts.

The first time I noticed, I happened to be wiping the inside of the front window. The second time… maybe not so much. And now it has become a bit of a habit for me. Creepy, I know, but I can’t help it.

Those mornings, when he passes, there’s this flicker in my chest I don’t have a name for.

I shake it off. I really need to stop lusting after my brother’s best friend. He’s way out of my league, and not just because he’s younger.

He’s just… not someone you imagine reaching for you. He belongs to clean morning air and smooth confidence and people who don’t carry old bruises like mine.

A sudden, girlish giggle cuts through the silence.

I snap my head up.

Mrs Higgins watches me over the rim of her glass with far too much interest.

Did I say any of that out loud?

I glance at Peter. He’s busy picking crisps out of the packet one by one, looking as clueless as ever.

“Funny little smile you’ve got there, Alexandra,” Mrs Higgins says, almost to herself. “Thought I’d seen that expression before. Mmm. Yes. Nancy wore it once. Just after she started organising the Rambler’s group.”

My brows lift. “Nancy Collins? ”

Mrs Higgins nods, all innocence. “She said it surprised her, how much good it did. Bit of company, bit of countryside. Bit of something to look forward to.”

I lean back slightly, narrowing my eyes. “This some kind of soft sell, is it?”

She shrugs, pleased with herself. “I wouldn’t dream of pressuring you. But a walk’s a walk. And it’s not like the hills are short of handsome scenery.”

I open my mouth to reply but Peter beats me to it.

“Come on, Al. One Saturday morning. It won’t kill you.”

I sigh. I should say no, not only because Saturdays are busy and I am short on staff as it is. However, something unspoken is pushing me to do this. “No promises.”

Before he can reply, his phone buzzes on the bar. He glances at the screen, grins, and answers.

“Hunter! We were just talking about you. Guess what—Ally’s coming on Saturday!”

I stare at him in horror. “Peter—!”

He holds the phone away from his ear just in time to dodge the tea towel I fling at his head. Mrs Higgins chuckles into her sherry like this is the best entertainment she’s had all week.

Peter mouths, You’re welcome.

And just like that, I know I’m going. Not because I want to. Not even because they talked me into it.

No, I’m going because now he thinks I’m coming, and I can’t think of a single excuse not to.