Page 10 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Alexandra

T om’s clattering about behind the bar, unloading the dishwasher like it’s personally offended him.

He’s got earbuds in, nodding along to some aggressively cheerful pop remix.

It’s not my taste, but it’s better than whatever doom-bass techno he usually tortures himself with.

I’d put on a bit of old-school rock if I had my way—something with guitars and a pulse—but I’m too busy trying to wrestle the function sheet into submission to bother picking a fight about playlists.

I’m perched on the edge of the bar, a plate of chips beside me and a pen in my mouth as I scan the document for what feels like the fifteenth time.

The bride for the wedding in two weeks is lovely, flustered, and dangerously addicted to Pinterest. She also texted last night with another flurry of updates.

Four additional guests. One of whom is, and I quote, ‘strictly no fat, no dairy, not even butter, please make sure the kitchen knows. xx’.

Chef is going to love that. Matt couldn’t care less if we served soup out of flowerpots so long as the food hits the pass on time. But if I hand him another updated seating plan with more dietary requirements, I might not make it out of the kitchen alive.

The kitchen team have had a long month, and a last-minute dietary curveball a few days before prep starts is not going to go down smoothly. Especially not with a wedding breakfast of sixty and a three-course plated menu.

The bar staff are easier. Tom, for example, is one of half a dozen students I keep on zero-hour contracts while they juggle lectures and library shifts in Leeds.

He’s quick, cheerful, and only slightly allergic to early mornings.

Like the rest of them, he keeps the place ticking along without too much drama.

As long as there’s Wi-Fi and I don’t make him work the day before an exam.

“Tom,” I call over the clatter. “When you’re done smashing those glasses, can you restock the fridge, please? And do me a favour and check how many barrels of Stella we have left. I’ve got a feeling this wedding lot will drink like it’s a stag do in Marbella.”

He pulls out one earbud and nods. “On it, boss.”

I turn my attention back to my laptop when my phone buzzes beside the plate of chips.

Hunter

I miss you.

I smile before I can even think twice about it.

It’s not even been three days. We’ve both had to dive back into real life after our... whatever it is. Pool table sex and lemon tart diplomacy aside, I wasn’t expecting a midday text from him. But it’s there, warm and unfiltered and him.

I swipe the screen with slightly greasy fingers.

Me

It’s only been a few days.

I read his message again. Then again. A soft warmth creeps in behind my ribs.

Hunter

Still. Too long.

A familiar tightness curls low in my stomach. I miss him too. Is that crazy?

Me

I take it you’re not just texting me sweet nothings whilst lording over your hotel?

The reply comes quickly.

Hunter

Sadly not. Short staffed. Two big functions this week. One of the chefs has Covid. Can’t find decent waiting staff either. It’s like everyone vanished after the pandemic.

I frown. That tracks. We’ve had the same issue in the pub. Students come and go, but proper waiting staff, people with experience and stamina? Can’t find any for love nor money. Since Covid, everyone either left hospitality or refuses to come back unless it's triple pay and no weekends.

I bite a chip in half and text back.

Me

Nightmare. I’m not exactly flush with options either. But so far, my students are not letting me down.

Hunter

Reckon I’ll be running food and fixing toilets by Friday. But I’ll be at the walk on Saturday if you’re free.

Me

Can’t. Nancy’s bringing the whole group to the pub again. I need to be around to help the team prep. The rota’s already stretched because there are some exams this week.

I hesitate after I send it, staring at the blinking cursor like it might offer me a solution.

Some days I feel like I live in a constant cycle of building rotas and cleaning up spills—emotional, logistical, or actual.

Normally I love it, but since Hunter has started to invade my life, I keep wondering if I shouldn’t get some better work life balance.

His reply buzzes through a second later.

Hunter

Alright. Then promise me a kiss when I get there.

I shake my head, already smiling like an idiot.

Me

I’m not promising anything .

Liar. My body still hums when I think of his hands on me. His mouth. The way he looks at me like I’m not broken, not fragile—just wanted .

Hunter

Then I’ll take my chances. Might even get more than a kiss if I’m charming enough.

That makes me laugh out loud. Tom gives me a questioning look, and I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

Me

You’d better not say things like that in front of Mrs Higgins.

Hunter

She’d only wink at me. You know she loves nothing more than matchmaking.

He’s not wrong. Mrs Higgins probably has a betting pool going.

Me

That is disturbingly true.

There’s a pause this time. Not long, but enough for me to shift slightly on the stool and glance down at the laptop, trying to pretend my heart isn’t already a little too involved.

Then the final message comes.

Hunter

I’ll tell Peter on the walk.

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen.

Right. So, he’s really doing this. He’s definitely not messing around.

There’s a strange, fluttery weight in my chest—half panic, half something dangerously close to hope. For all my insecurities, he’s not giving me any wiggle room to doubt him. It’s unnerving. And oddly comforting.

Because I’ve never had that. Not really.

Darren had been all performance—flashy dates and louder promises, but nothing that ever truly settled in my bones. And Hunter?

Hunter’s the opposite.

He doesn’t shout. He just shows up. Again and again.

I tap out my reply with slightly shaky fingers.

Me

See you Saturday.

I set the phone down, press my palms into the bar and let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

He’s telling Peter.

Which means this is real.

And real is terrifying.

But it’s also the first thing in a long time that feels worth the risk.

Saturday morning arrives far too quickly and far too brightly for my liking .

I’m standing in front of the mirror, hair still damp, work shirt hanging on the back of the chair, and I’m holding up a bra I’ve definitely never worn to a shift before.

Lacy. Deep red. Absolutely no padding. Entirely unnecessary.

I stare at it like it might offer me advice.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

But I put it on anyway.

It’s not just the bra. The knickers match. Also lacy, also red, also wildly impractical for a Saturday of hauling crates, pulling pints, and pretending not to hear when someone complains the chips are too salty again.

I wriggle into my sensible black trousers, adjust the waistband, and try not to think about the fact that I’m deliberately dressing like someone who suspects she may not stay dressed.

The black polo shirt with the Running Horse logo follows, neatly ironed and faintly smelling of starch and pub linen. My uniform. My armour.

And underneath it, a tiny, private secret stitched in lace.

I smooth the shirt down, stare at myself in the mirror, and sigh.

I’ve completely lost the plot.

It’s noon when I join Magda behind the bar. Plenty of time before the Ramblers descend later this afternoon. But even now, with hours to go, there's a flutter low in my belly, a restless kind of fizz I haven’t felt in a very long time.

The last time I thought I was close to something like this, I ended up in divorce court with a pile of legal fees.

But Hunter isn’t Darren. And that flutter? That little electric twist at the thought of seeing him again, kissing him again, isn’t fear. Not exactly.

The sun’s already streaming through the windows, throwing streaks of gold across the wooden floorboards.

Voices float in from the beer garden—laughter, clinking glasses, the scrape of benches shifting across stone.

I catch the tail end of a “bloody hell, it’s warm for September!

” as the door swings open and someone asks if dogs are allowed inside.

Magda’s at the bar, towel slung over one shoulder, working her way through the lunchtime drinks queue with professional calm and slightly pink cheeks.

“Alright?” I ask, ducking behind the counter.

She gives me a long-suffering look. “Smithsons have been here eight minutes and already asked for ketchup, tartare sauce, and a jug of Pimms.”

“Impressive,” I say, checking the till float. “Pimms at noon. Must be a wedding anniversary or a midlife crisis.”

She huffs a laugh, then turns to pull a pint, already back in rhythm.

I make a circuit of the beer taps, check the fridge stock, and then pop into the cellar to confirm the lager delivery came in.

The door to the kitchen swings open on a blast of heat and the rich smell of frying onions.

Matt, my head chef, is halfway through plating a steak sandwich, his usual grumble dialled down to a low simmer thanks to the decent weather and the fact no one’s asked for gluten-free Yorkshire puddings. Yet.

“Hey,” I say, slipping in with my notepad. “All good?”

He doesn’t look up. “We’re out of the fancy chutney.”

“Sub the house red onion. No one’ll notice.”

“Fine. As long as no one mentions the phrase ‘artisan board’ I won’t throw anything.”

“Deal.”

I jot a reminder to update the allergen sheets and check the prep list pinned to the dry store door.

Everything’s moving. In motion. Normal.

Except I can’t stop thinking about him .

Somewhere out there, Hunter's rambling through the Yorkshire Dales. Maybe with Peter. Maybe right now, his boots are hitting the trail and his minds on me. The thought sends another flutter through me—ridiculous and adolescent and completely unwelcome as I’m standing beside a box of pork scratchings.

I shake it off. Focus! There’s work to do.