Page 11 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Hunter

T he sun’s already warming the gravel as I lock up the car outside Morton Hall. One of those early summer mornings where everything looks deceptively calm—birds in full chorus, hedgerows buzzing, and the scent of freshly cut grass hanging in the air like something from a tourist brochure.

I shoulder my rucksack, adjust the straps, and start across the drive towards the lane that leads up to the Church of St Claire. The walking group’s meeting there this time.

Peter’s probably already holding court by the gate, charming pensioners and flirting up a storm with any newcomers.

I’m halfway to the edge of the gravel in front of the hotel when I hear the unmistakable clack of heels behind me.

“Hunter!”

I stop and turn.

Silvia strides towards me, tablet in one hand, takeaway coffee in the other, her expression already halfway between panic and indignation. Whatever it is, if my Food and Beverage Manager needs to talk to me on my day off, it’s not going to be good.

“You’re not going to like this,” she says, breathless.

“Excellent,” I mutter. “Go on, then.”

“Connor and Yasmin. They’ve both handed in their notice. Found office jobs.”

I stare at her. “Seriously?”

She nods, mouth tight. “Cited ‘more stability’ and ‘no weekend shifts’. I could scream.”

I let out a low string of curses under my breath. “We’ve got the tech retreat in two weeks. That’s three days of yoga, breakout sessions, and very specific toast requests. We can’t run it without a full team.”

Silvia shifts her weight, eyebrow already arching like she’s been preparing for this moment.

“We’ll have to come up with something,” I say. “Maybe we do what Alex does at the pub—hire students. Flexible hours, local, probably cheaper.”

Her expression turns sour. “Speaking of which—I drove past the Running Horse on my way in. Garden was heaving. Packed with tourists already. We should be getting that footfall.”

“We’re not a pub, Silvia. It’s a different offer.”

“Still,” she says, eyes sharp. “We should think about how to attract that crowd. Lunch specials. Garden seating. Something. Not everyone wants to eat risotto under a linen napkin.”

I’ve heard this before. Different day, same snide tone.

“There’s enough business for both,” I say, flatly.

She gives me a little smirk. “Oh yes, I’m sure there is. Especially when your friend runs it.”

I stop .

“Don’t.”

She lifts her brows, all innocence. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“This has nothing to do with Alexandra,” I say, voice colder now. “So let’s not make it personal.”

She opens her mouth—undoubtedly to make it personal—and I’m done.

I shake my head and walk away, boots crunching on the gravel.

Because I’ve got no time for power plays dressed up as business strategy. Not today. Not when I’ve got a mile of countryside to clear my head and one hell of a conversation to have with my best mate.

The Church of St Claire rises ahead, just past the old post office, its stone spire catching the morning light. The walking group’s already gathering in the churchyard, waterproofs and flasks and all.

Before I can fully scan the group, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

“Thought you’d bottled it,” Pete says with a grin, giving me a solid clap that jolts straight through my chest.

I force a smile, trying not to let it crack around the edges. “Late start. You know how Saturdays are.”

He nods, already looking past me to greet someone else. But I feel it, sharp and sudden—nerves crawling up the back of my neck. I told Alex I’d speak to him today. Promised her he’ll be fine. And I meant it.

But now, standing here next to him I’m not so sure anymore.

Peter’s my mate. Has been since forever.

He was the one who dragged me to the pub after my grandfather died.

The one who stole a cigarette from his mum so we could give smoking a try.

Something that caused the most hilarious coughing fits and a promise to each other that we would never do that again.

We decided there and then, we were cool without cigarettes.

He is my best friend. And the one who also happens to be very much Alex’s brother.

How the hell do you open a conversation like that?

By the way, I’m sleeping with your sister... and planning to keep doing it, if that’s alright with you.

Before I can spiral any further, Nancy steps forward and raises her voice slightly to address the group.

“Alright everyone, listen in!”

The murmur dies down, heads turning.

“Today we’re heading up Wild Boar Fell,” she says, cheerfully firm.

“It’s a bit more challenging than some of our recent routes, but nothing to worry about.

We’ll set a steady, slow pace so everyone can stay together, and we’ll take small breaks on the way up.

There’ll be a lunch stop once we reach the summit. ”

A couple of people mutter approvingly. Someone adjusts their walking poles.

“I do want to remind everyone—especially our more energetic ramblers,” she says, glancing at a wiry bloke in neon Lycra, “that this isn’t a race. It’s a community outing. The walk itself is the goal, not who gets there first. So let’s stay together where possible and look after one another.”

There’s a smattering of nods and murmured agreement.

I exhale, grateful for the pause in my own thoughts. Nancy has a way of centring everyone, even me. I watch Peter hoist his rucksack higher on his back, easy and relaxed, chatting with a couple I’ve never seen before. But when the group begins to move, boots crunching on gravel, he rejoins me.

For a while, Peter and I walk side by side in companionable silence. It’s the sort that’s filled with early morning birdsong and the occasional rustle of waterproofs, but no pressure to talk. Still, I feel the weight of what I’m not saying settling between my shoulders like a second rucksack.

Half a mile in, he drifts.

I glance up just in time to see him peel off slightly, veering toward a blonde woman walking alone near the back of the group.

She’s new. Tall, understated walking gear, carrying herself like someone used to solitude.

Peter gives her that easy smile of his—the one he uses when he wants to be liked without trying too hard.

And just like that, I’m alone with the rhythm of my boots and my thoughts again.

I wish Alex were here.

She would’ve hated the incline. Would’ve moaned about the gradient. Maybe made a comment about her knees not being built for Yorkshire hills.

And yet she’d have done it anyway. Gritted her teeth, kept pace, made jokes just to distract herself. She’d have reached the top, red-faced and smug, hair falling loose around her face, and grinned like she owned the bloody landscape.

I can picture it so clearly.

Her cheeks flushed from the climb. Her laugh caught on the wind. Her hand finding mine when she thought no one was looking.

I miss her.

And not just in the surface way .

I miss the way her skin feels against mine; warm, soft, familiar in a way that didn’t make sense for something so new. I miss the way she tastes, sharp and sweet, like lemon tart.

But more than that, I miss what it feels like to be with her. To be allowed into the world behind all her walls. To touch her and see her go quiet, like the noise in her head stopped just long enough to let me in.

When I’m with her, I don’t want the moment to end. I want to stop time and find out everything—every small, ordinary thing. What she sings along to in the car. Whether she prefers tea bags or loose leaf. How she takes her toast. What makes her cry when no one’s around.

I want all of it.

The easy things. The hard things. The in-between.

I’m so deep in my thoughts I barely notice the steady climb, the slow curve of the hill giving way beneath our feet, and before I realise it, the slope flattens out and the sky stretches wider.

Nancy turns, hands on her hips, and announces, “Right. We’re here. We’ll stop for about an hour. Plenty of time for lunch, a cuppa, and a good view.”

And she’s not wrong.

The summit of Wild Boar Fell sprawls around us. Far below, the valleys spread out like patchwork, dry stone walls slicing green fields into tidy fragments. The sky’s clear, the air sharp, and the light’s got that hazy gold edge that makes everything look like a photo.

I drop into the grass a little away from the main group, letting the quiet settle around me. The ache in my thighs feels earned. I pull out my ham and cheese sandwich, unwrapping it like it’s a reward .

A moment later, Peter drops down beside me, landing with a satisfied huff. He rummages in his bag and pulls out a Scotch Egg.

“Classy,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “No gourmet wrap today?”

He smirks, biting into it like it’s a fine delicacy. “Protein, mate. Functional fuel.”

I take a bite of my sandwich, eyeing him sidelong. “Thought you’d be up there charming your mystery blonde.”

He shrugs, chewing. “Oh, I will. At dinner.”

I nearly choke. “Jesus. Confident, aren’t you?”

Peter just winks, licking a crumb off his thumb like he hasn’t just casually dropped that bombshell.

And for a second, the nerves tug again. Because he’s relaxed. Open. The last thing I want to do is wipe that grin off his face.

But it has to be today.

Here, now—somewhere between the ham sandwich and the bloody Scotch Egg—before I lose my nerve for good.

We eat in silence for a bit, the breeze tugging at our sleeves, distant chatter rising from the rest of the group.

A soft snuffling sound draws my attention, and a moment later, Bernard, Mrs Higgins’ ancient, wheezy beagle, ambles over the grass, tail wagging low and slow.

He sniffs at my boots, then flops down at my feet with the heavy sigh of a dog who’s seen too much nonsense and won’t be participating today.

I reach down and give his head a scratch. He leans into it like we’re old mates .

Peter tears a bit off the crust of his Scotch Egg and drops it into Bernard’s expectant mouth. “Here you go, lad. Keep it between us.”