Page 13 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Alexandra

T he door bursts open in a swirl of cold air and boot noise.

Here they come.

The Ramblers, chattering and stomping and half-shedding layers before they’ve even cleared the threshold. Nancy’s in front, beaming like she personally led them to the summit of Kilimanjaro instead of a walk through the Dales.

I barely have time to exchange a look with Magda before the first wave hits the bar.

“Two pints of bitter, a lager, and a lemonade, please, love.”

“Do you still do the Rambler’s Break? I’ll have one of those, and a blackcurrant cordial.”

“Three coffees, two boards—oh, and he wants a pork pie if you’ve got one.”

It’s chaos. Glorious, money-ringing chaos.

I’m tapping orders into the till like my fingers are on fire, pouring with the other hand, Magda pulling glasses and nodding like a woman in a trance .

I reach under the bar, grab a bottle with a red wooden spoon sticking out of it, and place it down in front of the next customer.

“Number seven. Take that to your table so the kitchen can find you.”

She nods cradling the bottle like it’s an award.

The queue keeps growing. The till keeps singing. And somewhere in the blur, I realise something wonderful—

They love the charcuterie board.

I catch bits of it in passing.

“Oh, that’s proper cheese, that.”

“Is this chutney homemade?”

“Tell the kitchen the pickled walnuts should win an award.”

I don't have time to be smug, but the warm buzz under my skin tells me I might allow myself five seconds of pride later. Right now, we’ve got mouths to feed and taps to keep flowing.

Then the door opens again.

I don’t even need to look.

I feel it.

Hunter.

The sound of him laughing with Peter cuts clean through the rest of the noise—low and easy and stupidly attractive. Like it’s just for me.

I glance up, heartbeat doing that ridiculous skip I’ve stopped pretending I can control. Peter’s veering off toward another blond and drops into the seat beside her like it’s reserved for him.

Hunter’s still standing, studying me with a small smile on his lips. Then he makes his way toward the bar.

Toward me .

And just like that, nerves vanish.

Replaced by something warmer. Lighter. Those bloody butterflies.

He’s smiling—God, that smile—and for a second, I think he’s going to say something, something cheeky or comforting or just Hunter, but then…

He walks straight past the bar.

My heart stumbles.

For a fraction of a second, I think—oh. Maybe this morning’s lemon tart diplomacy didn’t land quite like I thought it did.

But then I hear it. The soft click of the side gate swinging open. And before I can even process what he’s doing, he’s there behind the bar.

I smirk, trying for stern. “No guests behind the bar.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not a guest,” he says, voice low as he steps closer, “I’m here to help.”

He leans in under the pretence of reaching for the card machine—yeah, right—and I feel the warm tick of his breath just as his lips brush the shell of my ear.

And then he nips.

A tiny, secretive little nibble.

My knees almost buckle.

The moan catches at the back of my throat before I swallow it down, but the blush? That makes a full, unapologetic appearance, blooming hot across my cheeks and neck like my skin’s just declared war on subtlety.

I flick him a look—equal parts scandalised and aroused. “That,” I whisper, “is wildly inappropriate.”

He grins, all innocence. “I was just making sure you could hear me over the noise.”

“Sure you were. ”

He reaches for a pint glass and starts pulling a lager like it’s the most natural thing in the world, all calm competence and quiet swagger.

We settle into a rhythm. Efficient. Unspoken. Two bodies moving around each other like we’re synced to the same music.

But even in the thick of it, he keeps touching me.

Not in a showy, public kind of way—just little things. A palm on my lower back as he leans past to grab a glass. A warm hand at my waist, guiding me a step to the side like it’s instinct. His arm brushing mine as we both reach for a bottle opener, and neither of us pulling away.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Every graze of his fingertips sets something off under my skin—like sparks catching on the inside of my ribs, lighting up places I didn’t know were still flammable.

And I cannot think straight when he’s this close.

By the time most of the Ramblers have been served and the queue’s thinned to a manageable hum, I need to get away a little and clear my head.

“Food’s up,” I announce, maybe a bit too loudly.

Magda’s already halfway to the kitchen, but I wave her off. “I’ve got it.”

I push through the swing door into the kitchen, letting it thud shut behind me.

The heat hits straight away—roasting veg, melted cheese, something sharp and vinegary hanging in the air. Matt’s at the pass, arranging radishes with surgical precision like they might explode if he gets the angle wrong .

“Two boards and chips,” he says, nudging them toward the edge of the counter. “Mind the chutney. It’s running today.”

“Great. Nothing like rogue chutney to keep me on my toes.”

He doesn’t laugh. He rarely does. He’s already back to prepping the next round, muttering under his breath.

I slide my fingers under the first board, balancing the second carefully along my forearm, then lift the bowl of cheesy chips in my free hand.

The heat of the dish seeps into my palm, the scent of rosemary salt and mature cheddar already trying to seduce me.

I nudge the door open with my hip and step out into the pub.

Before I make it three full steps, Hunter appears beside me, like he’s been waiting just out of sight.

“Here,” he says, voice low.

He reaches for the board balanced along my forearm. His fingers brush my skin, just a whisper of contact, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat curl up the back of my neck and scatter my thoughts like startled birds.

By the time I glance at him, he’s already looking away, casual as you like.

Of course he is.

We move through the pub together, weaving between tables, dodging coats draped over chairs, trailing the smell of melted cheese and warm bread behind us.

Nancy’s table is tucked by the fireplace, right under the old map of Yorkshire that someone once graffitied with a biro moustache over Harrogate.

She’s talking animatedly, full of hand gestures and smiles.

Luke, who’s beside her, can’t take his eyes of her.

Yeah, those two are definitely the couple of the moment.

The whole village is gossiping about it.

I set the board down in front of Nancy, then place the cheesy chips in the middle for sharing. Hunter, without missing a beat, sets the other board in front of Luke, everything neat and effortless.

Nancy gives the spread a once-over, eyes lighting up. “Now that looks wicked!”

Her smile spreads as she leans in for a better look. “I knew you’d make it good, but this—this is cracking. Look at that chutney. And that Scotch Egg has a runny yolk! OMG, is that Applewood?”

I nod, suddenly aware of the heat in my cheeks and it is no longer from the heat in the kitchen. “Aye. And blue Wensleydale in the corner. So don’t say I don’t spoil you.”

She hums her approval, already reaching for a slice of bread. “Proper job, this. I’ll be telling everyone to come hungry next week.”

Luke’s reaching for a chip. “Looks amazing!”

Then Nancy shifts her attention to Hunter, tilting her head just enough to make it look casual. “You enjoyed the walk, then?

Hunter gives a small smile. “Yeah, it was great. Proper blowout for the brain.” Then, with a slight grimace, “I’ve got a full house at the hotel next weekend though—wedding party. And the week after’s some corporate retreat, so I’m out for the next two walks.”

Nancy makes a sympathetic noise. “Shame. They’ll miss your help with the stiles.”

He chuckles, then tilts his head. “Though… I’m not sure I’ll miss Bernard. ”

At that, Luke chokes on a piece of cheese mid-bite. He coughs once, twice, eyes watering as he grabs his pint and takes a long sip.

When he finally recovers, he thumps his chest and says hoarsely, “That dog’s a menace.”

Nancy giggles. “He’s just… expressive.”

“He farted uphill ,” Luke says. “I’ve never respected an animal and feared it so equally.”

Nancy shudders, setting down her knife. “Right, that’s enough chat about toxic gas while I’m trying to enjoy a good bit of Wensleydale.”

I bite back a grin. “Fair point. I’ll let you get back to it. Enjoy.”

“Don’t worry, we will,” Nancy says, already reaching for a pickled walnut.

I turn and start making my way back toward the bar. But before I can get there, a hand wraps gently around mine.

Warm. Firm. Certain.

I barely have time to blink before Hunter pulls me past the end of the bar, past the side entrance, and straight down the narrow corridor toward my office.

My pulse stumbles. “Hunter—?”

He doesn’t say a word.

The moment we’re inside, he closes the door behind us, and then—

He presses me back against it.

The click of the latch barely finishes before his mouth finds mine.

And it’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

It’s a claiming —a kiss like he’s starved of it, like he’s been waiting all day to do this and can’t hold it in a second longer. His hands frame my face, his body crowding mine in the best possible way, and I melt. Completely.

I should stop him. Say something. We’re twenty feet from the pub.

But I don’t move.

Because the second his lips touch mine, the rest of the world disappears.

His mouth moves like it knows me—like it remembers exactly where I’m softest, neediest, weakest.

He kisses me like he’s got something to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe we both do.

Then his lips trail lower, sliding along my jaw, over the curve of my throat, his breath warm against my skin. I gasp and my hands grip the front of his shirt just to keep steady.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against my neck, the words almost lost in the space between his mouth and my skin.

It knocks the breath right out of me.

Before I can respond, he finds my mouth again. Slower now, deeper. Less hunger, more meaning.

I kiss him back until I’m dizzy with it—until it’s not enough and somehow still too much.

Then I break away, just to breathe, my palms resting flat against his chest.

“Wait,” I whisper, still catching my breath. “How’d it go with Peter?”

His brow furrows slightly, like it takes him a second to remember that the world outside this office still exists.

“Oh,” he says, blinking, a slow smile pulling at his mouth. “Right. That.”

I raise a brow, still lightly pinned against the door. “Yes. That. My brother. The man who still thinks it’s 1998 and he’s in charge of my social calendar. ”

Hunter exhales a soft laugh, then leans his forehead gently against mine.

“It went better than I thought.”

I watch him carefully. “Yeah?”

He nods once. “I told him. Everything.”

My breath tightens, just for a second.

Hunter goes on, voice quiet. “Told him we’re seeing each other. That it’s serious. That I’ve felt this way a long time.”

“And?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

“He was stunned at first. Proper gobsmacked. Kept repeating it like it didn’t compute—‘you’re dating my sister?’ like I’d told him I’d joined a monastery.” He lets out a soft huff of laughter. “And then I said it. That I’m in love with you.”

I still.

His eyes are steady on mine, but he’s not pushing. Just holding it there, offering it gently.

“He didn’t really know what to say at first,” he continues. “Then Bernard… well, Bernard chose that exact moment to detonate.”

I don’t laugh. I should laugh. He said something funny. But I don’t.

Because all I can hear—echoing in my chest, my ears, my fingertips—is that word.

Love.

He said it. Out loud. No hesitation.

My heart is thudding, heavy and unsteady, as if it doesn’t quite know what to do with the weight of it, as though it’s trying to protect me from the hope that’s rushing in too fast.

He watches me carefully, like he’s trying to read what I’m not saying. But he doesn’t push.

And maybe that’s what undoes me.

I rest a hand on his chest, feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath my palm.

“You love me,” I say quietly. Not a question. Just trying the words out, letting them sit between us.

He nods once. “I do.”

There’s a beat of stillness between us, warm and breathless, like the whole world is holding its breath.

Then Hunter exhales, a soft, rueful sound.

“I know this probably isn’t the most romantic place to say it,” he says, glancing briefly around the cramped office—filing trays, a half-dead spider plant, the unmistakable smell of pub carpet and hot fryer oil creeping in through the cracks. “I wanted it to be better than this.”

He shifts closer again, cupping my waist with both hands now, thumbs gently brushing the fabric of my shirt. “But I’ve wanted to say it for so long, Alex. It’s been sitting in my chest, taking up space. And I couldn’t keep carrying it around without letting you know.”

My breath hitches, something sharp and sweet catching in my ribs.

“I don’t want you to say it back,” he adds quickly, searching my face. “Not yet. I know you need time. I know this hasn’t been easy, and that loving someone again... after everything... it’s not just about feeling it. It’s about trusting it. And I’d wait forever if that’s what you needed.”

His voice doesn’t wobble, but something in mine does when I breathe out .

Because his words send a thousand butterflies winging to life in my stomach—soft and bright and real. Not panic. Not fear.

Hope.

Gentle and giddy and terrifyingly alive.

I don’t reply. I just pull him to me and kiss him— really kiss him.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just need. Fierce and full and everything I’ve been holding back for days, weeks, years maybe. His hands tighten at my waist like he’s anchoring himself, and I open for him, tasting warmth and want and something that feels dangerously close to joy.

When we finally break apart, his pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling like I’ve knocked the air right out of him.

I smirk, wiping my thumb slowly along the edge of his lip, teasing. “So…” I say, voice low and lilting, “you thinking of staying over tonight, or is that bed of yours going to get jealous?”

Hunter growls and nips at my lip.

And the butterflies? They absolutely lose their minds.