Page 15 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Hunter

T he spreadsheets aren’t going to fix themselves, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at them like they might.

The columns blur into each other—endless numbers and curt notes from Monica, our Finance Director, who’s clearly trying to remind me that just because I’m the owner doesn’t mean I can avoid reconciling vendor invoices forever.

She has a point. Doesn’t make me like her tone any better.

Outside my office window, the grounds of Morton Hall look postcard-perfect. The sun’s out—barely—but it’s enough to cast long shadows over the lawn where the London tech group has set up some kind of team-building circle. There’s shouting. Laughter. A whistle, inexplicably.

It’s Saturday. Late afternoon. And I haven’t heard from Alex since Monday.

Three texts.

No replies.

I’m not panicking. Not exactly .

She warned me about this week. The wedding from hell.

The bride with the rose gold clipboard and a five-page PDF about acceptable canapé aesthetics.

A string quartet, a signature cocktail, a flash mob surprise the groom still doesn’t know about.

It’s been chaos since Tuesday’s tasting, and she said she'd be slammed.

And it was kind of our own fault because the week before we were all over each other every spare minute we found.

I scroll back through our message thread. The last few texts sit unanswered, mocking me slightly.

Me Sunday, 9:48 p.m.

Hope you got some sleep. Let me know if you need anything for the tasting on Tuesday. X

Me Monday, 12:13 p.m.

Did the napkin samples arrive, or did they send the flamingo ones again?

Me Monday, 8:02 p.m.

Missing you. I'd walk through one of Bernard's gas clouds just to see you.

Still nothing.

I toss the phone down and scrub a hand over my face.

This is fine. She’s doing her job. I’m doing mine. The Hall is packed with tech execs who think forest bathing is a verb and expect five-star service while they wear Patagonia fleeces and talk about disruption.

But none of that stops the ache in my chest .

Because I miss her laugh. The weight of her head on my shoulder. The way she says my name when she’s tired and trying not to smile.

I pick up my pen and go back to the numbers Monica so kindly flagged in red.

Because sometimes, love means patience.

Even when all you want is a knock at the door and the sound of her voice saying, Hey, you.

By half past two, I give up pretending I’m getting anything useful done.

The numbers are still there. Monica’s passive-aggressive spreadsheet notes aren’t going anywhere. But the kitchen will be gearing up soon for the gala dinner tonight—forty covers, five courses, and a dessert that needs to look like it belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.

I head downstairs, taking the side stairs to avoid the bottleneck by the lifts. My plan is simple: check in with Chef, make sure the timing’s tight, dodge any tech execs with “just a quick favour” questions, and go back to hiding in my office with a fresh coffee.

But as I cut through the main hall—reception to the left, sofas packed with guests having afternoon tea, someone’s toddler wiping jam on our velvet upholstery—I hear it.

“I fucking told you not to hurt her.”

Peter’s voice slices through the gentle hum of cutlery and polite conversation like a blade.

Every head in the room turns.

I stop mid-stride. Slowly. Deliberately.

He’s coming toward me across the tiles, jaw tight, eyes furious .

“Whatever this is,” I say low, stepping toward him before he can close the distance, “let’s not do it in front of half of London and my staff.”

His eyes blaze, but he clenches his jaw and lets me steer him down the corridor that leads toward the Brasserie.

I push the door open and usher him inside. The lights are off, but soft natural light pours in through the long glass windows that overlook the garden. The tables are bare, chairs stacked along the far wall, and the smell of polish still hangs faintly in the air. It’s quiet. Private.

I shut the door behind us.

Peter turns on me immediately, eyes wild, voice low but furious.

“I can’t fucking believe you did this to her.”

I blink, thrown. “Did what—?”

“Even if you didn’t love her,” he barrels on, ignoring me, “even if that was all bullshit and you were just pretending— we’re friends , Hunter. We’ve been friends. Since we were kids. What the fuck were you thinking?”

I take a step back, palms half-raised. My pulse kicks up, not from guilt—because I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about—but from the sheer weight of his rage.

“Peter,” I say carefully, “I genuinely have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Oh come off it,” he snaps, throwing his arms out, pacing two steps away before turning back like he’s too full of rage to stand still.

“Is this why you kept insisting on helping behind the bar?” he demands. “So you could get close? You wanted in so badly, and now what—this was your plan all along?”

I stare at him, completely lost. “What are you talking about? ”

He steps in again, voice low but sharp as glass. “You left her without any bar staff. On the day of the bloody wedding.”

“What?”

“You’re seriously going to stand there and say you don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” I snap, more forcefully this time. “Peter, I’ve been up to my ears in tech geeks and meditation schedules the whole week. I haven’t seen Alex since Monday. I’ve barely seen my own bed. What the hell are you talking about?”

He narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to work out if I’m lying or just a spectacular idiot.

“You’re pretending you didn’t get cosy with Tom? That you didn’t convince him to ditch the pub and bring two of his mates with him to start working here?”

The air leaves my lungs like a punch.

“What?” I breathe.

Peter crosses his arms, jaw tight. “You offered him five pounds more an hour. Said it was a ‘step up.’ Said there’d be career progression.”

“I—Peter, I never —”

But I’m already scrambling, my mind tearing back through the last few days, trying to line up what the hell he’s talking about.

I haven’t spoken to Tom more than hello and good night.

“I think you’re wrong,” I say, but there’s not much conviction behind it. “I didn’t offer him a job. I haven’t—Peter, I haven’t recruited anyone from the pub.”

Peter snorts. “So why is Tom laying tables in your banquet hall, then? ”

I freeze.

“What?”

But he’s already marching past me, flinging the Brasserie door open so hard it bangs against the stopper. I’m moving before I know it, following him through the corridor, heart pounding, steps hard and fast against the tile.

Down the back hallway, past housekeeping, through the service doors—straight into the long, echoing hush of the gala dining room.

And there he is.

Tom.

Rolling cutlery in crisp white napkins, a stack of crystal wine glasses already set in front of him. Wearing a Morton Hall waistcoat.

Laying tables.

Right here.

Right now.

And the look on Peter’s face says told you so in a hundred different languages.

I’m halfway through raising my hand to call Tom over when I spot Silvia walking briskly past the far end of the room, clipboard in hand, looking smug and efficient, like she’s single-handedly keeping the roof from collapsing.

“Silvia,” I call out, sharp.

She pivots on her heel, beaming like we’re on some PR shoot. “Hunter! Everything’s running smoothly—don’t worry.”

I don’t smile. I barely hold my jaw in place.

“Who hired Tom?” I ask, dead calm.

She straightens a little, clearly proud of herself. “I did.”

My jaw tightens. “You did. ”

“We needed staff for the gala,” she says, breezy and unfazed. “And he was available. Local lad, friendly, good with guests. Honestly, it just fell into place.”

I stare at her. “What are we paying him?”

“Eighteen an hour.”

She gives a one-shouldered shrug, still holding that bloody clipboard like it’s a shield. “We needed someone solid, fast. Sometimes you have to offer a bit extra to get the right people through the door.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.” She actually laughs a little. “I just popped into the Running Horse for a cheeky drink last week, had a chat with him. He was good in what he was doing so I knew I needed to offer him more than that pub woman can to tempt him. Easy.”

“You poached him and two of his friends,” I say, voice sounding dangerous. “From Alexandra’s team. A few days before a wedding she’s been planning for months.”

Silvia’s smile falters. “I mean… it’s just staffing. It’s not personal.”

I take a step closer, jaw tight, chest burning.

“No. See, that’s exactly where you’ve got it wrong.” My voice is measured, but barely. “This is a village. People here help each other. They back each other. I told you from day one: the pub isn’t competition. It’s part of the same ecosystem. We support each other or we don’t last.”

She scoffs. “Well maybe it’s time someone brought things into the twenty-first century. It’s business, Hunter. If she can’t afford to keep her staff, that’s not my fault.”

“You think this is about money?” I stare at her, disbelief tightening in my throat. “You walked into her pub. You sat at her bar. You looked her in the eye and then took her staff from under her nose.”

Her expression twists, defensive now. “He said he wanted to leave anyway. I didn’t force him. He made a choice.”

“Yeah, a choice you handed him on a silver platter. Right when you knew she couldn’t afford to lose him.”

She crosses her arms. “So what? You want me to apologise for doing my job?”

“I want you to understand that doing your job doesn’t mean torching someone else’s in the process.”

There’s a beat of silence, brittle and sharp.

Peter’s still behind me, quiet now, but I can feel him watching—ready to step in if I go one word further.

I take a breath and let it out slow.

“We don’t do business like this here,” I say.

Her arms are still folded, chin tilted like she’s ready to keep arguing, but I don’t give her the chance.

“And we have a recruitment process for a reason. One you didn’t follow.”

She opens her mouth, but I hold up a hand. “No references. No proper interview. You hired someone on the spot over a drink, Silvia. That’s not initiative. That’s reckless.”

“I—”

“Save it,” I cut in, my voice sharper now. “You’d better make damn sure the gala dinner tonight goes off without a hitch. I mean spotless. Because we’ll deal with this properly on Monday.”

Her mouth snaps shut.

I don’t wait for a reply.

I turn and walk out, heart pounding, jaw tight .

And all I can think about as I push back into the corridor is Alex.

The silence from her this week. The unanswered texts. The space between us that I thought was just busyness—normal life.

She thinks I did this.

Of course she does.

She thinks I stood in her pub, kissed her like she was the only thing in the world, and then walked away and gutted her staff when she needed them most. And she hasn’t said a word because she’s too proud. Because she’s Alex. She just got on with it.

My stomach twists.

“Hunter,” Peter calls behind me, catching up fast. “What the hell are you doing?”

I ignore him for a beat and pull out my phone. Thumb scrolling, voice tight.

“Rupert,” I say when the call connects to my Operations Manager. “Silvia overstepped. I don’t have time to explain, but I want you to keep an eye on everything she’s touching this weekend. Staff, vendors, guest lists, everything . I’ll talk to you Monday.”

“Wait—what’s going on?” he tries to stop me but I’m already ending the call and turning to Peter.

“You want to know what I’m doing? Why the hell are you down here shouting at me instead of up at the pub helping your sister?” I snap.

Peter’s expression darkens, his jaw squaring as he steps in.

“I came to deal with you—”

“I get that,” I bite back. “But while you’re down here posturing like some big brother out of a soap opera, she’s probably juggling the kitchen, the floor, the guest list, and God knows what else with a skeleton crew.

Don’t you think she needs you more than she needs a dramatic showdown in front of the sodding Afternoon Tea crowd? ”

His hands curl into fists, and for one stupid second, I think we’re actually going to come to blows.

But then I catch myself. The fire in my gut fizzles just long enough for my brain to catch up.

I drag in a breath. “I’m sorry. Fuck! I am sorry, Pete. I’m angry. Not at you. At myself.”

He looks at me warily. “So, what now?”

I meet his eyes, steady.

“We go,” I say.

Peter frowns. “Go where?”

“To the pub,” I say, already moving. “She’s holding the whole thing together on her own. The least we can do is show up.”

Peter grabs my arm, slowing me just enough.

“Not sure she wants to see you right now, mate,” he says, cautious. “Let me go first. I’ll smooth things over, explain it wasn’t you—”

“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”

His brow furrows.

“This happened on my watch,” I say firmly. “Whether I knew about it or not. Silvia works for me. Tom’s wearing my uniform. That makes it my fault.”

I meet his eyes dead-on.

“I’m not sending someone else in to mop it up. I’m going to look her in the eye and take responsibility. She deserves that much.”