Page 16 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Alexandra

I stand behind the bar, watching the three remaining waitresses weave through the room with tight smiles and trays of nibbles.

One nearly collides with a guest who suddenly turns to take a selfie with the cake table.

The other glances back toward me, eyes wide, like she’s hoping I’ll tell her what to do next.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Not when I’ve got three drink orders half-poured, a broken glass in front of the fridge, and my phone buzzing with a text I don’t have time to read.

This is going to be one fucking nightmare.

I wipe my hands on a tea towel and take a breath, trying not to let the panic show. There should be a break when the food goes out—a lull. But even with that, we’re painfully understaffed. For a party this size, it’s a joke.

Since Tom, Marco, and Magda walked out on Tuesday, I’ve tried everything. Called in favours, posted in every local group. A couple of mates offered to help, but the truth is, unless you’ve done this before, you’re more likely to get in the way than help. I don’t have time to babysit anyone today.

And right now? I need experienced hands. Not good intentions.

Mandy insisted on coming down and whilst she can’t help me on the bar, she is trying to manage the waitresses with her very limited knowledge of service.

I press my fingers to my temples, then force them down to the counter.

No crying. No cracking.

I’m not giving anyone the satisfaction; not the clipboard-clutching bride, not the guests waiting to be served, and definitely not the part of me that still flinches when I think about Hunter.

Not the part that hurts .

I straighten the menus again. Focus. Breathe.

The door to the back corridor clicks open behind me, quiet enough to miss unless you’ve worked here long enough to know what every door sounds like.

I don’t turn around.

Not until I hear footsteps.

And suddenly he’s here.

Hunter steps behind the bar like he belongs there. Like it’s normal. Like nothing’s happened.

Peter’s right behind him.

I freeze, spine going rigid. “This area’s not for guests,” I say, flat. Sharp.

Hunter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t say a word. He just crouches down and starts gathering the shards of the broken glass from the floor like I haven’t just tried to throw him out.

My chest tightens .

Peter steps forward, more hesitant. “Ally, it’s not—”

But I hold up a hand. Still facing straight ahead. Still pretending I’m fine.

I don’t let him finish.

Because if he says it’s not what I think , or Hunter didn’t mean to , or let us explain —I don’t know what I’ll do.

Not yet.

Not in front of the staff. Not with the bride watching. Not when I’ve barely held it together this long.

I turn slightly toward Peter, keeping my voice low but firm. “I don’t have time for this. If you want to help, give Mandy a hand supervising the food service.”

He opens his mouth like he might argue but then closes it again. Nods. “Yeah. Alright.”

Without another word, he slips out from behind the bar and heads toward the kitchen, already rolling up his sleeves.

Hunter finishes clearing the last shard of glass, stands, and without a word, steps in beside me just as the next punter leans across the bar.

“Pint of Guinness and a G&T, no ice.”

I pull the gin before the words are finished, crack the tonic, wedge the lime, slide it across. “Six eighty.”

Coins hit the bar. I shove them in the till, already turning to the next.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hunter reach for the pump handle. His hand doesn’t pause. The pint fills smooth, steady.

I keep going. A cider, a bitter, two vodkas with lemonade. Someone’s trying to flag me from the far end, but I can’t split myself in half .

I brush past him for a clean glass. His shoulder gently bumps into mine. He doesn’t look at me.

I don’t look at him either.

But I feel every inch of space he takes up.

And I don’t know what stings more: that he’s here, helping, or that I can’t really afford sending him home.

The bride’s father claps his hands and raises his voice over the noise. “Right then! If you’re still standing, put your bums on a chair because I’m starving.”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the crowd and the knot of guests near the bar starts to shift toward the long tables set up near the entrance. Chairs scrape, glasses are abandoned half-full. The buzz softens as they gather for the meal.

Finally—a gap. A breath.

It won’t last. As soon as the lamb hits the plates and the first speech ends, they’ll be back. Louder. Hungrier. Drunker.

I scan the shelves. Rum’s running low. Gin’s almost out. Not a single bottle of tonic left in the fridge.

I move to head for the cellar, but Hunter’s already at my side.

His hand lands lightly on the small of my back. Familiar. Careful.

I take a single step away.

“Alex,” he says quietly. “Just let me explain—”

“No.” I keep my voice even. “Not now.”

I grab the keys from their hook and turn back to him. “I need to check on the food. If you can handle the restock, I’ll say thank you later before I kick you out.”

He holds my gaze but doesn’t argue .

I press the keys into his hand and leave him to it. I can’t afford falling apart right now and that’s exactly what his presence is doing to me.

It’s just after midnight.

The pub is finally quiet.

The music’s stopped, the guests are gone, and the chaos has dulled into the low hum of tired bodies moving through closing tasks.

Peter, Mandy, and the waitresses have already moved the tables back into place and flipped the chairs upside down, ready for the cleaners in the morning. Their laughter faded out with the last sweep of the mop.

Hunters kept to himself. I’ve barely looked at him all evening, but I know what he’s been doing.

The fridge is fully restocked. Neat rows of bottles and cans stacked tight, shelves full again like we hadn’t just been run ragged for six hours.

I manned the dishwasher. Polishing. Drying. Putting away the last of the glasses with more focus than strictly necessary.

Now there’s nothing left to do.

No more trays to carry or guests to serve. No distractions.

Just silence.

And the weight of him still being here.

There are knots in my stomach, tight and restless, because I know what’s coming .

We have to talk.

We have to have it out.

And I don’t want to.

Not because I don’t deserve answers.

But because I’m scared, I already know them.

Peter and Mandy step up to the bar, jacket slung over one shoulder, car keys spinning idly in his hand. The two waitresses stand by the door, looking half-dead on their feet.

“I’m giving them a lift,” Pete says. “It’s late, and taxis aren’t showing up for love nor money.”

I nod, wiping down the last stretch of the counter even though it’s already clean. “Thanks. For helping. And for making sure they get home.”

He gives a small shrug, like it’s nothing. But it’s not. Not tonight.

He turns toward the door, then pauses.

Looks back at me.

“Listen to him,” he says quietly.

Not a command. Not even a suggestion, really.

Just a gentle nudge.

“He is right, you know,” Mandy says as she pulls me into a tight hug. “You owe it to yourself. Trust me, a selfish knobhead that just wants to screw you over wouldn’t have spent all day working for you.” She gives me one last squeeze before following Peter. The door clicks shut behind them.

And I’m left with nothing but the hum of the fridge, the ache in my feet—and Hunter.

I turn toward him, arms crossing over my chest before I’ve even made the choice. Trying to look defiant. Like I’m still in control of something .

“Thank you for your help,” I say, cool and clipped. “I pay bartenders twelve pounds an hour. You were here for eight, so that’s ninety-six quid.”

I open the till, count out the notes with steady hands, and set the cash on the bar between us.

Hunter doesn’t move. Just leans back against the counter, arms loose at his sides, and shakes his head slowly.

“Alex,” he says, voice low but steady, “will you please let me explain?”

I stare at the money for a moment. Crisp notes. A clean transaction. Easier, safer, if we keep it that way—business, not personal. Just wages for work.

But that’s not what this is, is it?

I cross my arms tighter across my chest. There’s a long beat. Then I sigh.

“Fine.”

It comes out flat, but it’s more than I meant to give him.

Because part of me still wants to hear him out.

Even though I’m bracing for some half-formed excuse or a dodged responsibility, I can’t quite kill the tiny spark of hope still flickering at the back of my chest. That maybe, just maybe , he didn’t lie to me.

Because yeah—losing Tom, Marco, Magda right before the wedding nearly broke me.

But the thing that really gutted me? Thinking he could’ve done it on purpose. That the one person I let in again might have been playing me all along.

Hunter exhales hard, like he’s been holding it in all night.

“I’ve got an overambitious, unethical Food and Beverage Manager,” he says, stepping forward just slightly.

“Silvia. She’s the one who came into the pub.

She had a drink, made small talk, and poached Tom and the others.

Offered them more money and a ‘step up.’ I didn’t know.

I swear to you, Alex, I had no idea until Peter nearly decked me in the middle of the Hall this afternoon. ”

I say nothing.

“I should’ve seen it,” he goes on, voice raw. “I should’ve caught it. I’ve been up to my neck with this bloody retreat, and that’s no excuse—but I wasn’t watching what she was doing. I wasn’t watching what mattered.”

His jaw tightens, and then something breaks in his expression.

“I’m so sorry, Alex.” His voice cracks just slightly, and that gets to me more than the words. “I’d never do that to you. Ever. Silvia’s gone on Monday. That’s a promise. She doesn’t get to stay after this.”

I push my hands in my pockets, trying to keep the shaking out of my hands. But he’s not done.

“I can’t fire Tom or the others. I’ll find myself in front of a tribunal for unfair dismissal. They didn’t break any rules. But I’ll talk to them. I’ll assign them to you for as long as you need. I’ll pay their hours myself if I have to. I’ll help you find new staff. Whatever it takes.”

He steps in again, closer this time, and I can feel the tension pouring off him.

“And if none of that matters, if it’s still not enough, then—fine. But before you decide I’m just another man who let you down, I need you to hear this.”

He looks right at me, no hiding.

“I love you.”

The words fall like they’ve been lodged in his chest too long. Like they hurt coming out.

“I love you, Alex. More than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. And I wouldn’t use that—wouldn’t say it—just to cover my arse over three waiters. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”

His hands clench at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.

“I’m terrified you won’t believe me. Terrified I’ve already ruined it. But I swear to you, I would never, ever risk what we’ve started. Not for anything.”

Something twists deep in my stomach.

Because I can see it in his face—this isn’t a line. He’s not performing. He’s scared.

Not of being wrong.

Of losing me.

My arms stay crossed. It's the only thing holding me together. The only thing keeping all the jagged edges from spilling out.

I shake my head, quietly. “Why is it all so complicated?”

He doesn’t speak. So I look at him—really look.

“Why can’t it ever just be easy?” I ask, voice cracking at the edges. “Just once. Why can’t it be simple?”

Hunter’s brow furrows, and for a second, he looks like he might break in half. But then he steps closer.

“Because,” he says gently, “if it were easy… we’d never know what it would feel like to lose each other.”

The words hit hard—straight through the ribs.

I swallow the lump that’s rising.

“It hurt,” I whisper. “It hurt a lot. Thinking I’d lost you.”

His hand twitches like he wants to touch me but doesn’t. Not yet.

“You’ll never lose me,” he says, steady now. “Not as long as you want me. I’m here. ”

Finally, his hand lifts slowly, like he’s giving me time to move away, but I don’t. I stay rooted to the floor as his fingers brush my jaw and then slide to my cheek. He cups my face so gently it almost undoes me.

Part of me tells myself to step back. To hold the line. But I don’t want to.

Because somewhere between the silence and the shouting, I’ve made up my mind. I believe him. I believe him.

And that belief, quiet and terrifying, is somehow the most powerful thing I’ve felt in years.

So instead of pulling away, I step in.

I close the distance, tilt my chin, and kiss him.

No anger, no fear—just the weight of everything we nearly lost, and the quiet hope that maybe we’re finally choosing each other for real.