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

Hunter

S aturday morning air in St Claire has that particular kind of stillness you only get before the day kicks into gear. I pull the handbrake and sit for a moment, looking up at Morton Hall.

The slate roof gleams faintly in the spring light, the ivy’s creeping back over the side walls just the way I like it, and the windows practically sparkle. It still stops me in my tracks sometimes that this is mine.

The locals still call it the old manor half the time, but Morton Hall is a proper hotel now; thirty rooms, boutique style, and not too posh for Yorkshire. The result of years of work, a few sleepless nights, and one very big risk.

My family thought I was mad.

"You’re investing your inheritance into what, exactly?" my mum said, trying to keep her voice neutral, which always meant she was seconds away from losing it.

My dad didn't say anything for a full minute, just folded his arms and stared at me like I’d told him I wanted to open a nightclub on the moon .

To be fair, I understood the shock. Most people don’t throw a windfall into creaky old buildings in sleepy villages. But then most people didn’t have Granddad George.

It was him who told me to get a summer job when I was sixteen.

Said if I was going to have opinions, I should earn the right to hold them.

I got a pot washer’s job in a pub in Skipton, then front of house the year after.

By the time I was twenty-one, I’d worked every job in the building—bar, kitchen, reception.

Fell in love with it, in spite of the hours.

So when Granddad left me enough to do something real, something permanent, this felt like the only answer.

And I still reckon he’d be proud if he could see the place now.

We’ve been featured in The Yorkshire Post and Living North three times this year alone, and we’re already booked solid next summer.

I tighten the straps on my rucksack, take one last glance at the old stone building, and head for the footpath. The walking group meets by the village green in twenty minutes.

My stomach's tying itself in knots, and it’s not because of Peter. It’s all because of his sister.

The woman I teased until she screamed when I was ten. The one I drove absolutely mental at sixteen by blasting punk music through Peter’s stereo until she banged on the bedroom wall like she was about to come through it.

And the one I’ve had a crush on since I was eighteen.

That crush ebbed and flowed, faded in the background sometimes—when life got busy, when she got married, when I told myself it was never going to happen. But it never really went. Not fully.

I remember the day her marriage exploded in front of the entire bloody village. The way Darren grabbed his secretary like they were on the set of some bad rom-com. I’d never seen Alex look so… still. Not shocked. Not angry. Just frozen. Like someone had flipped a switch and she’d shorted out.

I spent three hours in the gym that night, running like I was being chased. Only thing that kept me from hunting Darren down and beating the shit out of him was knowing Alex wouldn’t have wanted that. She’d already lost enough without her brother’s best mate getting locked up on her behalf.

Since then, she’s retreated. Quietly. Professionally. Keeps everything neat and tidy behind that bar of hers. But I see her. The flickers of her. The real her is still there under the routine and the distance.

I miss her.

Not just being around her—though God knows that’s always had its pull—but her . The way she lights up when she laughs properly. The fire in her when she’s passionate about something, even if it’s just telling Pete he’s full of it. The way her eyes go soft when she doesn’t know anyone’s watching.

I miss that version of her, and I’d do just about anything to see it again.

How Peter managed to convince her to leave the safety of the pub this morning is a mystery, but whatever the reason, I don’t care as long as I can spend some time with her.

I’m making it my mission today to make her laugh. Just once. That’s all I want. Doesn’t have to be anything big. Doesn’t have to mean anything more.

She’s never looked at me as anything other than Peter’s mate, and that’s fine. If I can be her friend— really be her friend—and help her find that spark again, then that’s enough.

The village green comes into view, a small cluster of early risers already gathered at the bench under the oak tree. Walking sticks, waterproofs, a couple of dogs trying very hard to behave.

“Nancy,” I call out, lifting a hand.

She turns with a wide smile, cheeks already pink from the chill. “Hunter! Lovely to see you. Thought you might show.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, walking over. “Thought I’d check it out properly. I’ve had a few guests asking about the group. Been hearing good things.”

Her smile grows. “Well, we’ve been going all summer, and word’s spreading. Originally, I had planned to only meet once a month, but we are now meeting weekly. Folks seem to like the mix of walking and nattering. And the traybakes.”

“Hard to argue with traybakes,” I say, then nod politely to the man standing beside her.

“This is Luke,” she adds curling up against his chest.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a hand. He shakes it firmly.

“You too,” Luke replies. There’s a small smile between him and Nancy that doesn’t need explaining.

I shift my rucksack higher on my shoulder and glance toward the lane.

I scan the edge of the green, and there they are: Peter and Alexandra, making their way across from the church gate. Pete’s talking, arms moving like he’s giving a weather report. She walks beside him with that same quiet grace she’s always had, shoulders slightly hunched against the chill.

And even from here, she pulls every bit of my attention.

Her hair’s tied back into a plait, a few ginger wisps escaping around her face, catching the early sun. Her coat’s buttoned up, but I can still see the way it hugs her—curvy, solid, beautiful, like a woman who’s lived and hasn’t shrunk herself for anyone.

She’s not smiling. Not yet.

Pete clocks me and lifts a hand. “Alright, mate?”

“Yeah,” I say, giving him a nod. “Didn’t think you’d actually convince her.”

“She came of her own free will,” he grins, throwing a wink over his shoulder. “Eventually.”

He veers off towards two women in matching fleeces and glossy boots. Not locals, definitely not dressed like they know how muddy these fields can get. But I am sure Pete is more than happy to give them a tip or two.

And then it’s just Alex and me.

Her cool, grey eyes meet mine, and for a second, it’s like we’re back in our teens again. Her daring me to climb the shed roof, me calling her a coward for not joining me.

Only this isn’t then. This is now.

And she’s stunning in a way she doesn’t seem to realise. The kind of beauty that isn’t careful or planned. It’s just there.

“Alex,” I say, voice quieter than I meant.

Her gaze flickers, and for a second, I think I’ve caught something in it but then it’s gone, and her expression smooths.

“Hunter,” she replies, with a small nod .

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just stretched. Loaded. Years and silences and maybes hanging in the air between us.

“Did Peter promise you cake or threaten to revoke your Netflix if you didn’t show?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

That earns me the tiniest twitch of her lips. “Neither. He just wore me down.”

“Persistent, isn’t he?”

“Like a rash.”

I grin. “Well, I’m glad he was irritating enough to get you here. You look…” I stop myself before I go too far. Beautiful feels like too much. Too obvious. “You look like you needed the fresh air.”

Another flicker of a smile. It’s there—small, reluctant, but real.

It’s not a laugh. Not yet.

Nancy claps her hands together and steps forward, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Alright! Thanks for turning out. We’ll be heading up to the Three Oaks this morning—it’s a gentle climb, nothing too dramatic. Lovely spot to stop for lunch, gorgeous view over the village, and then we’ll loop back down on the east path.”

A murmur of agreement goes around the group as people start adjusting rucksacks and zipping up jackets.

I glance sideways at Alex. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek, scanning the route ahead like she’s calculating survival odds.

“You alright?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Just wondering if I’ll make it past the first stile without wheezing.”

I arch a brow. “You’re worried about fitness? ”

“I run a pub,” she says dryly. “The most walking I do is from the bar to the cellar and back again. Uphill isn’t usually involved.”

“Well,” I say, slinging my rucksack a little higher, “lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent walking companion.”

“You don’t have to stay with me,” she says quickly. “You’re ridiculously fit. You should be leading the pack or bounding ahead with the other golden retrievers.”

I laugh. “I’m not here for a personal best. I’m here for the air, the view, and the company. And anyway, walking slower is just what I need. Helps me actually see things.”

She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to figure out what I’m playing at.

“I mean it,” I add, softer this time. “Let me walk with you.”

She doesn’t smile right away—but she nods. Just once.

And as the group begins to move up the trail, side by side, I match her pace. Right. Let’s get that laugh.