Page 3 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Alexandra

T he path curves gently uphill, wide enough for two, but not by much. We walk side by side, saying nothing at first, just listening to the crunch of our boots and the distant chatter of the group ahead.

They’re slowly stretching away from us—not that I’m in any rush to catch up. I’m too busy trying to keep my breathing quiet and steady. Hunter doesn’t say anything about the pace, just adjusts to mine without fuss, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s… oddly comforting.

“How’ve you been?” he asks after a while.

I glance sideways. He’s not looking at me, just watching the trees shift in the breeze.

“I’ve been fine,” I say, the automatic answer.

He nods. “Good.”

“And you?”

“The hotel just got awarded its second Rosette,” he grins like when he was a little boy and my mum brought him and Pete an ice cream.

“Seriously? Hunter, that’s brilliant! ”

He shrugs, but I can see the pride under it. “Yeah. It’s been a slog. Worth it, though.”

“It’s a gorgeous place. You’ve done something really special with it.”

He glances at me then, and there’s a pause. The kind where something else wants to be said but neither of us says it.

Before it can stretch into something awkward, a low voice up ahead breaks the silence.

“Bernard, love. Come on. Don’t you start again.”

We round a bend and spot Mrs Higgins, bent at the waist, coaxing her beagle, who is flopped on the path like he’s been through some kind of emotional trauma. His ears twitch but otherwise, he’s absolutely committed to playing dead.

“Is he sulking?” I ask.

Mrs Higgins sighs. “He’s protesting. He thinks the hill’s too steep. It’s barely a rise.”

Hunter laughs. “Want us to carry him?”

“You’d have more luck carrying the bench,” she mutters, standing back up with a wince.

As if to prove her point, Bernard lets out a long, dramatic sigh... followed by an even longer, much less dignified fart.

The sound echoes against the hedgerow like a motorbike starting in slow motion.

Hunter immediately recoils. “Oh my—what is that?”

I wave in front of my face, already grimacing. “That, my friend, is a beagle with no shame.”

He backs up a step, choking through a laugh. “You’re not even flinching. That’s disturbing.”

“I’ve smelled worse. ”

“I refuse to believe that.”

I grin. “Unfortunately, I remember quite clearly the time when I was eleven, and you and Peter were eight, and he held me down while you farted in my face.”

He stops dead, eyes wide with horror. “That did not happen.”

“It absolutely did.”

He bursts out laughing, full and unfiltered, doubling over slightly. “That’s slander.”

“Swear on your fancy hotel, Hunter. I dare you.”

He can’t. He’s still laughing too hard.

I shake my head, trying not to smile too much as we leave Mrs Higgins and her stubborn dog behind. But I can feel it—something shifting, easing.

“Sorry,” Hunter says eventually, still catching his breath. “We were two little twerps back then.”

“Twerps is generous.”

He grins, a bit sheepish. “Yeah, well… Peter was the ringleader. I just supplied the chaos.”

I arch a brow at him. “You supplied the decibels, the muddy footprints on the stairs, and the mysterious smell in the airing cupboard that Mum never got to the bottom of.”

“Ah,” he says, mock-serious. “That may have been a science experiment gone wrong.”

I laugh, just under my breath. He notices.

His voice softens slightly. “So, honestly... what did you think of me? Back then.”

I glance at him. “You mean aside from thinking you were the reason my bookmark was always on the wrong page?”

“Yeah. That part I remember. I mean... the rest of it. You know, when we weren’t trying to out-annoy each other. ”

I look ahead for a moment, then back at him. “You were loud. Always underfoot. Always leaving biscuit crumbs on the sofa.”

“And...?”

“And kind,” I say finally, after a beat. “Brighter than you let on. Funny, even if you were also infuriating.”

That slows his steps just a little. He doesn’t say anything right away.

I bump his arm gently with mine. “Don’t get smug. It’s just nostalgia.”

But he looks at me with that quiet smile—the one that doesn’t ask for anything, just... stays.

“Still,” he says. “I’ll take it.”

We walk in silence for a few more steps, boots crunching over gravel, the group still ahead but far enough that their voices blur into birdsong.

Then he glances at me again. “What about when we got older?”

I shoot him a look. “Are you fishing?”

He lifts his hands innocently. “Nope. Just asking.”

“Uh-huh.”

But I don’t answer.

Instead, I narrow my eyes and flick the question right back at him. “Alright then—what did you think of me , as we got older?”

He hesitates, and for a second, I think he’s going to deflect, maybe crack a joke about my GCSE revision schedule or the time I dyed my hair black and regretted it immediately.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he says, quietly, “You were smart. And fierce. And so bloody beautiful it hurt to look at you sometimes. ”

I stop walking.

Just for a second. Just long enough for the air to leave my lungs.

My heart kicks against my ribs. There’s a flutter—no, a full-on riot—of butterflies in my stomach. Heat floods my face, and I don’t know if I want to run or laugh or kiss him or slap him.

So, I do what I always do when someone edges too close to a compliment.

I laugh. Loud, a little too sharp.

“You must be joking,” I say, shaking my head. “God, I almost fell for that.”

Hunter doesn’t laugh with me.

He just looks at me, steady and sure, and says, “Every word was true.”

It’s quiet again—he doesn’t press, doesn’t explain. Just keeps walking beside me like he hasn’t just tilted my whole morning sideways.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.

We keep walking, the path narrowing slightly, trees rising tall on either side, and for a while, it’s only the sound of boots on earth and birdsong in the canopy above.

But I feel it—that strange weight between us now. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just real.

And that might be the most terrifying part of all.

By the time we make it back to the village, my legs are aching, and my feet feel like they’ve aged ten years. The group’s chatter is louder now, looser—buoyed by lunch, and views, and whatever sugar was in those flapjacks Nancy passed around.

We round the green and I spot the sign for The Running Horse, and for a brief, blissful moment, I think I might actually get to have a quiet pint and sink into the nearest chair.

No such luck.

“Why don’t we all pop in for a drink?” Nancy says brightly, turning to the group with a sweep of her hand. “Alexandra’s pub is just here, and it’s proper lovely.”

A chorus of agreement rises, and before I can say a single word, half the Ramblers are already piling through the door like it’s the last call before a snowstorm.

I duck through the side entrance and slide behind the bar, shrugging off my coat in one motion and tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears.

Tom, one of my Saturday staff, is drying pint glasses at the sink, moving at the speed of treacle.

“We’re about to be under siege,” I say, grabbing an apron. “Megan’s not due in till—”

He cuts me off with an apologetic wince. “Megan’s not coming. Texted a bit ago—migraine.”

My jaw tightens. “Of course she has.”

The room’s already buzzing. Coats are coming off, orders are flying, and a polite walking group has transformed into a pub crowd in under thirty seconds.

I start working through the queue—taking orders, pouring pints, trying to make the till not throw a tantrum. Glasses clink, someone’s already asking where the loo is, and someone else is requesting oat milk, which we definitely don’t have .

And then, without warning, Hunter appears beside me behind the bar.

I turn, mid-pour. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Helping,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves.

“You can’t just—this isn’t a one-man cocktail demo!”

“Alex,” he says, calm as you like. “Show me the till.”

I stare at him. The bar’s packed. There’s no time to argue. No time to explain that the last person who “helped” broke nearly ten glasses in one evening.

I jab a finger at the screen. “Fine. Tap here to start a round. Tap again for payment. Card readers moody. Don’t ask me why.”

“Got it.” He flashes me a grin. “I’ll try not to tank your profit margins.”

And then we’re moving. Side by side, bumping shoulders, shouting drink orders, catching coins, taking card taps, handing over crisps.

It’s chaos.

But somehow, with him there, I’m not drowning in it.

The crowd thins slowly, the volume dipping with every coat zipped and goodbye waved. A few stragglers linger by the fireplace, chatting over half-finished pints, but the rush has passed.

I lean against the bar, catching my breath, cheeks flushed, hair completely undone. Hunter’s drying glasses beside me like he’s been doing it for years, totally unfazed.

Tom has already slipped out with a wave and a mumbled thanks, leaving just the two of us behind the bar.

Before I can thank Hunter, Nancy steps up and rests her hands on the counter, looking sheepish .

“I’m so sorry for not giving you a heads up, love,” she says. “Didn’t think everyone would actually come. Usually, half of them slope off after the hill.”

I shake my head. “Honestly, it’s fine. Bit of chaos now and then keeps us on our toes.”

She brightens at that. “Well, if it’s alright with you, I’d love to make this a regular thing. The group’s really taken to it—finishing the walk here, I mean. It’d be once a week, give or take.”

My tiredness vanishes in a flash. “I’d love that. Absolutely. Let’s make it a thing.”

Hunter sets down the last clean pint glass. “A friend of mine worked in the Alps one summer, and they always offered walkers a charcuterie board. This was before that sort of thing even caught on over here.”

Nancy perks up. “Oh, how very continental.”

“That’s actually a brilliant idea,” I say, already thinking through logistics. “I could put together something simple—cheeses, Scotch Egg, sausage rolls. Call it The Rambler’s Break . And anyone from the group gets twenty percent off.”

Nancy claps her hands, practically glowing. “Oh, they’ll love that. I’ll spread the word next week. You’ll be swamped.”

I smile, this time without hesitation. “Good. Let them come.”

She gathers her jacket, offers Hunter a knowing little smile, then gives me a quick squeeze on the arm. “Thanks again, love. This was just what the group needed.”

I watch her go. It hits me, then, just how long it’s been since someone described anything I did as needed —and meant it in a way that didn’t involve fixing the card machine or restocking the crisps.

“Oi, oi,” comes Peter’s voice, as he finally strolls over from the other side of the pub, flushed and smug.

I raise an eyebrow. “Where have you been?”

He shrugs, trying—and failing—to look casual. “Just having a nice chat.”

“With your tongue down that blonde hiker’s throat?”

“Networking,” he says, deadpan. “It’s all about building relationships.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you want to maybe help clean up some of these tables while you’re at it?”

But before he can reply, Hunter steps in.

“I’ve got it,” he says easily. “Go on, mate.”

Peter claps him on the back. “Cheers, legend. Knew I could count on you.” Then he gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Nice job, Ally. See you tomorrow.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I shake my head after him. “Honestly. He’s still fifteen at heart.”

Hunter shrugs. “She seemed into it.”

I snort. “Poor girl.”

I glance at the clock. Nearly closing. The pub’s mostly empty now, just a couple of regulars finishing their drinks and the clink of glasses waiting to be stacked.

“You don’t have to stay,” I say, wiping down the counter. “I’m locking up in ten minutes anyway.”

Hunter grabs a damp cloth and starts clearing a table without missing a beat. “I know. I still want to help.”

I shake my head, mostly to myself. “Surely you have something better to do then discussing snacks for ramblers with me. ”

He glances back with a grin. “Don’t tell the food critics. They think I’m terribly refined.”

“Oh yeah, nothing says Michelin potential like drying pint glasses in a village pub.”

He laughs, and I turn to hide the way it makes something flutter low in my chest.

It’s ridiculous, really—how easy it is with him. Always has been. Even when he was a noisy, cheeky kid, there was something about him that made every room feel like it had been waiting for him.

Now… well. He still walks into a space like it is waiting for him.

And yes, the dark hair, the day-old stubble, the way his brown eyes crinkle when he smiles—all of that is lovely, obviously. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he listens. The way he steps in without fanfare, like helping isn’t a favour—it’s just what you do when you care.

“You’ve missed a spot,” he says, pointing at the edge of the bar with the end of his cloth.

I look over. It’s spotless.

“Get out of my pub,” I mutter.

He chuckles and wipes the same spot anyway. “Just keeping standards high. Don’t want Nancy telling the group we’re running a greasy caff.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.

There’s a kind of quiet confidence about him that sneaks up on you. No ego. No noise. Just calm, and capable, and warm. And funny—bloody hell, he’s funny. Not the show-off kind, either. Just quick, easy humour that lifts the weight off everything around it.

“You really didn’t have to stay,” I say again, softer now.

“I know,” he replies, just as gently.

And yet he is still here.