Page 6 of Crossed Paths (The Ramblers of St. Claire #2)

Alexandra

I didn’t sleep.

Tossed, turned, kicked the duvet off, pulled it back on again, then repeated that cycle until the sun came up. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Heard him.

I’ve been yours for years.

By half past seven, I give up. I need caffeine and someone to talk me down from the emotional cliff I’m standing on.

Mandy’s always at the coffee shop early before surgery, so I shoot her a message.

Me

SOS. Need caffeine and a reality check. Are you at Roast & Co?

She replies in seconds.

Mandy

Already got the good corner table. Two cappuccinos. Bring whatever disaster this is .

When I arrive, she’s exactly where she said she’d be—tucked into the back booth, coat folded over the bench beside her, one eyebrow already raised and a cappuccino steaming in front of each seat.

“You look like hell,” she says cheerfully as I slide in across from her.

“I feel worse.”

“Good. That means you’ve done something interesting.”

She pushes a cup toward me. I take a long sip before leaning in, voice low.

“Hunter. Last night. We—” I gesture vaguely, “—on the pool table. In the bloody pub.”

Mandy’s expression doesn’t shift. She just blinks once.

“I’m not surprised.”

I stare at her. “You’re what ?”

“I mean,” she says, setting her cup down, “I didn’t have money on ‘pool table’, but I’m not shocked.”

“Mandy!”

She shrugs. “Ally, come on. He’s always had that kicked-puppy look whenever you walked into a room. I’ve seen him look at a well-pulled pint with less longing than he looks at you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Mandy raises an eyebrow, calm as anything. “And I always thought you had a thing for him too.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I absolutely did not have a thing for Hunter,” I say too quickly, too firmly.

She smiles, slow and knowing. “That defensive tone’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now. ”

I glare at her. “He’s my brother’s best friend.”

“Yes, and you’re a grown woman who blushes every time he smiles at you like you’re a miracle in a polo shirt.”

I groan and cover my face with my hands.

She giggles, nudging my cup toward me. “Look, I never said anything because nobody else seemed to notice. Not even Peter—especially not Peter, which is saying something, considering he and Hunter have been thick as thieves almost all their lives.”

I peek at her through my fingers. “Then why now?”

“Because you’re finally in a place where maybe you can hear it,” she says, voice quieter.

“You needed time, Ally. After Darren... you weren’t just heartbroken, you were humiliated.

Publicly. You needed to retreat. To heal.

You wouldn’t have believed me even if I’d shouted it from the village green. ”

She’s right. I know she is. Mandy and I have been friends for almost as long as Hunter and Peter. She and her family moved to St Claire when she was fourteen and we bonded over our shared love for one of the stars of Baywatch. She knows me better than anyone. Of course she saw right through me.

I look down at the swirling froth of my cappuccino.

“But maybe,” she says gently, “it’s time now.”

Time.

It’s a small word. But suddenly it feels heavy.

I stare into my coffee like it might hold an answer, but it just stares back, silently judging me.

“So,” I murmur, “what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

Mandy sits back, crossing her legs. “Well, how did you leave it? ”

I hesitate, then glance up at her. “He kissed me. Said he wasn’t giving up. That he can’t. Not unless I tell him I don’t want him. And even then, he said he’d still hope.”

“Jeez, that’s hot! I didn’t think he was such a romantic. I’ve only ever known him to have casual relationships. Guess he wasn’t wasting the swoony stuff on anyone but you,” she winks.

I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “It was a lot. Like… chest-tightening, slightly breathless lot.”

“He meant it.”

“I know.”

“And you’re terrified.”

“Also, yes.”

She leans forward, eyes sparkling. “So, here’s what you do.”

I brace myself.

“You bring him a lemon tart.”

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me. You bake—”

“Buy,” I cut in.

“—a lemon tart, and you take it to him. You know he loves them.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I’m the village GP. I know everyone’s medical history and dessert preferences.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“It’s called being observant, Ally.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “So your big romantic solution is citrus and sugar?”

Mandy grins. “It’s a start. But no, what you actually need to do is talk to him.”

My smile falters. “Talk? ”

“Yes. You know, like two adults who’ve just had sex on a pool table and might possibly want to do it again without emotionally imploding.”

I groan. “God, I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“Start with the basics. Ask him what this is—what he wants . Is he looking to date you? To be your secret pub table fling? Friends with benefits?” She pauses. “Although, from what you’ve said, it doesn’t really sound like that.”

I shake my head. “No. He wasn’t casual.”

“Exactly. So ask. And then you tell him what pace you’re comfortable with. Whether you need time, space, slow Sundays, no pressure, whatever.”

“And what if it’s too messy?” I ask quietly.

Mandy reaches across the table and touches my wrist. “Then you handle it like you handle everything else, Ally—straightforward, strong, and with more grace than you give yourself credit for.”

My throat tightens, but I manage a nod.

She leans back, sipping her coffee again. “And bring the tart. It never hurts to have lemon on your side.”

Hunter lives in a small stone cottage on the edge of the village, tucked neatly behind a low wall covered in moss and wild lavender. It’s all very brooding romantic lead meets rustic charm , which frankly isn’t helping my nerves.

In my hand is a white box from the bakery, tied with string, containing two lemon tarts that smell like hope and regret and butter .

I stand at his garden gate for a good fifteen seconds before I even open it.

Then I walk up the short path to his front door.

Then I stop.

Then I turn around.

Nope. Bad idea. This is a bad idea.

I start walking back down the path.

Halfway to the gate, I stop again. Glance over my shoulder.

You came all this way. With pastry.

I turn back and march up the path before pausing again in front of his door.

Lift my hand to press the bell.

Put it back down.

Lift it again.

Lower it. Again.

Seriously, Alexandra. What’s the worst that could happen? He says it was a mistake? He laughs at you? No. Hunter wouldn’t do that. But what if he’s busy? What if he sees the box and thinks it’s some weird post-hookup bake-off peace offering?

I raise my hand again.

Still don’t press it.

Bloody hell, you are a grown woman with a business and a commercial freezer. Ring the bloody bell.

But I just stand there.

Four false starts.

One box of lemon tarts slowly going warm in my hand.

And a thousand thoughts in my head, most of them screaming some version of What if this is a mistake? And one very quiet voice whispering What if it’s not ?

I sigh, long and dramatic, then glance at the door one last time—just a door. Nothing magical. Nothing terrifying.

“Another day,” I mutter, turning around with every intention of walking away, talking myself out of this for the fifth and final time.

And that’s when I see him.

Hunter, standing at the end of the garden path, arms crossed over his chest, running shirt clinging to him like it’s been painted on, hair damp from a jog, and that bloody smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

My heart stumbles. I don’t move.

“How long,” I ask, narrowing my eyes, “have you been watching me?”

He grins, completely unbothered. “Depends how often you wandered up and down my garden path."

“Oh God.”

“You were giving it the full will-she-won’t-she.”

I groan and cover my face with one hand. “I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be. It was very entertaining.”

“I’m so glad my emotional instability provides you with quality morning viewing.”

He chuckles, and I drop my hand with a sigh.

“I just…” I gesture vaguely at the box in his hand. “I remembered you liked lemon tarts. That’s all.”

He arches a brow.

“That’s all ,” I repeat. “Just trying to do something nice for you.”

He looks down at the box, then back at me, far too amused. “So, you’re saying you wandered all the way out here with lemon tarts, nearly wore a hole in my doorstep, and debated the doorbell like it was a moral dilemma... purely out of casual bakery-based goodwill?”

“Yes.”

He steps closer, slow and steady, smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well then,” he says, “I guess I’d better go put the kettle on. Wouldn’t want your goodwill to go to waste.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just reaches out and gently links our fingers, and I can’t help to think that this feels right. Oh, so right.

I let him tug me forward past the low stone step and through the door.

Inside, the cottage smells like fresh coffee.

It’s cosy, a little cluttered, comfortably lived-in.

There are books on every surface. Shoes by the radiator.

A wool blanket half-draped over the arm of the sofa like it gave up trying to look neat.

He leads me into the living room, then turns to face me.

“I’m going to take a quick shower. Don’t run off.”

“I make no promises.”

He gives me a look.

I raise my hands. “Fine. I’ll stay. But only because I’m invested in the fate of the lemon tarts.”

“Thought so.” He takes the box with the tarts from me and disappears down the hallway.

I stand there for a beat, trying not to feel completely out of place, before slowly wandering around the room. There’s a shelf full of mismatched mugs, a chess set half-played on the coffee table, a worn rugby ball tucked under the window.

And then, half-hidden behind a stack of outdoor magazines, I spot a photo frame.

Curious, I pull it forward .

It’s us.

Me and Hunter.

Not as kids—but older.

I’m twenty-four, in a pale blue dress I barely remember owning, hair swept back like I’ve actually tried to look elegant. He’s twenty-one, less stubble, slimmer shoulders, a grin that’s a little uncertain around the edges. We’re standing side by side, champagne glasses in hand.

And I remember exactly when this was taken.

The night before my wedding to Darren.

A low-key garden do. Paper lanterns. Too much prosecco. I’d been tense the whole evening. Hunter had cracked some joke just before the photo was snapped.

I’d laughed. He’d looked at me a little too long.

And now, here it is. In a frame. In his house.

He’s kept it.

My fingers tighten around the picture. Something twists in my stomach. A mix of guilt, nostalgia, and something I don’t want to name just yet.

Why this photo, Hunter? Why that night?

Before I can get any further down that rabbit hole, I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

I quickly slide the frame back into place.