Page 1 of Crossed Paths
Chapter 1
Alexandra
Monday nights at TheRunning Horse are quiet enough to hear your own thoughts, which, in my case, usually involves deciding between leftover shepherd’s pie or toast for tea. The telly’s on in the corner, playing the end of some darts tournament, no one’s paying attention to. The few regulars still hang around, but otherwise, not much is happening on a Monday.
“Seriously, Ally,” Peter says from his usual stool at the end of the bar. “You’d really like this one. Solid bloke. Drives a Jag. All his hair.”
I roll my eyes and yank open the dishwasher. Aren’t brothers supposed to want to scare guys away from you? Why do I have one that treats me like a spinster in a Victorian novel? “You’ve got to stop trying to fix me up with your banker mates. Just because someone can afford the overpriced tasting menu at that place in Harrogate doesn’t mean he’s God’s gift.”
Peter shrugs, grinning. “I’m just saying, you’ve beensingle for—”
“Two years. I know.” I pull out a glass and hold it to the light. “And somehow, I’ve managed not to combust without a man in a suit who uses 'networking' as a verb.”
He laughs, but I spot that look in his eyes. The one he saves for when he’s worried about me but doesn’t want to say it outright. It’s soft, familiar, and just a little bit annoying.
“Come on, Ally. You’re not getting any younger.”
“Oi.” I flick a beer mat at his head. “Forty-one isn’t ancient.”
“Exactly. Prime time to meet someone before you start bulk-buying cat toys.”
“Oh, and what about you?” I shoot back, eyebrow raised. “You’re thirty-nine and single. Shall I sign you up for speed dating at the village hall?”
“Difference is, I’m a free spirit. Bachelor by design,” Peter grins.
“Right. That’s why you are sitting in my pub almost every evening.”
“Hey, I get out there. I date. I socialise. You, on the other hand, work, lock up, then vanish into your flat with a glass of wine andQIreruns.”
I sniff. “QIis brilliant, thank you very much. Just because I enjoy clever people being witty doesn’t mean I’ve given up on life.”
“You know all the answers before Sandi’s finished reading the card.”
“That’s a skill. And you’ll thank me at the Christmas quiz.”
Peter chuckles, leaning forward like he’s about to drop some kind of truth bomb. “You’re not just single. You’vegone full hermit. Emotionally wrapped in fluffy pyjamas and eating crisps straight from the bag.”
I snort. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“When was the last time you cooked for someone who wasn’t you or me?”
I turn back to the bar, flicking my tea towel over one shoulder. “Off the top of my head? None of your business.”
“Exactly.” He takes a smug sip of his pint. “You’re hibernating. A very attractive, sharp-tongued hermit who could still absolutely pull if she left the pub once in a blue moon.”
I flinch.Attractive.
Funny, that. My ex-husband certainly didn’t seem to think so—not when I caught him with other women. The first time was someone from his gym. The second was a friend of a friend. But the final straw? That was his secretary. Darren didn’t even try to hide it. Snogged her in plain sight at the village bank holiday picnic, right by the trestle tables, like we weren’t married, like I wasn’t standing ten feet away holding a plate of sausage rolls and trying not to drop them.
Half of St Claire saw it. The other half heard by teatime.
The divorce was fast and humiliating. According to the local gossip, it was overdue. I didn’t fight it. Just signed the papers and quietly peeled myself away from village life wherever I could.
Not just to avoid him, though he’s still here—still swanning around with his smug grin and the secretary-now-girlfriend. No, it was the looks I couldn’t take. The pitying smiles from the village gossips, the awkwardsilences, the way voices dropped when I walked into the bakery.
But here, behind the bar, I’ve got a bit of power. I’m not the woman who got publicly humiliated. I’m the landlady of The Running Horse. I’ve got beer taps, regulars, a decent Yorkshire pudding on Sundays, and most importantly, a bar counter between me and the rest of them. A bit of polished oak, a built-in excuse to keep people at arm’s length. It helps. Mostly.
Peter opens his mouth, no doubt about to call Darren a wanker again—his favourite hobby lately—but he doesn’t get the chance.
