Page 18 of Crossed Paths
“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’sall,” 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.
