Page 26 of Crossed Paths
Alexandra
Tom’s clattering about behindthe bar, unloading the dishwasher like it’s personally offended him. He’s got earbuds in, nodding along to some aggressively cheerful pop remix. It’s not my taste, but it’s better than whatever doom-bass techno he usually tortures himself with. I’d put on a bit of old-school rock if I had my way—something with guitars and a pulse—but I’m too busy trying to wrestle the function sheet into submission to bother picking a fight about playlists.
I’m perched on the edge of the bar, a plate of chips beside me and a pen in my mouth as I scan the document for what feels like the fifteenth time. The bride for the wedding in two weeks is lovely, flustered, and dangerously addicted to Pinterest. She also texted last night with another flurry of updates.
Four additional guests. One of whom is, and I quote, ‘strictly no fat, no dairy, not even butter, please make sure the kitchen knows. xx’.
Chef is going to love that. Matt couldn’t care less if we served soup out of flowerpots so long as the food hits thepass on time. But if I hand him another updated seating plan with more dietary requirements, I might not make it out of the kitchen alive.
The kitchen team have had a long month, and a last-minute dietary curveball a few days before prep starts is not going to go down smoothly. Especially not with a wedding breakfast of sixty and a three-course plated menu.
The bar staff are easier. Tom, for example, is one of half a dozen students I keep on zero-hour contracts while they juggle lectures and library shifts in Leeds. He’s quick, cheerful, and only slightly allergic to early mornings. Like the rest of them, he keeps the place ticking along without too much drama. As long as there’s Wi-Fi and I don’t make him work the day before an exam.
“Tom,” I call over the clatter. “When you’re done smashing those glasses, can you restock the fridge, please? And do me a favour and check how many barrels of Stella we have left. I’ve got a feeling this wedding lot will drink like it’s a stag do in Marbella.”
He pulls out one earbud and nods. “On it, boss.”
I turn my attention back to my laptop when my phone buzzes beside the plate of chips.
Hunter
I miss you.
I smile before I can even think twice about it.
It’s not even been three days. We’ve both had to dive back into real life after our... whatever it is. Pool table sex and lemon tart diplomacy aside, I wasn’t expecting a midday text from him. But it’s there, warm and unfiltered and him.
I swipe the screen with slightly greasy fingers.
Me
It’s only been a few days.
I read his message again. Then again. A soft warmth creeps in behind my ribs.
Hunter
Still. Too long.
A familiar tightness curls low in my stomach. I miss him too.Is that crazy?
Me
I take it you’re not just texting me sweet nothings whilst lording over your hotel?
The reply comes quickly.
Hunter
Sadly not. Short staffed. Two big functions this week. One of the chefs has Covid. Can’t find decent waiting staff either. It’s like everyone vanished after the pandemic.
I frown. That tracks. We’ve had the same issue in the pub. Students come and go, but proper waiting staff, people with experience and stamina? Can’t find any for love nor money. Since Covid, everyone either left hospitality or refuses to come back unless it's triple pay and no weekends.
I bite a chip in half and text back.
Me
Nightmare. I’m not exactly flush with options either. But so far, my students are not letting me down.
