Page 29 of Crossed Paths
“Impressive,” I say, checking the till float. “Pimms at noon. Must be a wedding anniversary or a midlife crisis.”
She huffs a laugh, then turns to pull a pint, already back in rhythm.
I make a circuit of the beer taps, check the fridge stock, and then pop into the cellar to confirm the lager delivery came in.
The door to the kitchen swings open on a blast of heat and the rich smell of frying onions. Matt, my head chef, is halfway through plating a steak sandwich, his usual grumble dialled down to a low simmer thanks to the decent weather and the fact no one’s asked for gluten-free Yorkshire puddings. Yet.
“Hey,” I say, slipping in with my notepad. “All good?”
He doesn’t look up. “We’re out of the fancy chutney.”
“Sub the house red onion. No one’ll notice.”
“Fine. As long as no one mentions the phrase ‘artisan board’ I won’t throwanything.”
“Deal.”
I jot a reminder to update the allergen sheets and check the prep list pinned to the dry store door.
Everything’s moving. In motion. Normal.
Except I can’t stop thinking abouthim.
Somewhere out there, Hunter's rambling through the Yorkshire Dales. Maybe with Peter. Maybe right now, his boots are hitting the trail and his minds on me. The thought sends another flutter through me—ridiculous and adolescent and completely unwelcome as I’m standing beside a box of pork scratchings.
I shake it off.Focus! There’s work to do.
Chapter 10
Hunter
The sun’s already warmingthe gravel as I lock up the car outside Morton Hall. One of those early summer mornings where everything looks deceptively calm—birds in full chorus, hedgerows buzzing, and the scent of freshly cut grass hanging in the air like something from a tourist brochure.
I shoulder my rucksack, adjust the straps, and start across the drive towards the lane that leads up to the Church of St Claire. The walking group’s meeting there this time.
Peter’s probably already holding court by the gate, charming pensioners and flirting up a storm with any newcomers.
I’m halfway to the edge of the gravel in front of the hotel when I hear the unmistakable clack of heels behind me.
“Hunter!”
I stop and turn.
Silvia strides towards me, tablet in one hand, takeaway coffee in the other, her expression already halfway between panic and indignation. Whatever it is, if my Food andBeverage Manager needs to talk to me on my day off, it’s not going to be good.
“You’re not going to like this,” she says, breathless.
“Excellent,” I mutter. “Go on, then.”
“Connor and Yasmin. They’ve both handed in their notice. Found office jobs.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
She nods, mouth tight. “Cited ‘more stability’ and ‘no weekend shifts’. I could scream.”
I let out a low string of curses under my breath. “We’ve got the tech retreat in two weeks. That’s three days of yoga, breakout sessions, and very specific toast requests. We can’t run it without a full team.”
Silvia shifts her weight, eyebrow already arching like she’s been preparing for this moment.
