Page 36 of Crossed Paths
And just like that, nerves vanish.
Replaced by something warmer. Lighter. Those bloody butterflies.
He’s smiling—God, that smile—and for a second, I think he’s going to say something, something cheeky or comforting or just Hunter, but then…
He walks straight past the bar.
My heart stumbles.
For a fraction of a second, I think—oh. Maybe this morning’s lemon tart diplomacy didn’t land quite like I thought it did.
But then I hear it. The soft click of the side gate swinging open. And before I can even process what he’s doing, he’s there behind the bar.
I smirk, trying for stern. “No guests behind the bar.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not a guest,” he says, voice low as he steps closer, “I’m here to help.”
He leans in under the pretence of reaching for the card machine—yeah, right—and I feel the warm tick of his breath just as his lips brush the shell of my ear.
And then he nips.
A tiny, secretive little nibble.
My knees almost buckle.
The moan catches at the back of my throat before I swallow it down, but the blush? That makes a full, unapologetic appearance, blooming hot across my cheeks and neck like my skin’s just declared war on subtlety.
I flick him a look—equal parts scandalised and aroused. “That,” I whisper, “is wildly inappropriate.”
He grins, all innocence. “I was just making sure you could hear me over the noise.”
“Sure you were.”
He reaches for a pint glass and starts pulling a lager like it’s the most natural thing in the world, all calm competence and quiet swagger.
We settle into a rhythm. Efficient. Unspoken. Two bodies moving around each other like we’re synced to the same music.
But even in the thick of it, he keeps touching me.
Not in a showy, public kind of way—just little things. A palm on my lower back as he leans past to grab a glass. A warm hand at my waist, guiding me a step to the side like it’s instinct. His arm brushing mine as we both reach for a bottle opener, and neither of us pulling away.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
Every graze of his fingertips sets something off under my skin—like sparks catching on the inside of my ribs, lighting up places I didn’t know were still flammable.
And I cannot think straight when he’s this close.
By the time most of the Ramblers have been served and the queue’s thinned to a manageable hum, I need to get away a little and clear my head.
“Food’s up,” I announce, maybe a bit too loudly.
Magda’s already halfway to the kitchen, but I wave her off. “I’ve got it.”
I push through the swing door into the kitchen, letting it thud shut behind me.
The heat hits straight away—roasting veg, melted cheese, something sharp and vinegary hanging in the air. Matt’s at the pass, arranging radishes with surgical precision like they might explode if he gets the angle wrong.
