Page 8 of Crossed Paths
So, I do what I always do when someone edges too close to a compliment.
I laugh. Loud, a little too sharp.
“You must be joking,” I say, shaking my head. “God, I almost fell for that.”
Hunter doesn’t laugh with me.
He just looks at me, steady and sure, and says, “Every word was true.”
It’s quiet again—he doesn’t press, doesn’t explain. Just keeps walking beside me like he hasn’t just tilted my whole morning sideways.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.
We keep walking, the path narrowing slightly, trees rising tall on either side, and for a while, it’s only the sound of boots on earth and birdsong in the canopy above.
But I feel it—that strange weight between us now. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just real.
And that might be the most terrifying part of all.
By the time we make it back to the village, my legs are aching, and my feet feel like they’ve aged ten years. Thegroup’s chatter is louder now, looser—buoyed by lunch, and views, and whatever sugar was in those flapjacks Nancy passed around.
We round the green and I spot the sign for The Running Horse, and for a brief, blissful moment, I think I might actually get to have a quiet pint and sink into the nearest chair.
No such luck.
“Why don’t we all pop in for a drink?” Nancy says brightly, turning to the group with a sweep of her hand. “Alexandra’s pub is just here, and it’s proper lovely.”
A chorus of agreement rises, and before I can say a single word, half the Ramblers are already piling through the door like it’s the last call before a snowstorm.
I duck through the side entrance and slide behind the bar, shrugging off my coat in one motion and tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears.
Tom, one of my Saturday staff, is drying pint glasses at the sink, moving at the speed of treacle.
“We’re about to be under siege,” I say, grabbing an apron. “Megan’s not due in till—”
He cuts me off with an apologetic wince. “Megan’s not coming. Texted a bit ago—migraine.”
My jaw tightens. “Of course she has.”
The room’s already buzzing. Coats are coming off, orders are flying, and a polite walking group has transformed into a pub crowd in under thirty seconds.
I start working through the queue—taking orders, pouring pints, trying to make the till not throw a tantrum. Glasses clink, someone’s already asking where the loo is, and someone else is requesting oat milk, which we definitely don’t have.
And then, without warning, Hunter appears beside me behind the bar.
I turn, mid-pour. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Helping,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves.
“You can’t just—this isn’t a one-man cocktail demo!”
“Alex,” he says, calm as you like. “Show me the till.”
I stare at him. The bar’s packed. There’s no time to argue. No time to explain that the last person who “helped” broke nearly ten glasses in one evening.
I jab a finger at the screen. “Fine. Tap here to start a round. Tap again for payment. Card readers moody. Don’t ask me why.”
“Got it.” He flashes me a grin. “I’ll try not to tank your profit margins.”
