Page 10 of Crossed Paths
I snort. “Poor girl.”
I glance at the clock. Nearly closing. The pub’s mostly empty now, just a couple of regulars finishing their drinks and the clink of glasses waiting to be stacked.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say, wiping down the counter. “I’m locking up in ten minutes anyway.”
Hunter grabs a damp cloth and starts clearing a table without missing a beat. “I know. I still want to help.”
I shake my head, mostly to myself. “Surely you have something better to do then discussing snacks for ramblers with me.”
He glances back with a grin. “Don’t tell the food critics. They think I’m terribly refined.”
“Oh yeah, nothing says Michelin potential like drying pint glasses in a village pub.”
He laughs, and I turn to hide the way it makes something flutter low in my chest.
It’s ridiculous, really—how easy it is with him. Always has been. Even when he was a noisy, cheeky kid, there was something about him that made every room feel like it had been waiting for him.
Now… well. He still walks into a space like it is waiting for him.
And yes, the dark hair, the day-old stubble, the way his brown eyes crinkle when he smiles—all of that is lovely, obviously. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he listens. The way he steps in without fanfare, like helping isn’t a favour—it’s just what you do when you care.
“You’ve missed a spot,” he says, pointing at the edge of the bar with the end of his cloth.
I look over. It’s spotless.
“Get out of my pub,” I mutter.
He chuckles and wipes the same spot anyway. “Just keeping standards high. Don’t want Nancy telling the group we’re running a greasy caff.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
There’s a kind of quiet confidence about him that sneaks up on you. No ego. No noise. Just calm, and capable, and warm. And funny—bloody hell, he’s funny. Not the show-off kind, either. Just quick, easy humour that lifts the weight off everything around it.
“You really didn’t have to stay,” I say again, softer now.
“I know,” he replies, just as gently.
And yet he is still here.
Chapter 4
Hunter
We move around eachother without needing to speak; clearing glasses, flipping chairs, wiping down surfaces. It’s not rehearsed, but it works. A rhythm we fall into like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
Alex doesn’t rush, but she’s efficient. Every glass stacked, every cloth folded, every motion purposeful. I mop while she dries. No jokes, no need for them. Just the soft squeak of rubber soles on clean floorboards and the occasional brush of her arm as we pass.
When everything’s done, she tosses the tea towel over the bar and nods toward the back hallway. “Come on, I’ll let you out this way. It’s quicker.”
We make our way through the narrow corridor behind the bar, past crates of mixers and the cellar door. She unlocks the rear entrance and pushes it open with one hand.
Rain greets us in steady sheets, slapping against the cobbles and running in rivulets along the edge of the yard.
“Well,” she says, leaning against the frame, “classic timing.”
I glance out. “Of course. Yorkshire weather. Always waits until you’ve got somewhere to be.”
“My flat’s upstairs,” she says, nodding upward. “So I’m sorted. You, on the other hand…”
