Page 17 of Crossed Paths

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Then I stop.

Then I turn around.

Nope. Bad idea. This is a bad idea.

I start walking back down the path.

Halfway to the gate, I stop again. Glance over my shoulder.

You came all this way. With pastry.

I turn back and march up the path before pausing again in front of his door.

Lift my hand to press the bell.

Put it back down.

Lift it again.

Lower it. Again.

Seriously, Alexandra. What’s the worst that could happen? He says it was a mistake? He laughs at you?No. Hunter wouldn’t do that.But what if he’s busy? What if he sees the box and thinks it’s some weird post-hookup bake-off peace offering?

I raise my hand again.

Still don’t press it.

Bloody hell, you are a grown woman with a business and a commercial freezer. Ring the bloody bell.

But I just stand there.

Four false starts.

One box of lemon tarts slowly going warm in my hand.

And a thousand thoughts in my head, most of them screaming some version ofWhat if this is a mistake?And one very quiet voice whisperingWhat if it’s not?

I sigh, long and dramatic, then glance at the door one last time—just a door. Nothing magical. Nothing terrifying.

“Another day,” I mutter, turning around with every intention of walking away, talking myself out of this for the fifth and final time.

And that’s when I see him.

Hunter, standing at the end of the garden path, arms crossed over his chest, running shirt clinging to him like it’s been painted on, hair damp from a jog, and that bloody smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

My heart stumbles. I don’t move.

“How long,” I ask, narrowing my eyes, “have you been watching me?”

He grins, completely unbothered. “Depends how often you wandered up and down my garden path."

“Oh God.”

“You were giving it the full will-she-won’t-she.”

I groan and cover my face with one hand. “I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be. It was very entertaining.”

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