Page 28 of Crossed Paths
Darren had been all performance—flashy dates and louder promises, but nothing that ever truly settled in my bones. And Hunter?
Hunter’s the opposite.
He doesn’t shout. He just shows up. Again and again.
I tap out my reply with slightly shaky fingers.
Me
See you Saturday.
I set the phone down, press my palms into the bar and let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.
He’s telling Peter.
Which means this is real.
And real is terrifying.
But it’s also the first thing in a long time that feels worth the risk.
Saturday morning arrives far too quickly and far too brightly for my liking.
I’m standing in front of the mirror, hair still damp, work shirt hanging on the back of the chair, and I’m holding up a bra I’ve definitely never worn to a shift before.
Lacy. Deep red. Absolutely no padding. Entirely unnecessary.
I stare at it like it might offer me advice.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
But I put it on anyway.
It’s not just the bra. The knickers match. Also lacy, also red, also wildly impractical for a Saturday of hauling crates, pulling pints, and pretending not to hear when someone complains the chips are too salty again.
I wriggle into my sensible black trousers, adjust the waistband, and try not to think about the fact that I’m deliberately dressing like someone who suspects she may not stay dressed.
The black polo shirt with the Running Horse logo follows, neatly ironed and faintly smelling of starch and pub linen. My uniform. My armour.
And underneath it, a tiny, private secret stitched in lace.
I smooth the shirt down, stare at myself in the mirror, and sigh.
I’ve completely lost the plot.
It’s noon when I join Magda behind the bar. Plenty of time before the Ramblers descend later this afternoon. But even now, with hours to go, there's a flutter low in my belly, a restless kind of fizz I haven’t felt in a very long time.
The last time I thought I was close to something like this, I ended up in divorce court with a pile of legal fees.
But Hunter isn’t Darren. And that flutter? That little electric twist at the thought of seeing him again, kissing him again, isn’t fear.Not exactly.
The sun’s already streaming through the windows, throwing streaks of gold across the wooden floorboards. Voices float in from the beer garden—laughter, clinking glasses, the scrape of benches shifting across stone. I catch the tail end of a “bloody hell, it’s warm for September!” as the door swings open and someone asks if dogs are allowed inside.
Magda’s at the bar, towel slung over one shoulder, working her way through the lunchtime drinks queue with professional calm and slightly pink cheeks.
“Alright?” I ask, ducking behind the counter.
She gives me a long-suffering look. “Smithsons have been here eight minutes and already asked for ketchup, tartare sauce, and a jug of Pimms.”
