Page 2 of Crossed Paths
“You’ll want to mind your language, Peter,” comes a voice from further down the bar. “Some of us are trying to enjoy our sherry without a side of filth.”
We both turn. Mrs Higgins is perched on her usual stool, handbag nestled next to her like it contains state secrets and a packet of crisps in hand.
Peter offers a sheepish smile. “I would never, Mrs Higgins.”
She raises her eyebrows over the rim of her glass. “I mean, Darren was awanker. But we don’t need to shout it about. Let the man ruin his own reputation in peace.”
I smirk into the tea towel I’m folding.
Mrs Higgins turns her attention to me now, her eyes sharp, but her tone breezy. “Andyou, Alexandra, could do with a bit more colour in your cheeks. When was the last time you got out of this place for something other than bin night?”
“Not you too! I get out,” I defend myself, not very convincingly.
“Hmm,” she says, nibbling a crisp. “I suppose standing in the beer garden to shout at the delivery driver counts.”
Peter chuckles. I do not.
Mrs Higgins pretends to examine the back of her crisp packet like it’s a classified ad. “You know, there’s that walking group on Saturdays. All sorts turn up. Good for the lungs. And the legs. And sometimes… well. You never know who you might find striding beside you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you suggesting I take up rambling?”
“Oh, I wouldn’tdreamof suggesting anything,” she says, all innocence, though the twinkle in her eye suggests otherwise. “Just making conversation.”
Peter jumps on it. “Actually, Hunter told me about the group. Said it might be good for his hotel guests. We’re both going this Saturday, so you may as well come along.”
The moment he says Hunter, something tightens low in my stomach. Not nerves exactly. Not dread either. More like... butterflies.
Peter’s best mate since they were six and I was eight. He has been a fixture in my life ever since, first as a little tornado of scraped knees and loud opinions, and now as... well. As something else entirely.
He grew into himself. Rugged, sun-kissed, maddeningly easy on the eye. All broad shoulders and warm smiles. And the worst part is, he carries it all without a shred of arrogance. Like he doesn’t even notice the way people look at him when he walks into a room. Or the way I have to pretend not to.
And now I’m supposed to spend a Saturday tramping through fields and stiles with him walking beside me?
I’ll be breathless before we clear the first hill. My idea of a workout lately is hauling the cider order through the back door. He runs. Properly. I’ve seen him on Saturday mornings, jogging past the pub before I’ve even had my first cup of tea. Always in those black running shorts. Tight running shorts.
The first time I noticed, I happened to be wiping the inside of the front window. The second time… maybe not so much. And now it has become a bit of a habit for me. Creepy, I know, but I can’t help it.
Those mornings, when he passes, there’s this flicker in my chest I don’t have a name for.
I shake it off. I really need to stop lusting after my brother’s best friend. He’s way out of my league, and not just because he’s younger.
He’s just… not someone you imagine reaching for you. He belongs to clean morning air and smooth confidence and people who don’t carry old bruises like mine.
A sudden, girlish giggle cuts through the silence.
I snap my head up.
Mrs Higgins watches me over the rim of her glass with far too much interest.
Did I say any of that out loud?
I glance at Peter. He’s busy picking crisps out of the packet one by one, looking as clueless as ever.
“Funny little smile you’ve got there, Alexandra,” Mrs Higgins says, almost to herself. “Thought I’d seen that expression before. Mmm. Yes. Nancy wore it once. Just after she started organising the Rambler’s group.”
My brows lift. “Nancy Collins?”
Mrs Higgins nods, all innocence. “She said it surprised her, how much good it did. Bit of company, bit of countryside. Bit of something to look forward to.”
