Page 43 of Crossed Paths
Me Monday, 8:02 p.m.
Missing you. I'd walk through one of Bernard's gas clouds just to see you.
Still nothing.
I toss the phone down and scrub a hand over my face.
This is fine. She’s doing her job. I’m doing mine. The Hall is packed with tech execs who think forest bathing is a verb and expect five-star service while they wear Patagonia fleeces and talk about disruption.
But none of that stops the ache in my chest.
Because I miss her laugh. The weight of her head on my shoulder. The way she says my name when she’s tired and trying not to smile.
I pick up my pen and go back to the numbers Monica so kindly flagged in red.
Because sometimes, love means patience.
Even when all you want is a knock at the door and the sound of her voice saying,Hey, you.
By half past two, I give up pretending I’m getting anything useful done.
The numbers are still there. Monica’s passive-aggressive spreadsheet notes aren’t going anywhere. But the kitchen will be gearing up soon for the gala dinner tonight—forty covers, five courses, and a dessert that needs to look like it belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
I head downstairs, taking the side stairs to avoid the bottleneck by the lifts. My plan is simple: check in with Chef, make sure the timing’s tight, dodge any tech execs with “just a quick favour” questions, and go back to hiding in my office with a fresh coffee.
But as I cut through the main hall—reception to the left, sofas packed with guests having afternoon tea, someone’s toddler wiping jam on our velvet upholstery—I hear it.
“I fucking told you not to hurt her.”
Peter’s voice slices through the gentle hum of cutlery and polite conversation like a blade.
Every head in the room turns.
I stop mid-stride. Slowly. Deliberately.
He’s coming toward me across the tiles, jaw tight, eyes furious.
“Whatever this is,” I say low, stepping toward him before he can close the distance, “let’s not do it in front of half of London and my staff.”
His eyes blaze, but he clenches his jaw and lets me steer him down the corridor that leads toward the Brasserie.
I push the door open and usher him inside. The lights are off, but soft natural light pours in through the long glass windows that overlook the garden. The tables are bare, chairs stacked along the far wall, and the smell of polish still hangs faintly in the air. It’s quiet. Private.
I shut the door behind us.
Peter turns on me immediately, eyes wild, voice low but furious.
“I can’t fucking believe you did this to her.”
I blink, thrown. “Did what—?”
“Even if you didn’t love her,” he barrels on, ignoring me, “even if that was all bullshit and you were just pretending—we’re friends, Hunter. We’ve been friends. Since we were kids. What the fuck were you thinking?”
I take a step back, palms half-raised. My pulse kicks up, not from guilt—because I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about—but from the sheer weight of his rage.
“Peter,” I say carefully, “I genuinely have no idea what you’re on about.”
“Oh come off it,” he snaps, throwing his arms out, pacing two steps away before turning back like he’s too full of rage to stand still.
