Page 42 of Crossed Paths
There’s a beat of silence, then Hunter huffs a soft laugh against my hair. “So you’ve been spying on me.”
I grin into his chest. “Well, if you didn’t want attention, you shouldn’t be parading that very fit arse of yours past the pub in those shorts.”
He lets out a scandalised noise and immediately retaliates, fingers finding my side and making me squeal as he tickles me, just enough to make me squirm and giggle, limbs tangled in the sheets.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, mock-offended, “Objectified. Reduced to nothing but glutes.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” I say through laughter, trying—and failing—to wriggle away.
Eventually, he relents, and we collapse back into each other, breathless and warm and grinning like idiots.
His hand settles gently against my back again, smoothing over my skin. When he speaks next, his voice is softer. Steadier.
“I’ll try to take it slow,” he says. “Even now. I know what this is for me, and I don’t want to rush what it needs to be for you. So… I’ll give you time.”
My heart twists at the sheer care in his voice.
“But,” he adds, tone dipping lower, “I can’t promise it’ll last forever. I’ve waited a long time, Alex. I don’t think I’ve got another year of pretending I don’t want to wake up next to you every morning.”
I smile, then shift slightly, just enough to wiggle my hips against him, slow and teasing.
He groans, telling me just how much he wants me.
“I’ve got a feeling,” I murmur, lips brushing his collarbone, “I won’t need that long.”
He groans softly and pulls me tighter.
And just like that, the night folds around us—warm, safe, and humming with something that feels a lot like the start of everything.
Chapter 13
Hunter
The spreadsheets aren’t goingto fix themselves, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at them like they might. The columns blur into each other—endless numbers and curt notes from Monica, our Finance Director, who’s clearly trying to remind me that just because I’m the owner doesn’t mean I can avoid reconciling vendor invoices forever.
She has a point. Doesn’t make me like her tone any better.
Outside my office window, the grounds of Morton Hall look postcard-perfect. The sun’s out—barely—but it’s enough to cast long shadows over the lawn where the London tech group has set up some kind of team-building circle. There’s shouting. Laughter. A whistle, inexplicably.
It’s Saturday. Late afternoon. And I haven’t heard from Alex since Monday.
Three texts.
No replies.
I’m not panicking. Not exactly.
She warned me about this week. The wedding from hell. The bride with the rose gold clipboard and a five-page PDF about acceptable canapé aesthetics. A string quartet, a signature cocktail, a flash mob surprise the groom still doesn’t know about. It’s been chaos since Tuesday’s tasting, and she said she'd be slammed. And it was kind of our own fault because the week before we were all over each other every spare minute we found.
I scroll back through our message thread. The last few texts sit unanswered, mocking me slightly.
Me Sunday, 9:48 p.m.
Hope you got some sleep. Let me know if you need anything for the tasting on Tuesday. X
Me Monday, 12:13 p.m.
Did the napkin samples arrive, or did they send the flamingo ones again?
