Page 44 of Crossed Paths
“Is this why you kept insisting on helping behind the bar?” he demands. “So you could get close? You wanted in so badly, and now what—this was your plan all along?”
I stare at him, completely lost. “What are you talking about?”
He steps in again, voice low but sharp as glass. “You left her without any bar staff. On the day of the bloody wedding.”
“What?”
“You’re seriously going to stand there and say you don’t know?”
“Idon’tknow,” I snap, more forcefully this time. “Peter, I’ve been up to my ears in tech geeks and meditation schedules the whole week. I haven’t seen Alex since Monday. I’ve barely seen my own bed. What the hell are you talking about?”
He narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to work out if I’m lying or just a spectacular idiot.
“You’re pretending you didn’t get cosy with Tom? That you didn’t convince him to ditch the pub and bring two of his mates with him to start working here?”
The air leaves my lungs like a punch.
“What?” I breathe.
Peter crosses his arms, jaw tight. “You offered him five pounds more an hour. Said it was a ‘step up.’ Said there’d be career progression.”
“I—Peter, Inever—”
But I’m already scrambling, my mind tearing back through the last few days, trying to line up what the hell he’s talking about.
I haven’t spoken to Tom more than hello and good night.
“I think you’re wrong,” I say, but there’s not much conviction behind it. “I didn’t offer him a job. I haven’t—Peter, I haven’t recruited anyone from the pub.”
Peter snorts. “So why is Tom laying tables in your banquet hall, then?”
I freeze.
“What?”
But he’s already marching past me, flinging the Brasserie door open so hard it bangs against the stopper. I’m moving before I know it, following him through the corridor, heart pounding, steps hard and fast against the tile.
Down the back hallway, past housekeeping, through the service doors—straight into the long, echoing hush of the gala dining room.
And there he is.
Tom.
Rolling cutlery in crisp white napkins, a stack of crystal wine glasses already set in front of him. Wearing a Morton Hall waistcoat.
Laying tables.
Right here.
Right now.
And the look on Peter’s face saystold you soin a hundred different languages.
I’m halfway through raising my hand to call Tom over when I spot Silvia walking briskly past the far end of the room, clipboard in hand, looking smug and efficient, like she’s single-handedly keeping the roof from collapsing.
“Silvia,” I call out, sharp.
She pivots on her heel, beaming like we’re on some PR shoot. “Hunter! Everything’s running smoothly—don’t worry.”
