Chapter Three Noelle
I’m putting the finishing touches on the appetiser – a sweet and indulgent cranberry honey baked brie – when I hear the sound of the gates bordering Hoxton’s home creaking open.
From the window, I watch as a sleek black car rolls into Hoxton’s driveway, disturbing the fluffy blanket of fresh white snow.
The door opens and out steps an equally sleek and dashing-looking gentleman.
Hoxton comes striding out of the front door with remarkable speed and an unexpected pang of irritation shoots through me.
Not once over the course of the last two years has Hoxton ever come out to greet me directly.
I suppose he saves that honour for men dressed in stylish grey suits who stand with all the confidence of someone who knows he’s important.
And the man I’m watching him greet right now definitely fits that description.
I watch as Hoxton claps his guest on the shoulder and pulls him into a stiff hug, like the action isn’t something he’s quite used to just yet and he’s forcing it a little.
The man breaks out into a wide grin, his shoulders shaking slightly as he says something I can’t hear.
Whatever it is, it makes Hoxton’s lips turn down at the corners into a familiar scowl.
There we go.
That’s the man I know. Grumpy. Brusque. Borderline rude.
Much better.
I lose sight of them as they head inside the house, so I turn my attention back to the meal.
Without tooting my own horn too much, I’m pretty excited about tonight.
I’ve worked on several Christmas menus for clients this holiday season, but Hoxton was the last client I’d expected to get a request from.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve put a teensy bit more effort into Hoxton’s menu than I usually do.
I’m serving a feast that incorporates traditional Christmas flavours with a modern twist: alongside the brie, I’ve prepared rosemary and garlic pork loin, honey-roasted Brussels sprouts, cheesy potatoes au gratin, and a phenomenal cranberry pear tart.
To top it all off, I’ve got some Christmas cookies and I’ve also made my favourite dessert as a festive extra – a spiced rum pumpkin cake that’s been a family recipe for decades.
My grandmother taught me how to make it as a child, and I’ve spent years perfecting my own unique twist on it, adding an almost scientific blend of cinnamon and star anise to the rum mixture.
It’s actually the first time I’ve made it for a client, and I feel a twinge of anxiety at the thought of serving it to Hoxton of all people.
The door to the kitchen suddenly swings open and I tense, expecting to see Hoxton’s scowling form emerging from the doorway.
But it’s not him.
‘Ah, here’s the kitchen.’ The guest who just arrived beams at me as he leans against the nearest wall. He’s got a mess of floppy brown hair and a boyish charm to his features that immediately coaxes out a smile of my own. ‘You must be Noelle.’
I nod in response, not entirely sure what to make of his sudden appearance in my kitchen. I can’t tell whether it’s the way he carries himself or the curious way he’s currently peering around the kitchen, but there’s something refreshingly carefree about this man.
Something that suggests he doesn’t take life as seriously as Hoxton does.
‘And you are…’ I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the blank.
‘Luca.’ He grins at me, his dark eyes sparkling with something I can’t quite place. ‘Luca Fenchurch. It’s great to finally meet the famous Ms Noelle Jones.’
My brows shoot up in surprise before I can temper my reaction. ‘Famous?’
Luca laughs lightly. ‘The way Alex talks about you? I feel like I’m in the presence of a celebrity right now.’
That’s difficult to believe but I play along, assuming Luca is just trying to butter me up in an attempt to get a sneak peek at dinner. ‘And what exactly has Mr Hoxton been saying?’
He shrugs, that easy grin still on his face. ‘Something, some-thing, “culinary genius”. Something, something, “would put Gordon Ramsay to shame”. The usual, you know?’ He leans over the farm table and reaches out for the bowl of crackers I’d set out to snack on while I work.
My cheeks warm at the unexpected compliment.
I’ve never been one to shy away from praise, but this is the second time today I’ve had positive feedback from Hoxton – and neither have come from the man himself.
I’m not sure what to make of that, so I push the conversation onto something other than myself. ‘How do you know Hoxton again?’
Luca pops a cracker into his mouth and chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. ‘We’re friends.’
I barely manage to muffle my snort and Luca is polite enough to pretend like he doesn’t hear it. Hoxton and the word friends just don’t seem to compute in my mind.
‘And we work together,’ he continues, correctly deciphering the sceptical look on my face. ‘At HoxTech. I’m on the Board.’
That makes a lot more sense. I can’t imagine anyone tolerating Hoxton’s icy personality for long enough to genuinely call him a friend without needing some financial incentive to do so.
The door to the kitchen swings open once again and Hoxton appears.
Speak of the devil…
Hoxton pauses for a moment, his gaze flitting from Luca to me before his features settle into his signature scowl. ‘I thought you were going to use the bathroom.’ His tone is almost accusatory. ‘You’ve been in here the whole time?’
‘Got lost,’ Luca says cheerfully. He’s apparently immune to Hoxton’s mannerisms, because his grin doesn’t fade at all under the scrutiny of Hoxton’s glare. In fact, I’m pretty sure it widens. ‘And I was just introducing myself to the lovely Ms Jones.’
The way he says my name is loaded with something unspoken. It reminds me of the way Eve and I speak to each other when we’re trying to gossip in front of other people.
Hell, maybe Hoxton and Luca are friends.
I don’t know who I feel more sorry for. Luca, for having to deal with the constant rain cloud that is Alexander Hoxton, or Hoxton himself for having to cope with someone who seems to be his opposite in every way.
I catch Hoxton’s eye for a brief second. His gaze roves over me before settling on my apron. ‘You do have something to change into, don’t you?’
I force my features into a quizzical frown. ‘Change? Why would I change?’
The muscle in Hoxton’s jaw is surely working overtime right now, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from breaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Luca’s struggling as well.
Hoxton runs a tired hand over his face. ‘The apron. It’s not exactly appropriate, is it?’
I quirk a brow. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘It’s December 21st.’
‘It’s a Christmas meal. I don’t think anyone will complain if I serve them with a little festive cheer.’
‘It’ll be good to have something,’ Luca chimes in. He looks like he’s about one more sentence away from bursting into hysterical laughter. ‘The apron gets my vote.’
I raise a hand. ‘Mine too.’
‘Oof. Sorry, Alex.’ Luca gives Hoxton a faux-sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘Looks like you’ve been outvoted.’
For the second time tonight, Hoxton looks close to having an aneurysm. He glares at Luca, then glares at me, then shoots one last glare in Luca’s direction, before he turns and storms out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance.
As soon as he’s gone, Luca bursts out laughing and I can’t help but join him.
Maybe antagonising the client I already have a tenuous working relationship with isn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, but what the hell.
It’s Christmas.
I quickly learn that Luca is the exception. Hoxton isn’t anywhere near as friendly with the other members of his Board as he is with Luca.
I watch as they all arrive, their fancy cars looking even smarter next to my old banger in the driveway.
Even with the ever-increasing intensity of the snowfall, Hoxton comes out to personally greet them all, just like he did with Luca.
But, unlike with Luca, there are no smiles or hugs, stiff or otherwise, as they climb out of their cars and stumble on the slippery driveway.
He shakes hands with three of them: a tall, snooty-looking woman with greying hair piled high into a bun atop her head, a man in a tailored suit who seems to be permanently attached to his phone, and a younger woman with a hard-edged look in her eyes.
Hoxton simply nods curtly at the fourth guest and, even from the kitchen, I can feel the tension between them sizzling in the air.
I feel an irritating twinge of sympathy towards Hoxton as I watch him lead his guests into the house, his lips thinned into a grim line.
As much as I can’t stand the man, it’s obvious that he’s not on great terms with his Board – Luca excluded – and would rather not have them in his home.
Though, to be fair, it’s pretty clear that they’d all rather be anywhere but here too.
When I enter the dining room, balancing a tray of champagne flutes in my hands, the first thing I notice is just how quiet it is.
There’s no polite conversation. No small talk being exchanged. Even Luca’s smile has dimmed. The wind howling outside and the muffled sound of my Christmas tunes still playing in the kitchen is louder than anything happening in the dining room right now.
It is, quite frankly, incredibly depressing. Hoxton’s dining room is a dark and rarely used area of his home at the best of times, and the lack of any decoration, Christmas or otherwise, doesn’t help to set the mood.
Hoxton’s eyes find mine as soon as I step into the room, and I take a little bit of perverse pleasure in watching them narrow as he realises that I’m still wearing the apron.
He can’t say anything now though, not in front of everyone.
So he settles for just glaring at me. I respond by fixing a bright smile onto my face as I flit around the table and hand his guests their drinks.