Chapter Seven Alex
The sound of wind battering my windows snaps me out of a surprisingly deep slumber.
I frown as I sit up and the events of last night start flooding my mind with irritating clarity.
The meal – the bloody Christmas meal – and the Board infiltrating my home, me scowling at Luca from across the table when he decided to play a seemingly never-ending medley of Christmas music, Noelle and her apron and those damn gingerbread cookies, and—
Noelle.
I shoot up in bed as my thoughts focus in with laser precision on my personal chef.
My personal chef who didn’t leave last night.
I jump out of bed and peer out of the nearest window.
The glass is mostly frosted over, but I can still make out a swirling sea of white in the distance.
Snowflakes dance in the air, and a thick blanket of snow covers everything for miles in every direction.
I scan my drive quickly, not that it does any good.
The snow is whipping itself up into a flurry and I can barely see a few metres ahead.
What I can see is untouched white snow. There’s not a tyre track in sight.
She must’ve left at the crack of dawn for the snow to have covered any trace of the tracks by now. Was she able to fix whatever it was that was wrong with her car, or did she somehow manage to cajole a mechanic into coming out in the early hours of the morning to tow her away?
Neither option is preferable right now. It’s clear that nobody should be out on the road in this. As if to prove my point, a particularly violent gust of icy wind lashes at a tree and, with a loud crack, a thick branch snaps off and careens to the floor in a cloud of white powder.
I suppose I could’ve been nicer about it all, I reason to myself as I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.
Last night, I mean. I didn’t have to make my discomfort so obvious that Noelle would rush out in the middle of a storm just because I’d only promised her one night of haven in my home.
I could have – how does Luca put it? Right, that’s it.
I could’ve been less of a miserable prick and told her that she was, of course, free to stay as long as she needed and that her safety was my priority.
Like a perfectly rational human being would have said.
Well, no. A perfectly rational human being would’ve thanked her for her hard work last night.
Would’ve told her that, hideous apron aside, she did a brilliant job and I value and appreciate the time and effort she puts into her work for me.
Would’ve done anything but lightly antagonise the woman who is single-handedly responsible for 80 per cent of my Board members no longer thinking I’m – to use Luca’s verbiage one last time – a miserable prick.
Therese has already emailed enquiring whether Noelle would be willing to cater our annual summer gala for investors and signed said email with a cheerful, ‘Can’t wait to hit the slopes—you’ll have to join us next year!
’ and I think I’ve somehow managed to agree to sponsor one of Brian’s kids for some charitable event or other.
I do have to admit it – Luca was right. The evening did exactly what he’d suggested it would – Grinch cookie aside – and I’d categorise the atmosphere amongst myself and my Board as tentatively jovial.
Not including Wilbur, of course, who spent most of the evening sharing his vaguely mutinous schemes but, for a first attempt, I’d say things went well.
I’m no longer dreading our first Board meeting in January.
I wish I could say the same for my first interaction with Noelle in the new year.
I briefly consider emailing her to check that she’s got home safely, but I dismiss the idea as quickly as it comes.
A vision of Noelle and her barely concealed disdain towards me last night jumps to the forefront of my mind.
The way her eyes would narrow ever so slightly whenever she thought I wasn’t looking, the tension that coiled between us as she lapped up the praise and attention from the rest of my Board.
No, I’m fairly certain the last thing Noelle wants right now is to see an email from me lighting up her phone screen.
Not least because of the fact that it’s almost Christmas, and that might not mean much to me but I know Noelle is eager to get into the Christmas spirit, whatever the hell that means.
All I know is, the sight of my name flashing across her screen might cause a panic-induced heart attack.
I do my best to shake off the lingering guilt I’m feeling and make my way downstairs. I should be used to the silence, but today it reverberates through the house like a drumbeat with each step I take. An irritating reminder of the consequences of my stubborn actions.
The kitchen door is slightly ajar and I nudge it open, intent on grabbing a slice of toast before I migrate to my office and get a head start on some of the Q2 forecasts for next year.
And then I freeze.
Noelle is sitting at my kitchen table, tension carving deep lines on her forehead as she cradles a bowl of cereal, spooning it into her mouth with mechanical movements while her other hand swipes across her phone screen.
It’s… it’s jarring to see her sitting here, like a scene from a domestic dream I would never admit to having.
She’s wearing some of my old university tracksuit bottoms rolled up at the ankles, and a hoodie that’s much too big for her, sleeves bunched up at her elbows but still swallowing her hands.
I watch as she lifts a hand and tucks a stray braid behind her ear, a soft sigh falling from her pursed lips.
The unexpected wave of attraction hits me like a sucker punch to the chest and—
Noelle glances up. ‘Oh…’ She inclines her head in my direction. It’s a shadow of a nod more than anything else. ‘Morning.’
Morning, she says.
Good morning, I should respond.
That’s the correct response. The polite response. I know it is. But instead, my voice gruffer than I intended, all I say is, ‘What’re you doing here?’
Her brows lift momentarily in displeasure before she schools her expression into something more neutral.
‘Have you looked outside lately? No way I could drive back in this.’ Her words hang between us, an explanation offered up with a shrug of resignation.
‘The Met Office is saying we should stay put if we can. We’re officially snowed-in. ’
‘But your car…’ I start, glancing out the nearest window.
‘It’s still out there,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Somewhere under that new glacier in your drive.’
I press closer to the glass and squint past the frosty veil.
She’s right. There it is – a barely distinguishable shape beneath a shroud of white.
Her car has been disguised as just another mound in the winter wasteland that my drive has become overnight.
I step away from the window and, despite my best efforts, I can’t help but linger on Noelle for a little longer.
I realise the sweats are too big for her too, the waistband rolled several times around her waist. The grey fabric simultaneously swallows her up and accentuates her soft curves in a way I desperately, desperately, need to avoid dwelling on.
‘And this?’ I ask, gesturing vaguely in her direction. ‘You’re wearing—’
She glances down as if she’s forgotten what’s currently clinging to her skin.
As if just the sight of her in my old clothes isn’t currently driving me mad.
‘Oh. Right. The heater in the guest room gave up on me halfway through the night. It was either this or freeze to death.’ She shrugs with a carefully feigned nonchalance, but I catch a fleeting glimpse of something that looks suspiciously like vulnerability before she busies herself with another spoonful of Cheerios.
‘You should’ve said something,’ I say, even as I know exactly why she wouldn’t. ‘I could’ve fixed it or found you some extra blankets.’
She sets her spoon down, her brows creasing as she chews on her bottom lip, like she can see through me perfectly. After a second or two, she mutters, ‘I still would’ve needed clothes.’
Still would’ve needed – what?
‘What I mean—’ My voice gets stuck in my throat, and I have to hastily clear it. ‘What happened to the clothes you were wearing last night?’
Noelle arches a brow. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks I can’t quite account for. ‘They got damp last night in the snow. I didn’t want to put them back on after I showered, so…’ She trails off and shrugs. ‘And I didn’t want to bother you, so…’
My chest almost tightens at her words.
Bother.
I study her for a long moment, watching the way her eyes dart away from me, the slight tension in her shoulders, the stiffness to her jaw.
Bother.
I’m suddenly struck by the inexplicable urge to assure her that she could never be any kind of inconvenience to me – the exact opposite is true when it comes to her, if we’re being honest – but the words lodge in my throat, leaving a silence that hangs awkwardly between us.
I take a step closer to the table and clear my throat. ‘I wanted to say…’ I start. My words hang, suspended in the chilly air. ‘You’re know you’re not… I mean, you couldn’t be…’
Her hazel eyes meet mine and I’m sure I spy a flicker of curiosity dancing across them. I feel the confession swelling in my chest, ready to finally bridge this forced gap between us. But then it sticks, stubborn in my throat, and all that escapes is, ‘What’s for breakfast?’
A sudden burst of laughter erupts from her and cuts through the tension.
I’ve never heard her laugh like this before.
I’m painfully familiar with the dry scoff, complete with an eye-roll, she’s thrown my way a few times, and even the nervous giggle she let out at dinner last night, but this? This feels different.
It resonates somewhere deep within me, warming me from the inside like a sip of aged whiskey.
‘Breakfast?’ she echoes, leaning back on her stool with a smirk. ‘I’m off duty. If you want something you’ll have to figure it out yourself. Or…’ She cocks her head to the side and shoots me a daring look. Like she’s begging me to challenge her. ‘You’ve got my bank details.’
It’s not a quite a laugh that splutters out of my throat, but it’s close. ‘Are you implying that I need to pay you to cook for me?’
‘That is the basis of our entire relationship, yes.’
‘While you’re staying at my home for free?’ I finish.
Her lips twitch but she manages to keep the moderately unimpressed expression fixed across her face. ‘Are you implying that if I don’t make you three square meals a day, you’ll kick me out and leave me to freeze to death out there?’
There’s a playful glint in her eye and it hits me, a second delayed, that she’s toying with me.
Teasing me, even. Like we’re old friends and this kind of easy back and forth is commonplace between us.
I’m not sure how to respond, but it feels like she’s thrown me a ball and is tentatively watching to see if I’ll toss it back her way.
I open my mouth, ready to respond. Ready to finally chip away at this wall between us and take the first step towards a new kind of relationship with Noelle.
But then my watch vibrates and I instinctively glance down.
The word URGENT jumps out at me from the small email preview on the tiny screen and I let out a groan.
HoxTech is branching into the phone market in the new year for the first time, and every step of the way has been met with problem after problem.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I murmur under my breath as I scan through the email as it scrolls up my watch face.
There’s been a leak, and a tech blogger somewhere in America is gleefully tweeting out sneak peeks of the phone.
An irritating problem, but nothing too dissimilar from the ones I’ve dealt with over the years.
‘Sorry,’ Noelle says suddenly, her voice several degrees cooler than it was before.
I glance up to find her scraping back her stool, any trace of a smirk wiped completely from her face.
Now this?
This is familiar territory. She’s looking at me with thinly veiled dislike, and it’s obvious she can’t wait to put several feet between us again.
‘Sorry?’ I repeat, confused and half distracted by the flurry of emails I can see coming through via my watch. ‘What’re you—’
‘I promised I’d keep out of your way, and…’ She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Here I am. In your way. Give me two minutes to wash up here and then I promise you won’t see me again.’
I’m not entirely sure how we got here, but she doesn’t give me a chance to question the sudden change. Doesn’t even take the two minutes she asked for before she’s striding out of the kitchen, head held high and without a backwards glance in my direction.
I’m not sure why, but I get the distinct feeling that I’ve messed up.