Chapter Eight Noelle
‘It could be worse.’
‘How?’ I groan as I kick the bedroom door shut behind me and drop down onto my bed with the kind of dramatic flourish you’d expect from a teenager. ‘Please tell me how exactly it could be worse.’
Eve chews thoughtfully on a slice of toast before shrugging. ‘You could be stuck on the side of the road.’ She pauses and shoots me a pointed look. ‘You know, freezing to death.’
‘Don’t tempt me with a good time,’ I mutter, trying desperately to ignore the fact that she does have a good point. On paper, being holed up in Hoxton’s home while we wait for the storm to pass is definitely the best-case scenario here. But in reality…
‘It’s just so awkward,’ I continue with a grimace.
Every attempt I’ve made to bridge the gap between us and soften some of the tension in the air has been met with a blank stare, like he’s committed to keeping me at arm’s length.
I’d be offended by it if I hadn’t seen, first hand, that this is just how he treats most people.
But still, we’re shacked up together for at least another twenty-four hours; according to the Met Office alert still running across every banner on every news channel, people are ‘strongly advised’ to stay at home.
The least Hoxton could do is be a little more hospitable.
Crack a smile. Laugh at one of my jokes.
Do absolutely anything other than commit to the whole ‘miserable prick’ persona he’s insisted on adopting.
‘I thought we were getting somewhere this morning, but even that ended in him rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath when I tried to make a joke.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t a very funny joke.’
If looks could kill, Eve would be a dead woman right now. ‘Whose side are you on?’
‘Yours,’ she laughs. ‘Always yours. You know that. I’m just saying, things could be worse. Have you seen the news, or even scrolled through any socials today?’
I wince, knowing that once again, she does have a point.
A quick doomscroll through my various social media feeds while I was eating breakfast confirmed that, overnight, chaos has unfolded all across the country.
Every other post seemed to be a report of massive traffic pile-ups, power outages and people, weighed down with Christmas shopping, stuck on crowded trains.
And that’s not to mention the videos people have posted of the wind battering their gardens, sending trampolines flying and tree branches falling to the ground.
A sudden gust of wind rattles the windows loud enough for Eve to hear through the phone and we exchange a nervous glance.
The storm shows absolutely no sign of letting up anytime soon.
But while being stuck in Hoxton’s home seems like a luxury compared to the havoc outside, the thought of spending another day trapped inside with just him for company feels suffocating.
‘Have you seen the tree yet?’ Eve asks suddenly, her eyes lighting up.
It’s an obvious change of topic, but I’m grateful for it.
I need something to take my mind off the increasingly gloomy train of thought I’ve headed into.
Eve doesn’t wait for me to answer before she’s leaping up and tearing across Gran’s house.
I get brief glimpses of bleary-eyed cousins and aunts and uncles as she dashes through the halls.
‘They put the finishing touches on it last night, and… Voila!’ She steadies her camera in front of her and I get my first glimpse of this year’s tree.
At seven foot high, it stands tall and proud in the corner of the living room.
Its branches are practically bowing under the weight of an endless stream of Christmas decorations and sparkling fairy lights.
Every bit of tension and irritation I’ve been carrying since I woke this morning melts away as I spot some of decorations clearly added by the younger members of our family.
There’s a plastic dinosaur perched precariously on one branch, wearing a tiny Santa hat, a sock puppet with mismatched googly eyes peeking out from behind a cluster of tinsel, and right at the very top of the tree in place of the traditional star or angel, is a pine cone absolutely dripping in glitter.
In the background I spot a gaggle of my baby cousins running through the hall, quickly followed by Gran hollering half-heartedly after to them, ‘Slow down before you break something!’
‘Oh Noelle,’ Eve breathes suddenly. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying,’ I sniff, blinking away the tears before they can spill. ‘I’m just… it’s just, what if I don’t make it to you guys for Christmas?’
It sounds ridiculous to admit it out loud – childish even – but that question has been festering in the back of my mind since last night.
What if I don’t make it home? Christmas has always been a huge deal in my family.
We’ve never been the type of family to come together during the summer for barbecues and games at the park, and we’re far too spread out across the country for the majority of us to turn up at birthdays or christenings or any other special occasions with any kind of regularity.
Christmas is all we have. The one time of the year everyone has unanimously agreed to set aside for family, and I love it.
I love catching up with my cousins and sitting by the fireplace listening to and sharing a year’s worth of drama.
I love waking up on Christmas morning to the smell of cinnamon and spices wafting through the house and watching all the little cousins tear into their gifts with megawatt grins on their faces.
Even Mum and Aunt Valerie’s eternal feud has carved itself into the backbone of Christmas, and the thought of missing it is genuinely enough to make my vision blur.
‘You will,’ Eve says firmly, even as the wind howls in the background. ‘Trust me, by tomorrow morning this storm will have broken and you’ll be on your way.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’ I ask, brow raised because someone has to be a realist right now.
It feels weird being on this side of things.
Our relationship for the last twenty-odd years has been reassuringly steady: Eve is the resident drama queen and I’m the constant voice of reason, steadfastly reassuring and logical.
Eve shoots me a weak grin. ‘Like I said, there are worse things than being cooped up with your sexy boss.’
‘Client.’ I roll my eyes. ‘And in any other situation, sure. But it’s Christmas—’
‘It’s December 22nd,’ Eve mutters.
‘And he,’ I continue, pointedly raising my voice and ignoring her smirk, ‘is quite possibly the most miserable person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. Saint Nick himself couldn’t coax any Christmas joy out of that man.’
‘Maybe that’s what you’re here for,’ Eve says sagely, wiggling her brows just a little too suggestively for my liking. ‘Let some of your festive spirit rub off on him.’
‘And how am I supposed to do that?’
She shrugs. ‘Get creative.’
Despite everything, that gets a snort out of me. ‘He’s got a cinnamon scented stick up his ass when it comes to Christmas. I swear, I just want to wipe that smirk off his face.’
Memories of last night flood my mind. Hoxton glaring daggers at me from the head of the table, his eyes zeroing in on my apron and the plate of Christmas cookies in my hands.
The way he refused to even crack a smile when the others were belting out Christmas tunes.
The barely concealed sneer when I dared mention it being a white Christmas.
Just the thought of it twists my lips into a frown.
‘Put Hoxton and the Grinch in a room, and even the Grinch would say he’s doing too much.’
Eve’s loud cackle in response is drowned out by the sound of something thudding. For a moment, I think it’s the storm outside upending another branch or sending a rock hurling across Hoxton’s drive, but then I hear it again.
It’s a little muffled this time – hesitant, even.
‘I’ll call you back,’ I murmur to Eve, hang up the call before she has the chance to protest, and pad to the door.
Just as I wrap my fingers around the door handle, I hear it for the third and final time.
As I feared, someone is knocking on my door.
And, unless things are about to take a very dire turn, there’s only one person it could be.
‘Yes?’ I ask as I yank open the door and find Hoxton looming over me once again.
I notice several things right away: there’s a slight flush to his cheeks, his eyes refuse to meet mine and – and this is definitely the most pressing issue right now – he’s got a pile of clothes neatly folded in his arms.
Before I have the chance to question it, Hoxton shoves the pile straight into my chest. ‘Here,’ he says gruffly, still determinedly staring anywhere but at me.
I stumble backwards slightly under the new weight in my arms. A quick once-over shows that he’s handed me a pile of cosy-looking sweats, all in varying shades of black, blue and grey.
I shift onto one foot and the movement is enough to jostle the pile and a familiar, vanilla-tinged and oddly comforting scent wafts towards me.
The urge to lean forward, bury my face in the fabric, and take a deep, deep inhale creeps up on me with surprising fierceness.
‘Thought you might need these,’ Hoxton says, his voice breaking the sudden silence that has blanketed itself over us.
His usual stoic facade is in place, but there’s a softness in his eyes that definitely wasn’t there before.
‘The ones you’re wearing have been in that drawer for God knows how long.
They should be clean, but I—’ He shrugs, still refusing to meet my eye.
‘I thought these might be more comfortable.’ Every word that falls from his lips sounds stiff, almost robotic.
Like he’s following a badly written script and he’s afraid to go off page.
A hot flash of panic suddenly shoots through me as I realise that Hoxton probably – most definitely – heard the tail end of my call with Eve.