Chapter Eight Noelle #2
Put Hoxton and the Grinch in a room together, and even the Grinch would say he’s doing too much.
Hot shame crawls up my body. Oh God.
But he doesn’t look mad, offended or even mildly irritated. The look on his face is more akin to the one last night, when I flung open the kitchen door and barrelled straight into his chest. He looks almost… shy?
I choke down the snort that threatens to bubble out of my throat, dismissing that thought as quickly as it came. Hoxton and shy are two words that just don’t mix.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I step back into the room to drop the clothes onto the bed. I glance over my shoulder and find he’s still lingering in the doorway, like he’s not sure if he should come in or not.
A flash of something that looks like panic but couldn’t possibly be darts over his features, before he seemingly makes a decision and remains awkwardly in the hall.
I watch, amused as he rolls back onto his heels and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets.
If it weren’t for the violent whooshing of the storm outside, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to hear the gears turning in his head.
‘This is your house,’ I say, more to break the silence than anything else.
He shoots me a quizzical look.
‘And, as far as I know, you’re not a vampire.’
The look intensifies.
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. It’s a genuine one, not the dry huff of irritation I’ve come to associate with being in Hoxton’s presence. ‘You can come in,’ I clarify, deciding to throw him a bone. ‘If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to just wait out there.’
His brows shoot into his hairline and, for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to deny wanting to come in at all, but then he clears his throat and takes exactly one step over the threshold into my room.
His gaze roves over my still-unmade bed, the pile of damp clothes I unceremoniously dumped in the corner of the room last night, before coming up to finally – finally – meet my eye.
‘Glad to see you’re making yourself at home. ’
I narrow my eyes at him, not entirely sure how to interpret his words.
Twenty-four hours ago, and I definitely would’ve seen them as a slight.
Would’ve described the slight curl to his lips as nothing but a downright sneer.
But now I think I see a faint shadow of amusement there, and I definitely don’t sense any hostility.
I think, once again, that Hoxton is doing his best attempt at a joke.
My mind flashes back to this morning in the kitchen, when we’d been getting along decently before I said something to turn his mood upside down.
I’m still not entirely sure what I did or why it bothered him so much but it’s clear this – the clothes, the almost smile – is his way of making amends. A peace offering of sorts.
I suppose I can meet him halfway.
‘You mean you don’t provide a maid service?
’ I ask, cocking my head to the side in faux shock.
I stick out a hand and start listing things off using my fingers.
‘So that’s no maid and the heater’s out.
I think you should probably add the hospitality industry to the list of things you should avoid if you ever go broke. ’
A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t quite laugh. Though I think it’s close. ‘No danger of that.’
‘Mm,’ I hum. ‘Well, aren’t you lucky.’
We lapse into a silence but it’s not uncomfortable or tinged with any of the tension from before. For the first time in the two years that I’ve known him, the air between us feels light and breezy.
Hoxton opens his mouth, then closes it, opens it again and eventually huffs out a gruff, ‘I’ll take a look at the heater, by the way.’
I raise a brow and he mirrors my expression.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. Apparently too quickly, from the way his eyes narrow. ‘You just… you don’t really seem like an “I’ll take a look” kind of guy. You know, the type to roll your sleeves up and get dirty?’
His lips thin into an unimpressed line. ‘And what type do I seem like instead?’
Hoxton seems like the ‘I’ve got a guy’ type of guy.
The kind of person with a never-ending list of people he can call and throw money at, at a whim, to sort out whatever problem it is he’s got.
But I can’t say that, can I? So instead, I shrug and try to imagine Hoxton on his hands and knees, wearing one of his expensive suits, trying to figure out the plumbing, and this image alone is enough to bring on the threat of laughter.
‘The type of guy to pay people to do stuff like this for you?’
‘We’re in the middle of a snowstorm, Noelle.’
I flick back through my memories of the last twenty-four hours, trying to pinpoint exactly when he dropped the Ms Jones he’s steadfastly used for the last two years, and why it doesn’t bother me at all.
‘And I’m very capable of getting my hands dirty.’
It’s an innocent-enough phrase, but the way he says it? His voice has dropped to an almost purr and his eyes are hooded with something I can’t place. Something hot.
I take a jerky step backwards, the back of my knees hitting the edge of the bed.
‘Really?’
He takes a step closer to me and I know I’m not imagining it now. His eyes are slightly darker.
He nods. ‘I’ve never had any complaints before.’
I suddenly can’t help but wonder if the guest room is for special guests. Hoxton doesn’t seem the type to cuddle with a partner after the act, but I also can’t see him throwing them out at 3am.
Stop it, Noelle, I mentally scold myself. He’s still staring at you.
I swallow. Something in the atmosphere between us has changed. We’re on new ground now.
A branch suddenly slams against the window, sending a shower of snow careening down to the ground with a loud thud and we both jump apart. I hadn’t even realised we’d moved so close.
Hoxton blinks several times, like he’s snapping himself out of a trance, and I realise, belatedly, that my lips have parted and my chest is heaving.
He takes another step backwards, clearing his throat as he goes. ‘I’ll come back and take a look at it later.’
‘Right. Yeah. Later.’
He looks at me one last time before turning on his heel. I expect him to disappear out into the dark corridor without a second glance, but he hesitates in the doorway and turns around. ‘The Grinch gets a bad rep.’
I look up so fast, I’m surprised I don’t get whiplash. Hoxton is standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, glancing back at me with a look I can’t quite place. Any trace of heat or want from a few seconds ago is long gone, replaced by something that looks almost sad.
Ah, shit. ‘You heard that?’
He nods.
Double shit. ‘Listen, I didn’t—’
‘Have a nice day, Noelle,’ Hoxton says before he disappears out into the hall.
The idea of a misunderstood Grinch haunts me for the rest of the day. Along with the memory of Hoxton’s crestfallen face as he stood in the doorway.
‘I can’t be the first person to call him that,’ I mumble to myself as I deftly tilt the wok, watching as the chicken begins to sizzle and brown amongst the vegetables already cooking inside it.
My stir-fry isn’t a particularly complex meal, but it’s delicious and has become a fast favourite amongst my friends over the years. ‘He has to know how he comes across.’
The Grinch gets a bad rep.
I groan as I start turning the noodles, making sure everything is mixed and cooked. I have no doubt in my mind that Hoxton knows exactly how he comes across; I just think I might be the first person to say it to his face.
Well. Not to his face. He was eavesdropping after all. But still.
The Grinch gets a bad rep.
I get a bad rep.
That’s what he wanted to say, I’m sure of it.
I take the wok off the stove and start separating the contents into two bowls. Hoxton’s face – that sad little grimace, the self-depreciating way he turned and disappeared – I can’t get it out of my mind.
He looked almost hurt. Like the idea of me comparing him to the Grinch of all things cut him to his core.
‘I’m a nice person,’ I reassure myself as I balance both bowls in my hands and make my way towards the living room.
I’m wearing my Christmas-themed apron and my car boot is filled with presents for the family I should be with right now.
I’m not the problem here. Hoxton is. And yet, I can’t help the guilt I’m currently feeling.
It’s empty in here, but I set both bowls on the coffee table and then stomp upstairs, making as much noise as physically possible so I can’t be accused of snooping around.
I’ve not seen Hoxton since he left my room this afternoon, and the only proof I have that he hasn’t abandoned me and run off into the snowstorm has been the occasional cough or the sound of his footsteps creaking against the hardwood flooring throughout the day.
I’ve alternated between darting from my bedroom to the kitchen, taking solace downstairs whenever the cold in my room got too much.
The upper-floor landing is dark, but there’s a light coming from a closed door several rooms away from me and I hover outside it for a few seconds. Something gnaws at my stomach and I recognise the feeling as guilt. I shake my head, lift my chin, and steel my shoulders.
Now it’s my turn for a peace offering.
I wrap my knuckles on the door three times and then listen out. I hear the sound of his chair creaking and then—
‘Come in?’
It sounds more like a question than anything else and, despite everything, I can’t help but huff out a quiet laugh. I doubt he’s ever had to utter those words in his own empty home before.
Hoxton’s office is just like his living room: dark and sleek with a large oak desk cutting across the middle of the room.
He’s sat behind the desk in an impossibly expensive leather chair, an orange lamp beside him bathing him in a warm glow.
Behind him, there’s a window, and the snow is falling into little tornado-like flurries.