Chapter Eight Noelle #3
I open my mouth to speak but then he leans backwards in his chair and I get a proper glimpse of him in the soft amber light.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned muscular arms. I can see the subtle definition of his biceps and the veins that trace the length of his forearms. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed how strong Hoxton is, but there’s something about the low light, the way it wraps around him like it’s a part of him, which makes it impossible to look away.
For a moment, I’m just standing there, frozen in the doorway.
His sharp jawline catches the light, and there’s something almost dangerous in the way he sits so still, his posture like a predator at rest. I should say something – anything – but my mind goes blank.
All I can think about is how… attractive he looks.
It’s not just the way his body fills out his sweatshirt, or the way his strong hands rest on the arms of his chair, but the entire aura around him.
The light catches in his eyes as he glances up at me, and I snap out of my trance, blinking rapidly. He raises an eyebrow, and I’m painfully aware that I’ve been standing here like an idiot.
‘I made dinner,’ I say quickly, before he can put a voice to the clear apprehension that’s painted across his face.
He looks vaguely amused. ‘I thought you were off duty?’
I purse my lips and swallow down the snarky response that immediately comes to sit on my tongue. Peace offering, I remind myself, gritting my teeth and forcing a probably deranged smile. This is a peace offering.
‘I made too much,’ I say with an airy shrug, like a professional chef getting her portion-sizing wrong is a perfectly normal everyday occurrence.
It’s clear Hoxton doesn’t buy it and I expect him to pull me up on it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he mirrors my shrug and pushes himself away from his desk, shutting his laptop as he goes. ‘Thank you.’
I shrug again. ‘Like I said, I made too much. Don’t get used to it.’
He hums as he passes me, his chest brushing against mine in the kind of way that sends a deep warmth shooting through me. ‘Isn’t that lucky?’
‘Very.’
When we reach the living room, instead of making a beeline for the sofa and the bowls on the coffee table, Hoxton fumbles around in a drawer and plucks out a lighter.
I sink into the sofa and watch as he switches off the overhead light and methodically lights several candles dotted around the room.
The action blankets us in that same warm glow Hoxton had in his office and it’s cosy. Intimate even.
He doesn’t move to turn on the television and I don’t reach for the remote either. It’s just the two of us, our shadows flickering in the candlelight.
Hoxton settles down next to me on the sofa, close enough that his legs bump against mine. The borrowed sweats I’m wearing are soft and thick, but I still feel a lick of heat start to bloom where we touch.
We eat in silence, the only sounds filling the room the quiet clinking of our chopsticks against the bowls and occasional howl of the wind.
I use this as another opportunity to observe, stealing glances at Hoxton as he eats, noticing the way his brow is slightly furrowed in concentration, how he chews thoughtfully before swallowing.
His usual demeanour seems softer somehow, more vulnerable in the flickering candlelight.
His features are softened, the shadows playing on his face, making him look less guarded than usual.
I study him and commit to memory the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he smiles after swallowing down a mouthful or how his long fingers wrap around the chopsticks with practised ease.
Hoxton, noticeably less distracted than I am, finishes the last bite in his bowl several minutes before me and sets it down, a satisfied look crossing his features.
‘Thank you,’ he says, his voice soft. ‘You really didn’t have to cook. And—’ He clears his throat before turning his body towards me, his gaze steady. ‘The food was delicious. As usual.’
I freeze, chopsticks still in hand, my heart pounding in my ears.
For a moment, I can’t find my voice. I don’t think Hoxton has ever given me a compliment directly to my face before.
Every bit of praise I’ve ever received from the man has come second-hand, mostly from Roland passing on a paraphrased message.
‘Uh… thank you,’ I manage to stammer out, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. I dip my head and focus on finishing the last few bites in my bowl, suddenly desperate to avoid his intense gaze. ‘Just think of it as a peace offering for the whole Grinch thing.’
Hoxton chuckles and I look up just in time to watch his eyes crinkle in the corners and a tiny dimple form just above his left cheek.
I’m really starting to like that sound, as rare as it is.
Every time it slips from his lips, I want to bury it deep in the recesses of my mind until I’ve committed it to memory and can play it on loop whenever I need to hear it.
‘The biscuit or earlier today?’
I feel my cheeks warm. ‘How about both?’
He laughs again and I can’t help but savour the sound.
‘Consider your offering accepted,’ Hoxton says. ‘Are we even now?’
I nod in agreement, silently grateful for the ease that has quickly settled between us again. The awkwardness is gone, and it’s like we’re two friends enjoying a meal together.
Almost.
The wind is still howling and I let my gaze linger on the winter wonderland outside the nearest window.
‘It really doesn’t feel like Christmas,’ I murmur, more to myself than anything.
‘That’s because it’s December 22nd.’
I laugh. ‘You know what I mean.’
He leans back into the sofa and shrugs. ‘I don’t think I do. Christmas has never been more than just another day to me.’
I can’t help but frown. ‘Even when you were a kid?’
Hoxton’s face tightens ever so slightly. ‘Particularly then. So…’ He nudges my leg with his thigh and I pretend like the touch doesn’t set every nerve ending alight. ‘Enlighten me. What does a Christmas look like for Noelle Jones?’
He’s really got to stop saying my name like that. It’s starting to do something to me.
I shift slightly on the sofa, all too aware of how close we are.
‘Normally, right about now, I’d be heading over to my grandmother’s house to spend Christmas with my family.
’ I shift on my seat until I’m facing him, one leg tucked under the other.
‘I always finish my Christmas shopping by December 1st and that means I can spend the week eating good food and making memories.’ Just the thought of it brings a smile to my face.
‘What would you normally be doing right now?’
Hoxton frowns. ‘How do you mean?’
I gesture around the sparse living room. ‘Obviously you weren’t planning on staying here.’
The corner of his mouth twitches up slightly, like he’s just heard a joke but I’m not privy to it. ‘Obviously?’
I nod and scootch a little closer, closing what little gap there is between us. ‘I know Christmas isn’t your thing…’
He exhales deeply through his nostrils and I laugh.
‘Okay, yes, understatement of the year,’ I concede. ‘But seriously? If aliens invaded right now and knocked on your door, they’d never even know it was Christmas.’
‘I’m not seeing the problem,’ Hoxton says dryly.
I swat his arm gently and roll my eyes. ‘You weren’t really planning on spending the holidays here, were you?’
Hoxton’s face remains a blank canvas.
‘Seriously?’ I ask. ‘Here, alone? Without so much as a fairy light or even a little bit of tinsel to inject any Christmas joy into your life?’
‘Christmas joy is overrated, forced and also—’ Hoxton leans in and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Not a real thing.’
I reel back and pretend to clutch at my chest. ‘Spoken like a true Grinch.’
Hoxton throws his head back and laughs. A real, shoulder-shaking laugh. It rapidly climbs up my list of favourite sounds and nestles itself right at the top. ‘If you say so.’
‘You really were just planning on staying here over the holidays?’ I ask. ‘Alone? What about your family? You guys don’t do anything?’
Hoxton’s smile falters. ‘They usually do something,’ he says slowly, and it’s clear he’s choosing his next words carefully. ‘I believe my mother is hosting this year.’
‘And what?’ I ask, trying to wrap my head around a family dynamic so clearly different to my own. ‘You weren’t invited?’
I know I’m not one to talk, considering I’ve spent the last two years complaining to Eve about what an asshole Hoxton is, but I didn’t think he was that bad.
I feel a small spark of anger light up inside me on his behalf, but it snuffs itself out almost immediately when Hoxton turns a wry grin on me.
‘Of course I was invited,’ he says. ‘I choose not to go.’
Choose. Not chose. Choose. This is a conscious decision he makes every year, not just this once. The idea of missing even one Christmas with my family is enough to make me tear up. How many Christmases has Hoxton deliberately skipped out on over the years? And why?
I can’t help but ask. ‘Why not?’ I know that I’m prying, that I’m getting far too close and any semblance of professionalism or keeping an appropriate distance from my client has disappeared out the window and into the storm about ten minutes ago, but I can’t help myself.
Hoxton shrugs. I can tell it’s supposed to be nonchalant, light and airy, but it comes out stiff and forced. ‘I’m not fond of Christmas.’
I want to push, to get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s caused this hatred of Christmas, but it’s clear Hoxton is reaching his limit with me and my questions, and I don’t want to ruin whatever this is between us right now. Though, to be fair, I think I already have.
His shoulders tense imperceptibly, his jaw clenching slightly as he avoids my gaze.
The casual air that once enveloped us now feels strained and the weight of his unspoken words hangs heavily between us.
Hoxton’s once-relaxed posture stiffens visibly, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly as he shifts slightly in his seat.
Two minutes ago, his gaze was warm and inviting, but now it’s turned distant.
I offer Hoxton a gentle smile before shifting back slightly, putting some distance between us.
I’m not going to push. He can have his secrets.
I clear my throat awkwardly. Hoxton’s distant gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he blinks, as if he’s coming back to reality.
‘Well,’ I start, my voice sounding too loud in the now-quiet room. ‘I should probably let you get some rest. It’s been a long day.’
Hoxton nods, his expression unreadable as he rises from his seat. He reaches for the bowls, but I stick a hand out to stop him.
‘I’ve got it, don’t worry about it.’
He hesitates but then nods as he moves towards the door. ‘I fixed the heater in your room, by the way. Just needed a system reset.’
Relief floods through me and I manage a small, genuine smile in return. ‘Thank you.’
He gives me a half-shrug, as if to say, ‘it’s no big deal’, the same way I did with the dinner, and then disappears down into the hall, leaving me alone in the dimly lit living room.
I sit there for a while, enveloped in the silence that now seems suffocating without his presence. Only once I’m sure he’s upstairs and in his room do I let my head loll back against the headrest and allow a low groan to slip from my lips.
Why does it feel like we’ve taken one step forward today, and at least three back?