Chapter Nine Noelle #2
I take one out, a delicate pastel pink one wrapped in a paper that promises ‘relaxation’ in bold black letters and I press it lightly between my fingers.
It’s soft, delicate. It doesn’t feel like it’s been used.
None of them do. I peer around some more and try to see if there are any half-opened bath bombs, but they’re all neatly packed away as if he just brought them home from the store and hasn’t touched them since.
What is he waiting for?
A moment of peace and quiet that never comes?
Are these rows and rows of bath bombs just wishful thinking on his behalf, or maybe they’re a gift?
That makes a little more sense. Maybe he’s got a headstrong aunt somewhere who sends him the same birthday gift year on year and Hoxton doesn’t have the heart to simply throw them out.
Yeah, that’s it. That’s got to be it. Because why else would someone like him – someone so impeccably sharp, cold, and distant – have so many bloody bath bombs? It’s almost… humanising.
I snort quietly to myself, realising I’m actually starting to understand Hoxton a little bit better, even if it’s just based on the fact that he apparently has a secret soft spot for bath bombs.
It’s not a side of him I’d have expected to see, considering how private and guarded he is about everything else.
But then, I catch myself.
What the hell am I doing?
The second the thought crosses my mind, I quickly stuff the bath bomb back into its place, pretending like I wasn’t just having a small existential crisis over the fact that Hoxton maybe has something resembling self-care in his life. But the discovery doesn’t feel like something I can just ignore.
I move on, trying to pretend like I’m not already a little too invested in the mystery that is Alexander Hoxton.
I don’t know why, but something about this room feels like an inadvertent invitation.
Like Hoxton never meant for anyone to see this side of him, but I’ve somehow stumbled into it anyway.
He’s always so composed, so businesslike, it’s strange to see these small human moments sprinkled around his house like breadcrumbs; like he might need to relax, to unwind, to indulge in little luxuries at some point.
If he’ll ever let himself.
I stand up straight, take a last, lingering look at the clawfoot tub and then turn to leave. When I step out into the hall again, it feels noticeably colder than before. Like the paralysing chill from my room has seeped out and is steadily infecting the rest of the house.
Damn it.
I glance down the hall at the door right at the end. That’s got to be his room, right? I shuffle towards it, duvet still wrapped tightly around me like some marshmallow-esque gown, and rap my knuckles against the door to the rhythm of ‘Your heater sucks, and so does my mood.’
I wait a beat, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
A small part of me actually hopes this isn’t his room and I’ll get another opportunity to snoop around and learn something new about my unwilling host. But then the door swings open, revealing a yawning Hoxton looking as dishevelled as a man worth millions can possibly look at one in the morning.
So, not really dishevelled at all, but his dark hair is sticking up in every direction, and his eyes – usually dark and piercing – seem softer and clouded with sleep.
He stares at me, unblinking, for a few seconds and then asks, ‘Is something wrong?’ His voice is rough with sleep and, despite my annoyance at this whole ridiculous situation, I can’t help but find the groggy tone irritatingly attractive.
‘Add “heater repair” to the list of fields you probably shouldn’t go into anytime soon,’ I say, injecting as much humour as I can into my tone, despite the fact that I’m rapidly losing feeling in my toes.
When Hoxton continues to stare at me, dumbfounded, I add, ‘My room’s turned into a walk-in freezer. ’
He stands there for a moment, blinking the sleep from his eyes like he’s batting away snowflakes caught on his long lashes. ‘Come again?’
Now it’s my turn to blink at him. Because those are most definitely two words I don’t want to hear from him when he currently looks and sounds like that.
Something warm and tight coils in the pit of my stomach as my mind starts unhelpfully racing with thoughts of scenarios where he might repeat those two words to me.
‘Noelle?’
The use of my name snaps me back to reality and I pray to whichever deity is currently looking out for me – apparently, none – that my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
‘The heater you allegedly fixed earlier today stopped working,’ I say, tugging the duvet around myself a little tighter. ‘I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news but I can’t sleep in there.’
Hoxton rubs at the back of his neck and squints down the dark hall, as if the act of focusing might somehow repair the broken heater telepathically. ‘That’s… that’s unfortunate,’ he says after a moment or two, the edges of sleep still clinging to his voice in that distractingly attractive way.
‘Very,’ I say. ‘Is there another room I can sleep in? Another guest room? Or I guess I could take the sofa.’
Hoxton shakes his head. ‘I only have the one guest room.’
A house this big and only two of the rooms are capable of housing someone for the night? Insane.
‘Okay…’ I say slowly. The yoga mats in the gym are starting to look worryingly enticing. ‘I guess… the sofa, then?’
I grimace as I remember the abomination in his living room. I’m sure it cost thousands upon thousands of pounds, but I’d pick my cheap and fluffy IKEA sofa over his rigid leather one any day. Needs must, though.
Hoxton steps fully into the doorway. His gaze drops to my bare feet, which are still most definitely freezing from the icy hallway floors. His eyes flicker up to meet mine and a faint frown creases his forehead.
‘I’m not sure the living room will be much of an improvement on your room,’ he says, voice still rough. ‘And it won’t exactly be comfortable.’
I raise an eyebrow at him, my mind already working through various snarky responses.
Something like ‘better than freezing to death in there!’ But something in his tone makes me hesitate.
It’s like he’s trying to be… considerate?
Which feels weird coming from him. Very weird.
But then again, it is Hoxton, and apparently nothing he does is ever quite what it seems.
‘Well, I’m not exactly spoiled for choice here,’ I say, forcing a half-smile, though I don’t know why I’m even trying to lighten the mood.
The situation’s ridiculous. And, most importantly, not my fault.
I’m a guest here. Technically. Where is his sense of hospitality?
‘So, what do you suggest I do? Just camp out in the gym? Use one of those yoga mats?’
Hoxton looks momentarily startled and I cringe inwardly.
Damn it. Wasn’t planning on admitting to snooping around.
I watch as his gaze flicks between my still-shivering form and the hallway beyond.
Then he sighs and rubs the back of his neck again.
‘I suppose… I mean, it’s only fair – you can stay here for the night.
’ And then he steps aside and gestures into his room.
I blink, stunned by the offer. I mean, I heard him, but it takes a moment for the words to fully register.
I probably look as surprised as I feel, because Hoxton doesn’t strike me as the type to invite anyone into his personal space – I’m still running with the theory that any ‘late-night’ visitors take the guest room.
But here he is, suppressing a yawn as he waits for me to enter the most personal room in his house.
Another chill suddenly hits the both of us and Hoxton visibly shudders. I wasn’t imagining things. It is getting colder in here. He raises a silent brow at me and I nod stiffly, not needing to be told twice.
I shuffle past him, duvet still wrapped tightly around myself, and immediately feel every muscle in my body begin to relax.
The warmth from Hoxton’s room floods every single one of my senses, and it’s all I can do not to moan in pleasure.
It’s like stepping into a different world entirely – one that doesn’t feel as cold and clinical as the rest of the house.
The room is spacious, minimalist and undeniably his.
Everything is dark wood, clean lines and sharp angles, just like his living room, but there’s something about it that feels more comfortable than the rest of the house.
I let out a quiet sigh of relief, my impromptu duvet cocoon still wrapped around me like a safety net. But then, it hits me.
I glance around, and the realisation slams into me a split second before I can stop it.
Wait.
This isn’t just any old room in Hoxton’s home… This is his bedroom.
There’s a bed. A massive king-sized bed covered in a thick, incredibly warm-looking duvet, and a surprising number of plush pillows.
The silence in the room suddenly becomes deafening, the only sound the soft hum of the heating system, as I realise that we’re going to have to share it.
A sudden flush crawls up my neck, heat rushing to my face as the awkwardness settles in.
Hoxton’s offer is kind, sure. But has he considered the implication of what he’s offering here?
Has he even thought about the fact that this is his bed?
I’ve been invited into his most private space, the one place in this house that doesn’t belong to the meticulous, businesslike persona he puts on for everyone else.
And I’m expected to sleep in it?
With him?!
Roland was wrong. Hoxton’s at no risk from an aneurysm, but I definitely am right now.
‘Um…’ I say, forcing myself to break the silence, but the words stick in my throat and it comes out sounding like a gargled cough. ‘So… the bed?’