Chapter Eleven Alex
Now it’s my turn to stare, dumbfounded, at her.
She wags the wooden spoon in my direction, and there’s a look of what I’ve come to recognise as faux sternness on her face. ‘Come on. You’ve been staring at that screen all day and you’re frowning so hard, I’m worried your face will get stuck that way.’
I give her a wry grin. ‘My mother used to say that when I was younger.’
‘Glad to hear that you’ve always been consistently grumpy and it’s not just a me thing.’
I frown. ‘A you thing?’
She shrugs and gives me a low, self-deprecating kind of laugh. ‘It’s not important.’
I open my mouth to argue – this is absolutely important – but she stops me in my tracks as she strides towards the other end of the kitchen and begins throwing cupboards open and pulling out bowls.
‘What’s important is that you have some fun. Relax a little.’ She glances over her shoulder and wiggles her brows. ‘Get into the Christmas spirit.’
‘It’s December 23rd,’ I parrot for the second time today.
She laughs, and it’s her proper laugh this time. The sound is light and clear, like bells over the howl of the wind outside.
‘Haven’t we already established that, for me, Christmas and all its nonsense encompasses the entirety of December?’ I ask.
Noelle ignores me. Instead, she dips into another cupboard and pulls out the monstrosity of an apron she wore the other night. ‘Here. Put this on.’
I don’t make a move and her smile hardens into something lethal.
‘Hoxton.’
‘Ms Jones.’
She arches a brow and then marches across the room to press the apron into my chest. ‘We’re back to Ms Jones now, are we?’
‘Do you prefer it?’
‘No,’ she says without a trace of hesitation. ‘I definitely prefer Noelle.’
Her voice has dropped to something that’s not quite a whisper, and her fingertips brush against me as she holds the apron against my chest.
I do too, I can’t help but think.
‘But, for the next…’ She trails off and glances up at the clock on the wall. ‘Hour and a half, it’s not Ms Jones or Noelle. It’s Chef.’
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on my lips. ‘Chef?’
She matches my smirk and gives the apron another sharp push into my chest. ‘Exactly. Now, put this on and come and help me.’
Should I be worried about the fact that Noelle ordering me around sends a heady rush of blood straight to my dick? Potentially. I’m not used to being ordered around, but apparently I like it.
I clear my throat, shaking my head slightly to rid my mind of the flurry of increasingly inappropriate thoughts currently flooding it. ‘And what exactly are we doing?’
She raises a brow expectantly.
‘Chef?’ I add.
Noelle beams at me and I swear the sight of her smiling widely is almost blinding. ‘I already told you. You need to have some fun and relax. So, we’re going to bake something.’
‘Because making a tart will solve all my problems?’ I ask, scepticism lacing my words.
‘Maybe not,’ she concedes, ‘but it’ll taste a lot better than eating spreadsheets for hours on end.’
I shake my head and watch as she flits towards the cupboards, her braids swishing behind her as she pulls out all the equipment and ingredients we need. She’s a force of nature, more powerful than the storm raging beyond the walls of my home, and I like it.
I like it a lot.
I stand up, drawn into her orbit as she rummages through my kitchen, and reluctantly pull the apron over my head.
‘I don’t have a word strong enough to describe how much I hate this,’ I grumble as I take in the dancing Santa and the grinning reindeer plastered across my front. This is, quite literally, my own personal hell.
Why am I going along with this?
Noelle glances back at me, her lips stretched into that megawatt grin again.
Ah, yes. That’s why.
‘Yeah,’ she shrugs. ‘It’s pretty ugly.’
‘So why wear it?’ Why even own it?’
Another shrug. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘That’s not an answer.’ And it’s not Christmas, but I sense that rebuttal won’t go down well a third time.
Noelle gives me a questioning look. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’
That’s another thing I hate about this time of the year. People do the most outlandish, ridiculous things that go against every normal tenet of societal expectations and when you question them, they always have the same answer.
It’s Christmas.
What the hell does that even mean?
December arrives and people start acting like complete and utter nutjobs, spending money they don’t have and forcing themselves to spend time with friends and family they’d usually avoid at any other time in the year because, what the hell, it’s Christmas.
Am I the only person on this planet who thinks that sounds insane?
‘Well,’ Noelle says, with all the air of someone who clearly doesn’t care to argue. ‘That’s my answer. And we’ve still got a tart to make.’
Noelle moves around my kitchen with effortless grace, her movements precise and confident. I can’t help but observe how she rummages through each cupboard and drawer with familiarity, her hands almost dancing as she works.
It’s weird feeling out of place in my own kitchen, especially in this ridiculous apron, but there’s something strangely comforting about being here with her.
‘Have you ever baked anything before?’ Noelle asks, swivelling round to face me once she’s finished lining up all our ingredients on the counter. ‘Like, anything ever?’
I raise an eyebrow, trying to maintain my facade of nonchalance. ‘I may have attempted a boxed cake mix once or twice.’
About twenty-five years ago and under the guidance of an aunt or older cousin. But still.
She pulls a face. ‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘And what are we making today?’
She doesn’t answer right away, just waits patiently for me to add, ‘Chef.’
My dick twitches again. Definitely something to look into.
‘A strawberry tart,’ Noelle says, once she’s satisfied. She gestures towards the ingredients on the counter. ‘We’ve got everything we need, luckily. And it’s simple and delicious. The perfect combination. Sound good?’
‘Do I have any real say in the matter?’
‘Nope!’ She laughs and claps her hands together, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Let’s get started. I need you to wash these strawberries.’
‘Yes, Chef,’ I say dryly, grabbing the bowl she’s already put out and making my way to the sink.
As I rinse the strawberries under the running water, I can’t help but steal glances at Noelle.
She’s humming a soft tune – a Christmas song, I think, her fingers expertly working the butter into the flour with all the precision of a surgeon.
The warmth from the oven envelops us, and for a moment, it feels like we’re in our own little world, just the two of us, shielded from the chaos outside.
When I bring the strawberries back to the counter, Noelle shows me how to slice them perfectly into two identical halves.
Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she brings the knife down.
It’s a perfectly ordinary gesture, one I’m sure I’ve mimicked before when I’m deep in concentration, but for some reason, it sends another heady jolt of awareness through me.
‘Something wrong?’ Noelle’s voice startles me out of my reverie.
I clear my throat. ‘No, just admiring your handiwork.’
Noelle exhales deeply and puts the knife down. ‘Every time you do that, I’m not sure how to react.’
‘Every time I do what?’
She hesitates, and then, ‘Compliment me.’
‘You’re not good at taking compliments?’ That’s surprising. I would’ve thought she’d be more than used to them by now, given her line of work and how much she excels in it.
‘I’m great at taking compliments,’ she laughs. ‘It the compliments from you that throw me a little.’
Ah.
An emotion I’m rapidly coming to recognise as shame washes through me.
‘Well, get used to it. I’m changing my ways, Chef,’ I reply, feeling the corners of my lips tug into a small smile, despite myself. Noelle’s laughter is infectious, filling the kitchen with a warmth that goes beyond the heat from the oven.
Thirty minutes later, and I’m no longer smiling.
I’m attempting to fold the pastry, but it’s not cooperating. The dough is either too stubborn or I am. At this point, I don’t care to figure out which one of us is the problem, I just want this to be done.
Noelle stands across from me, her sleeves rolled up and a dusting of flour on her cheek that she’s blissfully unaware of. She’s trying to conceal a smile as she watches my pathetic efforts.
‘You’re doing great,’ Noelle says. It’s a blatant lie, but she says it with an encouraging grin. ‘Don’t let the dough get the better of you. Just imagine you’re negotiating a tough deal or something like that. That dough has nothing on you.’
‘Negotiations I can handle,’ I mutter, giving the pastry another go. ‘This, on the other hand, is pure anarchy.’
I glance over at the example she showed me earlier.
It’s neat and tidy, the very definition of culinary perfection.
Mine, on the other hand, is a misshapen blob.
And that’s being generous. White pockets of flour stick to the dough where it should be a smooth, yellowy colour like hers.
I’m not sure where I went wrong because I’m sure I followed her example perfectly, and she made it look so easy.
‘Maybe if you didn’t scowl at it so much, it would be more pliable,’ Noelle says, her braids swishing as she leans in to inspect my handiwork. ‘Didn’t you know that food absorbs the energy of the person making it?’
‘Ha, ha,’ I deadpan. ‘Then this tart is doomed to be as bitter as I am.’ After a few more pathetic attempts, I finally getting the fold somewhat right, though it’s nowhere near as neat as Noelle’s.
Noelle’s smile dips slightly. ‘Bitter isn’t always bad. There’s just a time and a place for it.’
‘Is this where you tell me that a bitter strawberry tart is the height of culinary perfection?’
She gives me a weak smile. ‘Time and a place, remember?’
‘Such as…’