Chapter Thirteen Alex
I’m pretty sure I lost all feeling in my toes about two hours ago.
I’ve pulled on another sweatshirt and I’ve tripled up on socks, but the chill in my office is biting, seeping into my very bones with each passing second. I rub my hands together for warmth, trying to stave off the numbness that threatens to take hold.
My mind keeps wandering back to that kiss, that stolen moment of heat and passion that seemed to ignite a fire inside me.
Noelle’s lips on mine, her touch so tantalisingly soft yet electrifying at the same time.
I can still feel the ghost of her fingers tracing along my jawline, sending shivers down my spine.
Every time I close my eyes, the memory dances behind my eyelids, her scent – warm and cosy – lingering in the air around me.
But now, as I sit here in this freezing office, the memory of our kiss only serves to frustrate me further.
I can’t focus on anything else, can’t shake the longing that has settled deep inside me, working its way into the deepest caverns of my chest. The cold only seems to heighten my awareness of every sensation, every desire towards Noelle that burns inside me.
I try to distract myself by focusing on my budget spreadsheets but it’s useless.
My thoughts keep wandering back to Noelle.
To the way her body fit against mine so perfectly.
To the sound of her quiet moans. The way her skin felt like fire beneath my lips.
The way my name – Alex – spilled from her kiss-bruised lips and sounded like warm honey as it reached my ears.
How did she manage to invade every fibre of my being with just one kiss?
How can I get her to do it again?
Would she even want to?
Do I even want to?
I shake my head and return to my spreadsheet, desperate to push her out of my mind. At least, I try to. But the numbers and equations in front of me all morph into an unreadable blur and it’s clear that I’m not getting anywhere with this anytime soon.
Another distraction then.
I pull up my internet browser, intent on flicking through today’s headlines but my fingers move of their own accord and, before I know it, I’m typing ‘homemade Christmas decorations’ into the search bar.
Dear God, what have I become?
Images of intricate paper snowflakes, foil Christmas tree toppers, and handmade wreaths flood my screen, and each one leaves me feeling completely uninspired and more than a little bit irritated.
I scoff at a photo of a meticulously hand-painted ornament, its colours vibrant and flawless.
It’s too much. Too pristine. Too cookie-cutter perfect.
The delicate snowflakes look like a hassle to create, the tree toppers too gaudy for my taste, and the wreaths seem like a pointless endeavour.
Too much work for twenty-four hours sitting centre stage – and that’s even if anyone notices it amongst the deluge of all the other Christmas crap that’ll undoubtedly surround it.
With each click of the mouse, I delve deeper into the world of DIY Christmas decorations.
Glitter-covered baubles, intricate garlands made of dried oranges and cinnamon sticks, and even a tutorial on how to create your own doll-sized gingerbread house.
I can’t help but roll my eyes at the absurdity of it all.
Who has time for this?
Who needs their home transformed into a winter wonderland just to celebrate a single day?
Why am I still scrolling through them all?
But then it dawns on me, as I scroll through countless DIY Christmas decoration ideas, I’m only doing this because I know it’ll make Noelle smile.
As the realisation hits me, a wave of frustration washes over me. Why am I bending over backwards, searching for things that don’t even interest me, just to please her? Why should I have to change who I am just because, like everyone else in the world, she has an insane need to celebrate Christmas?
I know the answer, even as I voice the question to myself.
The truth is, I think I would do pretty much anything to see that smile light up Noelle’s face.
The thought of her turning that smile on me fills me with an inexplicable warmth, the kind that spreads from my chest to the tips of my fingers.
It’s a feeling I can’t quite comprehend, one I don’t think I’ve ever felt before, but I know that I crave it more than anything else right now.
I shake my head and close out the five – five – tabs I currently have open dedicated to DIY Christmas decorations.
This is just because the kiss is still fresh in my mind. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Noelle doesn’t knock on my office door as the evening creeps up on me, but the mouth-watering scent of something simmering in the kitchen wafts up towards me.
Curiosity – and the fact that I’m certain my toes are seconds away from falling off – gets the better of me, and before I can second-guess myself, I find my feet carrying me downstairs.
As soon as I step into the warm glow of the kitchen, I’m met with a familiar sight. Noelle is sat at my kitchen table, tension carving deep lines on her forehead as she stabs a bowl of what looks like spaghetti. She looks up as I enter, her eyes immediately going wide.
I give her a small smile in response to her surprised expression and she clears her throat, fidgeting with the fork in her hand.
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted to come down and eat, so…’ She trails off and shoots me an apologetic wince. ‘But there’s plenty in the pot. I’m nearly done, so I can get out of your way if you give me a couple of minutes.’
Guilt shoots through me like an electrical current at her obvious uncertainty.
‘You don’t need to rush,’ I say as I make my way to the stove and help myself to a generous portion of spaghetti.
She looks unconvinced, so I take a seat next to her at the table, much to her obvious surprise.
The silence between us is palpable as I start eating and the clinking of cutlery against our plates is the only sound in the room.
I steal glances at Noelle as we eat. Her eyes are downcast, focused on her food, and there’s a tension in her posture that definitely wasn’t there before.
My fault, I think with a pang of a regret. This is my fault.
After a few moments of uneasy silence, I clear my throat to speak up, but she gets there before me.
She puts her fork down with a heavy clang, tilts her head, and looks at me, her gaze piercing. ‘What is your deal?’
Of all the things I was expecting her to come out with, ‘What is your deal?’ definitely wasn’t at the top of my list.
‘My deal?’
She nods, a frown twisting her lips. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘Believe it or not,’ I say, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the strange turn this conversation has taken. ‘That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.’
Noelle’s expression doesn’t shift. ‘It’s like, one minute you can’t stand me—’
‘One minute I can’t what?’
‘And the next, you’re all over me,’ she continues, like there’s been no interruption. ‘Roland told me that the holidays aren’t a great time for you.’
I make a mental note for me and Roland to have a nice, long chat in the new year about what is and what isn’t acceptable to tell people.
‘And is this just the result of that?’ she asks, gesturing between us as if she can see the wall of tension that’s currently dividing us. ‘Because if it is, then I’ve got the same question: what is your deal with Christmas?’
I stab at my spaghetti and avoid all eye contact. ‘It’s nothing but an overhyped, overcommercialised excuse for excessive spending and false cheer.’ The words tumble out of me with dismissive ease – it’s the same argument I’ve rehearsed every year when December rolls around.
Noelle raises an eyebrow, her full lips finally curving in a sardonic smile. It’s clear that she’s not buying it, and why should she? It’s an obvious cop-out.
‘There’s got to be more to it than that.’
‘There isn’t,’ I lie.
She exhales deeply and we fall into another silence. For a moment, I think I’ve got out easy. That she’s going to accept my lie and let us ride out the storm without any further interrogations.
‘You can do Christmas your own way, you know,’ she says suddenly, her voice breaking through the silence. ‘If you don’t like the commercial side of it – which, neither do I, by the way – you don’t have to lean into it. Christmas is more than tinsel and sales.’
I glance up. There’s no judgment in her eyes. ‘Like what?’
‘It’s about family. For me, anyway,’ Noelle says, her hands gesturing wildly as if she’s trying to paint a picture for me to see.
‘My parents, my sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, family friends who aren’t technically related but might as well be?
They’re scattered all over the country. And you know what life is like.
Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s got their own shit to deal with on a daily basis.
But Christmas?’ She grins, bright and wide.
‘That’s our magnet. Do a documentary about the Jones family and have David Attenborough narrate it, and he’d probably describe it as some kind of homing instinct, the way we all descend on my grandmother’s home in the run-up to Christmas. ’
She leans forward and drops her chin into the palm of her hand, a wistful expression taking over her face. A soft smile plays at her lips. ‘It’s the one time we can count on being together, sharing stories, eating good food, catching up on lost time.’
‘Sounds…’ I click my tongue, searching around for the right word to use here. Something that won’t offend her and send her hackles right up. ‘Cosy?’
‘Cosy doesn’t even begin to cover it,’ she laughs, shaking her head. ‘It’s loud, messy, and there’s guaranteed to be at least three fights – and my mother will be involved in at least two. But it’s ours, you know?’
‘That’s the problem,’ I say. ‘I don’t know.’
My Christmases have never been like that. They’re not about family spending time together and catching up. Sharing laughter and jokes and joy.
‘But you said your mother is hosting Christmas this year?’ Noelle says, frowning. ‘So, your family do get together, right?’
I think back to the last Christmas I spent with my family. I was… twenty-two maybe? Twenty-three? It was a facade of togetherness, a performance for the sake of performance. The air was thick with tension, our forced smiles barely hiding the fractures beneath the surface.
‘It’s not like that for me,’ I say finally, the words heavy on my tongue.
‘Then what is it like?’ Noelle sighs in obvious exasperation. ‘Paint me a picture.’
I’ve never been one to shy away from confrontation. I’ve built a career off being able to dive headfirst into uncomfortable or difficult situations without fear or nerves holding me back. So why the hell am I hesitating now?
It’s not like Noelle’s the first person to ever ask – and I doubt she’ll be the last – but she’s the first to ever ask like this.
Like she’s genuinely interested in the answer and isn’t just waiting for a lull in the conversation so she can start listing all the things she loves about Christmas and how I’m inherently wrong for not agreeing.
Noelle waits patiently for my answer, even as the silence between us stretches into something uncomfortably awkward.
‘It’s… complicated,’ I manage to get out, struggling to find the right words to describe the tangled mess of emotions that Christmas stirs up for me.
Noelle’s expression softens. ‘Complicated, how?’
I’m fighting the urge to run my hand down my face and groan. ‘Do you bother all your clients like this?’ I snap, my words coming out harsher than I’d like.
Noelle visibly stiffens. Her jaw sets and the soft expression in her eyes hardens into something I’m more than familiar with.
Whatever goodwill I’ve managed to amass with my personal chef over the last two days is long gone.
I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that we’re back on familiar territory once again.
‘Sorry for being such a bother,’ Noelle sniffs. ‘But it’s obvious you’re going through something.’
I bark out a dry laugh as I push myself up from my seat. ‘It’s obvious, is it?’
Noelle’s eyes narrow into thin, irritated slits. ‘And I thought you could use a friend.’
That familiar feeling of guilt hits me again, so hard I’m almost drowning in it. The smart, rational part of me knows that Noelle doesn’t deserve my Christmas ire, but what else am I supposed to say?
‘Christmas doesn’t have to be complicated,’ Noelle calls after me as I stride towards the door. ‘I don’t know what kind of Christmases you’ve had before, but it doesn’t have to be that way. You know that, right?’
I swallow hard, her words stirring something inside me that I didn’t know was there. An emotion I thought I’d suffocated, from disuse, years and years ago.
‘You can do your own thing,’ Noelle continues.
I grab the door handle and wrench it open, cold air slapping me in the face as I step out into the hall. I don’t turn around, but I hear Noelle slump against the table before she mutters, ‘You can still make it whatever you want it to be.’
The problem is, I haven’t made it anything in so long, I’m not sure I’d even know how to.