Chapter Eighteen Noelle
To his credit, Hoxton doesn’t complain once when I insist he dons my Christmas apron for a second night in a row.
‘Come on, it’s Christmas,’ I plead with faux wide eyes as I hand him in the apron.
‘Otherwise known as Christmas Eve,’ I say brightly as he pulls the apron over his neck and smooths it out. ‘And it’s actually really starting to suit you,’ I tease as he pulls the apron over his neck and smooths it out.
‘Ha, ha,’ Hoxton says with an overexaggerated eye-roll. ‘Don’t make me regret this.’
The threat falls flat though, because he’s grinning as he ties the apron strings behind his back, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.
If you’d have told me three days ago that I’d be standing in Hoxton’s kitchen watching him put on a garish Christmas-themed apron without even a hint of protest, I would’ve laughed in your face.
But here we are. I suppose stranger things have happened. Not that any come to mind right now. But still – they must have.
‘Don’t you mean “Don’t make me regret this, Chef”?’ I say, wagging a spatula in his face to emphasise the last word.
Hoxton rolls his eyes, but there’s no irritation behind it. ‘Yes, Chef.’
I beam up at him and then turn to the kitchen counter where I’ve pulled out everything I could possibly find from the depths of his cupboards, fridge and freezer that could make a traditional Christmas dinner.
I may not be able to spend Christmas with my family this year, but Eve is right. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it how I want to. And I want to eat.
I found a small whole chicken at the back of Hoxton’s freezer, so in lieu of a turkey, it’s been slowly defrosting in the sink for the last few hours.
It should be done soon, if the timer I’ve set on my phone is anything to go by.
I vaguely remember ordering it a month or two ago, but never ended up using it.
Thanks to Hoxton’s Christmas dinner with his Board, I’ve got plenty of leftover spices and seasonings, enough to make some delicious, homemade stuffing.
We’re going to have to veer off course from traditional a little bit when it comes to the sides, but I’ve found enough to make a creamy mac and cheese, along with a small portion of crispy roast potatoes.
It’s not the Christmas meal I was expecting to be preparing today, but I can make it work.
I’m going to make it work.
I’m going to have my Christmas.
‘Is there anything you want?’ I ask, glancing over my shoulder. It’s just hit me that I’ve been cobbling together this meal without any consideration towards Hoxton and what he might like. ‘Remember, we’re working with what we’ve got, but if it’s in here, I can add it to the menu.’
I expect him to shrug off the question or throw out some non-committal response. Instead, he looks thoughtful, a small crease forming between those piercing dark eyes that I’ve caught myself getting lost in more times than I want to admit.
‘You know what I’d really like?’ he starts, his gaze fixed on mine. ‘I’d like some mulled wine.’
I blink, caught off guard by his request. Mulled wine isn’t something I had even considered making, but in my mind the idea of it fills the room with a warm, spicy scent.
‘Mulled wine?’ I repeat, unable to mask the curiosity in my tone. ‘That’s extremely… Christmassy of you.’
Hoxton scowls. ‘It tastes nice.’
‘But you agree, it is a Christmas drink?’
‘It’s a drink,’ Hoxton says flatly. ‘I can’t help it if the rest of the world only wants to have it once a year. A drink is a drink. I’d have a glass in the middle of the summer if I could find it anywhere.’
‘Maybe that should be your next business venture,’ I tease. ‘A bar that only serves mulled wine 365 days a year.’
His lips twitch. ‘Maybe. I’ll be closed throughout December, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I say. ‘Can’t have any Christmas joy seeping into things.’
The grin that takes over his face could light up a Christmas tree. ‘Exactly. Glad to see we’re on the same page again.’
‘Thought of any names for the bar?’ I ask.
‘None. It’ll be nameless. Only those in the know will be able to find it.’
‘Ooh,’ I laugh. ‘How very exclusive of you. They’ll love you on TikTok.’
‘What about you?’ he asks, tilting his head to the side.
‘A name for your bar? I don’t know, what about—’
‘No. For your restaurant.’
I stare at him for a few seconds. ‘I… I don’t have—’
‘Noelle,’ he says my name softly and bumps his arm gently against mine. ‘What’s the name you’ve been mulling over in your mind for the last five years?’
The question, and the pun, catches me off guard, and for a moment, I feel my heart stutter in my chest. My fingers grip the spatula tighter, like it will keep me grounded in the here and now.
It’s just Hoxton, I remind myself. He’s asking casually, like it’s no big deal.
But it feels like he’s prying open a door I’ve kept firmly closed for a long time.
I try to brush it off with a nervous laugh, but the words slip out before I can stop them.
‘Heart,’ I say, quieter than I intended.
‘Heart?’ Hoxton repeats, sounding intrigued, but not mocking. His gaze doesn’t leave me, and I suddenly feel very exposed, like he’s waiting for more.
‘Yeah,’ I murmur, swallowing hard, shifting uncomfortably. I turn back to the counter and start shuffling around the ingredients laid out in front of me – anything to avoid eye contact. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for years now. A restaurant called Heart.’
I don’t say anything more, half hoping he won’t press me further. But Hoxton doesn’t let the silence hang for too long.
‘That’s an interesting name,’ he says. ‘What kind of restaurant is it?’
I hesitate. For some reason, this feels harder than it should. Maybe because it’s something I’ve never really shared with anyone before. Not Eve. Not anyone. My real dream. Not the surface-level stuff about jobs or random ambitions, but the thing that’s always been at the core of me.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit, my voice soft. ‘It’s…
it’s about bringing people together. Food has this way of doing that, you know?
The whole idea is to create a space where people can share a meal, but not just any meal.
It has to be good food. Comforting food.
The kind that makes you feel like you belong, like you’re at home, even if you’re far away from it.
I want people to sit down, break bread together, and leave feeling full – not just of food, but of something more.
Like… like they’ve rebuilt a connection. ’
I can feel Hoxton’s gaze on me, steady and intent. I try not to look at him, but it’s hard. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that makes my chest tighten, like he’s truly listening. Really hearing me for the first time.
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he says after a beat. ‘What’s the “Heart” part for?’
I pause for a moment, trying to put into words the feelings I’ve kept buried for so long.
‘Just bear with me here, but food is the most important part of any relationship, don’t you think?
It’s like the heart. People connect over meals.
It’s not just about the food on the plate – it’s about what happens when you sit down together, the conversations, the shared experience.
I’ve always believed that. And I want Heart to reflect that.
A place where people can rediscover those connections, even when the world feels like it’s pulling them apart. ’
The words hang in the air, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve said too much. The dream I’ve kept tucked away, afraid to chase, now feels real, like it’s right in front of me, waiting for me to take it.
Hoxton is quiet for a moment, and then he asks, ‘What would be on the menu at Heart?’
‘I think I’d start with things like roast chicken, mac and cheese, roast potatoes.
Comfort food, mostly. But with a little twist. Things you’d find at home, but with something special about them.
Something to make you remember why food matters.
’ I gesture to the food we’re preparing right now. ‘Stuff like this.’
‘Nice,’ he says. ‘I could get behind that.’
I smile, and I feel a real spark of excitement.
It’s been a while since I thought about this in any kind of real detail.
‘I want it to feel like a family meal, you know? But even for people who don’t have that anymore.
Maybe they’ve lost it, or maybe they just never had it, I don’t know.
But food has a way of healing things. Of making people feel like they’re part of something, even when they’re at their loneliest.’
His smile falters slightly, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve said too much again, but then he looks at me with a look I don’t think I’ve ever seen directed at me before. Respect, I think. ‘That’s what food does,’ he agrees softly.
I feel a little breathless, like I’ve just shared a piece of my soul, and the air around us seems to settle a bit.
‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this,’ Hoxton says, and I feel a flicker of embarrassment in my stomach.
I shake my head. ‘It’s just a stupid pipe dream. I’d never be able to pull it off.’
He frowns. ‘Why not?’
A dry laugh splutters out of me without my permission. ‘Running a restaurant is hard.’
‘And you’re the best chef I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting,’ Hoxton says without missing a beat. ‘And I’ve eaten at some pretty well-reviewed places. Nothing, and I mean nothing, Noelle, compares to the dishes you make me on a weekly basis.’
I swallow hard, and grip the spatula like it’s the only thing holding me upright. ‘You can’t be serious,’ I say, even though I know he is. My voice comes out rougher than I meant it to. ‘I mean, yeah, I make decent food, but running a restaurant? It’s a whole other thing.’