Chapter Twenty Noelle
‘It’s not like I’m asking you to put on a Santa suit and dance around singing carols all night,’ I say, nudging Hoxton with my elbow as we stand in front of his giant TV screen that probably cost more than my rent for the year. ‘Although…’
Hoxton rolls those dark, brooding eyes – a look I’ve become well acquainted with in the short time I’ve been his temporary roommate – and folds his arms over his chest, which is admittedly a very nice chest. I’m allowed to say that, now that I’ve had first-hand experience of it.
‘Don’t get any ideas.’ He shoots me a sideways glance before picking up the remote and switching the TV on.
I have to admit, when I first broached the idea of watching a Christmas film tonight, I was certain Hoxton would put up more of a fight.
But he agreed without any hesitation at all.
I’m not sure if that has something to do with the fact that he could probably still taste me on his lips or if it was because I was sitting on his lap, softly grinding against him as I murmured my request.
Either way, here we are.
Hoxton is dutifully scrolling through his various streaming services, looking for a Christmas film we can both agree on. I sneak a glance at him as he scrolls through the listings, the look on his face entirely too serious for what he’s looking at right now.
Not once over the course of the last two years have I seen Hoxton looking anything other than meticulously groomed and poised. I’ve joked with Eve before that he’s like a machine, appearance always perfect without a single strand of hair out of place.
But now…
His hair is still tousled, his sweatshirt hanging awkwardly from one shoulder from when he roughly pulled it back on minutes ago, and there’s an unmistakable purple mark blooming at the base of his neck. I feel an unfamiliar sense of possessiveness as I take him in.
I did that.
He wanted me to do that.
Begged for it. Groaned into the crook of my neck as I alternated between biting and sucking along his jawline. If my alarm hadn’t gone off, I have no doubt that his hands would’ve travelled below my breasts and dipped below the waistband of my sweats, finding me wet and waiting.
Just the thought of it makes me squirm in the best kind of way.
Suddenly, Hoxton stops on a title and raises an eyebrow in my direction. ‘How about this one?’
The Grinch’s crooked smile is slanted across the screen and I let out a snort of laughter. ‘Seriously?’
He shrugs and then guides me towards the sofa, his arm coming up to rest casually around my shoulder like this is normal for us. Like touching me is second nature now. ‘I feel like I should probably watch the film everyone keeps comparing me to.’
I grind to a halt, one knee on the sofa. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never watched How The Grinch Stole Christmas? Not even as a kid?’
A look of amused disbelief flits across Hoxton’s face. ‘Why does that surprise you?’
He’s got a point.
After everything I’ve learned about Hoxton over the last few days, it really shouldn’t.
But still.
‘It’s The Grinch,’ I insist as he pulls me down onto the sofa, tucking me into his side and holding me close like I’m something precious he never wants to let go of. ‘You know the one with Jim Carrey? It’s a classic.’
‘Yes, I keep hearing,’ Hoxton says dryly.
‘Do you want to watch it or not? Because there are other things I’d like to be doing right now.
’ He leans back against the sofa, his eyes suddenly turning dark and hooded as his gaze drops and he stares pointedly at my lips.
His tongue darts out to wet his own lips and I feel my pussy throb with anticipation.
I indulge him for just a second. I lean in and press my lips softly against his. One large hand immediately comes up to rest on my waist, eager to pull me onto his lap, but I pull away and bite my lip to silence the laugh that threatens to fall when Hoxton pouts at me.
Literally pouts.
That shouldn’t be attractive. And yet, somehow, it is.
‘Film first,’ I say, settling back into the sofa.
Hoxton looks like he wants to argue, so I snatch the remote from him and hit play before he can say anything.
I half expect him to grumble and moan throughout the film, but he’s surprisingly content. He sits upright, watching the whole thing with an air of seriousness that definitely doesn’t compute with a children’s film. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s enjoying it.
‘I like this Grinch guy,’ Hoxton says with an appreciative nod as the Grinch loudly and dramatically declares that he hates Christmas and then promptly moves into a cave inside a mountain. ‘Very relatable.’
I roll my eyes and reach for a cushion to swat him with. ‘Are you implying that you want to hide from society and live in a cave alone?’
‘At Christmas, sure,’ Hoxton says with a shrug. Then he looks over at me, his eyes darkening ever so slightly. ‘Maybe not alone, though.’
‘See, there’s your problem. I’m not living in a cave,’ I say, leaning into him a little more. ‘I’ve become accustomed to the finer things over the last few days.’
Hoxton scoffs. ‘You mean a house without working heating?’
‘There’s been a few hiccups,’ I concede. ‘But, overall, not bad. I’d give you three out of five on Airbnb.’
And anyway, I barely feel the cold anymore. When we were back in the kitchen, I just put it down to the heat from the Aga mixing with the heat we generated from our kiss. But, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve felt the cold all day today.
From when I woke up this morning till now, there’s no sign of the biting cold that’s been making itself at home in my bones for the last three days.
The temperature actually feels quite normal.
Warm, even. I allow myself the fleeting dream that the heater has heard my prayers and has kicked itself back into action but before I can voice my thoughts aloud, something catches my eye from the window.
For the first time in days, I don’t see a snowy maelstrom in front of me. The snow is still falling, but the snowflakes are gently, slowly falling towards the ground. Not swirling around in a flurry of chaos.
The glass on the window is no longer completely blurred with icy frost and instead, I can just about make out the shapes of trees and bushes in the garden. I can even see the homes of Hoxton’s neighbours again.
The storm is clearing.
The storm is clearing.
A sense of relief mixed with excitement suddenly washes over me.
If I drove through the night, I might just be able to make it to Gran’s house on time for Christmas.
The pure joy of being able to go back home starts creeping into my mind, but then another, less pleasant thought pushes its way forward.
I’d be leaving Hoxton alone over Christmas.
I know he probably wouldn’t care, but the notion feels wrong, almost unsettling. It’s accompanied by a twinge of something I can’t quite place. Guilt, maybe? Or something else entirely?
Hoxton laughs suddenly and I look up in time to catch the Grinch burning down the Whoville Christmas tree.
‘You are absolutely not beating the Grinch allegations anytime soon,’ I say, although I can’t help but laugh too.
‘He has his reasons for hating Christmas,’ Hoxton says with a shrug. ‘I respect that.’
I hum, thoughts of the storm and Christmas at Gran’s evaporating instantaneously as I realise we’re teetering on historically rocky ground here. ‘And you?’ I ask quietly. ‘Do you have your reasons?’
He stiffens a little beneath me and I immediately regret voicing the question. Hoxton’s gaze flickers away, his jaw clenching as if he’s debating whether to confide in me or shut me out. I can see the turmoil in his eyes, the memories stirring beneath the surface, and guilt threatens to drown me.
Why do I keep prying? There’s obviously something deep-seated simmering beneath the surface. Something he’s not ready to talk about. Maybe he will one day, but it’s clear today is not that day.
‘Actually, don’t worry about it.’ I wave an airy hand, trying to dispel the sudden tension that has settled between us. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I get it. You’ve been through some things.’
Things that have clearly scarred him deeply.
Hoxton exhales a deep breath and runs a hand down his face. ‘It’s not that.’ He finally turns to look at me, something beyond pain flashing behind his eyes, and holds my gaze.
‘Really,’ I say, reaching between us to clasp his hand in my own. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the film.’ I try to tug him back to settle into the sofa, but Hoxton just shakes his head.
‘No,’ he murmurs, tugging his hand gently out from my grip. ‘It’s time.’
Something unpleasant settles in the pit of my stomach as I take in the grim look on his face. ‘Really, Alex, I mean it. You don’t have to.’
He pushes himself up from the sofa and walks stiffly towards the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. My mind is racing with about a million scenarios at once – all darker and more depressing than the last.
What is he going to tell me? What could possibly have happened in his past to make Christmas such a dreaded day for him?
Worst-case scenarios flood my mind and I reflexively reach out to squeeze his hand in pre-emptive sympathy. I want him to know I’m here for him. That whatever he’s about to reveal won’t have me running for the hills. I’m here.
He’s not facing me anymore, but I can see his reflection in the window. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and he’s got a faraway look in his eyes. He might be here physically, but his thoughts are somewhere else.
‘Christmas is…’ Hoxton says slowly, still staring out of the window. He takes a deep, shaky breath and I brace myself for the worst. ‘It’s. Well. It’s my birthday.’
I stare at him dumbfounded for a few seconds, certain I must have missed the part where he shared another reason for hating Christmas. ‘Come again?’